Lest you think that we are Buddhists, alas, we are not. I have to admit it is a religion I have flirted with for many years and will possibly convert to. But at this point, we are non-Buddhists. Except for our son. Who thinks he IS the Buddha.

We came to this realization when he was 2 years old. As we passed a local “candle shop” in a small town in Door County, we saw a group of Buddha statues. G calmly pointed to one and stated,

“That’s me.”

and continued walking. At age 2.

Needless to say, that stopped us in our tracks. We, of course, thought he had no idea what he was talking about. Big mistake. Because then my husband asked him,

“What do you mean? That looks like you because it is bald?”*

And G sighed, years beyond his age and said,

“No, that’s me. I’m the Buddha.”

Now at this point, John and I were freaking out a little bit. Because as far as we knew, this child of ours had never seen or even HEARD the word Buddha. Don’t worry—John was going to get to the end of this one. And make sure our 2-year-old was not THE GOLDEN CHILD for God’s sake.

“What do you mean you’re the Buddha? Like from a past life? Like right now?”

And this is the one that stopped the conversation flat,

“No, Dada. I’m the Buddha EVERY time.”

So after that conversation, we don’t really talk about his Buddha-ness. We do however, succumb to his annual Buddha figurine acquisition from that same “candle shop.” And this year we added one more awesome, normal, 5-year-old need:

A meditation bell.

Therefore this year when other children rush home from school to watch cartoons or play mind-numbing Wii, my child will be sitting in front of his mini-Buddha collection (I REFUSE to call it a shrine) and meditating.

And I’m fine with that. Or will pretend to be so I don’t come back as a fly or a can of spam in my next life…

*G unfortunately resembled Caillou as a toddler.

Except instead of being an original Lincoln Park Trixie dying to shed her suburban roots, my son is actually GROWING UP in the city and so will hopefully never have to get another CPL card.

So a doubly proud moment for me!

I think for us readers (i.e., those of us who juggle 2-3 books at a time and have piles upon piles of books beside our bedsides and strange little scraps of paper in our purses and wallets with hastily scribbled half-titles), the moment we are able to transfer our love of reading onto another human being is quite a moment.

Or in my case, FORCING it upon my little human being. But whatever—he’ll love to read eventually. Especially when my reply to his “reading is boring” was that “stupid people think reading is boring.” I’m sure that will TOTALLY make him want to read. Regardless, the day G got his library card, I had tears streaming down my face. I was prouder that he had a library card then the day he accidentally made a goal at soccer. Most people have pictures of their children in Little League uniforms. I have a picture of my child holding up his first library card.

And let me tell you, these special library moments keep on coming! He signed up for the Summer Reading Program*. I know you all remember those programs with fondness. Rainy days spent at the library curled up in a corner with your favorite Frog and Toad book. The pride felt when awarded with a scratch n’ sniff sticker to put on your book chart. Well, CPL’s program is EVEN BETTER.

G had to read five books a week and then come back into the library and “report” on them to a charming 15-year-old volunteer who would ask sweet little questions like, “Did you have a favorite page? Do you know this word? Was this part scary?” So not only did G learn how to read better, he also learned how to respond to questions about these books.

Plus, he got stickers, a rubber snake, 3 free books he won in the weekly lotteries, and a t-shirt.

I tell you—it just doesn’t get any better than that for a 5-year-old.

So the next time I am annoyed that I end up paying $20 alone for tax on a nice dinner out or that driving my car down the street is like some sort of urban video game with all of those damn potholes, I’ll think back with fondness to our summer spent at The Chicago Public Library. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll at least jam that rubber snake into one of those stupid parking ticket machines when once again, it eats my change…

*Well, truth be told, I actually signed him up and told him if he finished it, I would buy him ice cream…

What was surprising to me was that he somehow “wrangled” all the professional wranglers into playing it with him.

For those who don’t know what a wrangler is, let me explain–they are these fantastic people who spend their lives working outside and doing anything and everything that is needed for the horses. Which can consist of:

a)      Feeding, cleaning, brushing, and exercising horses

b)      Cleaning up their poop

c)      Leading packs of people who say they have riding experience and really don’t on 3-hour riding trips in the mountains of Yellowstone

d)      Tirelessly leading your 5-year-old around the ranch on “his” horse Joseph and insuring that Joseph wins the “horse race” (i.e. when the horses run up the mountain to take their Sunday pasture breaks) by personally riding and pushing him ahead of all the other horses that are probably 5 times younger AND faster than him

Needless to say, those wranglers clearly need a break on Saturday nights. And yet, they stuck around after our communal dinner to play Horseopoly with us. How did G accomplish this, I wonder? I like to think it is because he is a good kid that people just like to hang around because they are so unaccustomed to 5-year-old children who don’t whine, throw tantrums, wear silly clothes with Disney characters on them, or glue themselves to some horrid hand-held video game. Or maybe because John and I are SO funny, we were the only entertainment those hard-working wranglers needed that night.  

In reality, it is probably just because they are such good sports and secretly knew that ending our trip with a rousing game of Horseopoly with the wranglers would be the cherry on top of the sundae for G and that it would make his trip complete.

Which it did.

So I thank you Boone, Erin, Chris, and Kirbee (who had to actually get up from the table and do her best galloping impression of a horse in order to not get sent to the “stable” or what us Monopoly players know as “jail) for making the last night of our stay memorable. I am positive it is not how you wanted to spend your night, but it is a night a little 5-year-old boy will remember forever.

And for those of you who have always dreamed of going to a Dude Ranch in Montana like I did, look no further:

http://www.coveredwagonranch.com/

We had the time of our lives and when I asked G if he would rather go back to (gulp) Disney World or come back to The Covered Wagon Ranch, he didn’t bat an eye and picked the ranch. So I guess one could say, “Go to The Covered Wagon Ranch! Children like it better than Disney World!”

a)      Frantically waving at me to get my attention so he could spend most of the lesson taking a “bathroom break”

b)      Me trying as hard as I could to avoid eye contact with him

Regardless, by the end of his swim class session, he could at least jump into the water while clutching onto a kickboard and “kick” his way to the shallow end. Meaning his swim instructor, Paul, caught him as he jumped and pretty much pushed him to the shallow end.

Whatever. At least he got into the pool.      

Well, his new-found non-aversion to swimming did not transcribe to Lake Michigan.

Big surprise.

I figured this out while visiting my parents at their Michigan house. As we prepared for the beach, G was so excited to play in the sand, go “swimming,” use his new Toy Story 3 raft his friend E had given him. Until we actually got to the beach.

After unpacking all of our stuff I said,

“Who’s ready to go into the water?” to which my land-loving son said,

“Oh, I’m not going in the water.”

Not going in the water? What was all this swimming talk? I responded with,

“I thought you were going swimming.”

He looked at me crazily and said,

“I just did.”

Let me report on what his idea of swimming was—gingerly walking over to the water in his Speedo swim vest, swim shoes, and swim goggles, quickly filling up his sand pail with water, and sprinting back to our beach chairs.

This clearly wasn’t going to fly with me. I was that child who would fall asleep at night still feeling the rhythm of the waves after body-surfing in sixty degree water all day.

After much cajoling, lecturing, and bribing, John and I eventually pulled him into the water, where he EVENTUALLY stopped clutching onto me and stood by himself for 2 minutes. And then was done.

The next day, he was a bit more comfortable, and actually started to enjoy the water, especially since he figured out he could ALMOST walk all the way out to the sandbar. With me holding one hand and my mother holding the other. But whatever—in his mind, this was REALLY SWIMMING! Still wouldn’t go in by himself.

Then pretty, red-headed T stepped into the picture. I did not even really witness this, but heard her approach while I was napping. My mother was making a sand castle with G and from my beachy daze I could hear a little, polite voice comment on what a nice sand castle it was. The next thing I knew, 7-year-old, T (who is a dead ringer for a young Molly Ringwald) and G were busily playing and having a grand old time.

Until T asked the deadly question,

“Wanna go swimming?”

My parents and I sucked in our breaths. Here was where all his bravado and charm was going to fly into the sky like a run-away kite, because we all knew that child wasn’t going into the water without HIS MAMA.

But turns out like all men, he’s a sucker for an older, red-headed woman because the next thing I knew, off he went, acting like going chest-deep into the water was second nature to him.

Looks like those red-headed girls can get you every time, even when you’re just a 5-year-old boy…

She was four.

This was how it all went down.

We stupidly thought it would be fun to bring our friends a mini-balloon animal making kit since at their last party, John ended up blowing up about 30 balloons for decorations.

Totally funny. Great idea.

Not.

Because about 1 hour into the party, we saw that a group of children had TAKEN the kit, and were dangerously attempting to blow up the balloons themselves, which we all know, ends in some child choking on a balloon.

Therefore, John stepped in.

Now one thing to know about John—he is an amateur balloon animal maker, in a somehow non-creepy way. It all started when we stood in line for an hour once so G could get a balloon dog made by a VERY CREEPY clown. John said,

“I should learn how to make these so we don’t have to stand in this ridiculous line and hang out with this creepy clown.”

Ergo the balloon animal making gift he received that Christmas.

Anyway, to get back to the story at hand, John clearly had to step in and make some of these balloon animals (just taking the kit away and said balloons would have been too easy and just mean. Little did we know, mean was just around the corner).

All of a sudden, EVERY child at the party was hovering around John, jumping up and down and chanting,

“I want one! I want one!”

Therefore, I stepped in. With these two rules:

1)      You must wait your turn for a balloon animal.

2)      Each child gets one balloon animal so we did not run out of balloons.

And I have to say, most of the children responded well to the rules, quieted down, and patiently stood in line, and some even said thank you (miracle of all miracles).

Until the little girl with the pink tutu showed up to the scene.

As soon as I saw her, I knew this was going to be trouble. You can always tell the high-maintenance children because they arrive at parties in some strange get-up that their parents allowed them to wear so they can express their “creative sides.”

Well, this creative little girl already had a pink balloon dog and was DEMANDING a pink balloon hat.

Over and over again.

Mind you, there were some well-behaved children still waiting for their first balloon animal. So I of course, had to say in a chirpy, sing-song voice,

“Don’t forget the rules! Every child gets one balloon animal so we don’t run out!”

And gave her a nice little smile and pat on the head. Which resulted in her screaming,

“I want a pink balloon hat and I want one now!”

Well, John and I don’t respond well to the Veruca Salts of the world, so then John charmingly stepped in and said,

“Maybe if you say the magic word?”

Pink tutu girl,

“Now! PINK. HAT. NOW!”

John not so charming anymore,

“How about in Spanish? Por favor?”

To which Veruca Salt ran away to her parents, fell onto the ground, and started shrieking.

Meanwhile, all the patient children were staring at us balloon animal Nazis with their mouths agape. Needless to say, some of the parents were watching us, most of them I think on our side.

The mother of Veruca Salt came storming over, and said,

“Could she have one more balloon? Once she gets her mind onto something, she won’t give up until she gets it.”

And then just stood there, glaring at us.

What are two amateur balloon-animal makers to do? Not give in all the way, because that’s not how John and I roll.

I said,

“Well, we INSTITUTED the one balloon animal for one child rule because we are running out of balloons and we wanted to make sure ALL THE CHILDREN got a balloon animal, and some CLEARLY don’t have one yet. But if you NEED to get her one, go ahead.”

To which the mother did.

Now for those of you who have not had the joy of experiencing time around groups of children, you are probably astounded.

Really? That mother just gave in to her child and made sure her child had as MANY balloon animals she wanted while some patient children had none?

You betcha. Welcome to the world of “we don’t think ‘no’ is a healthy word for our children to hear” parenting.

Otherwise known as “hell.”

So for any of you parents who are somehow reading this and might have witnessed this, please know John and I are not evil and were not berating or taunting the child in the pink tutu.

We just said “no.” And will say it the next time to the next child who runs up in a fancy get-up and wants something she shouldn’t have.

Does that make us bad people or parents? We don’t think so. But if you do, feel free to get your balloons animals elsewhere…

I was at the Dollar Store. Shopping for last-minute items for my Avon walk weekend and buying G his summer pair of flip-flops. Now the whole time, I heard a child crying and whining in the background and a mother yelling at her. Which was sad, but unfortunately, not something that I hadn’t seen before. Until I passed the check-out line and saw this woman back-hand her 2-year-old across the face and say,

“You better shut up, or I’ll do it again.”

To which the child, of course, did not shut up because her mother had just hit her HARD across the face. So the mother did it again.

And I stopped in my tracks. And sat there for a few seconds. And then turned around. This is the conversation we had:

Me: Did you just hit your child across the face?

Mother: Yes I did, and I’ll do it again cuz she’s getting on my LAST nerves.

Me: Please don’t hit her again.

Mother: Why don’t you mind your own business? I’ll hit her again if I want to.

To which I then asked to see the store manager (pointless) and then proceeded to call 911. While I was calling, the mother became even MORE agitated and swore and yelled at me and said:

Mother: Go ahead. Call the police. I don’t care. I’ll do it again. You don’t know what I go through. I have three other kids at home. You don’t know my business.

I paused my dialing for a moment to tell her:

Me: Don’t know your business? Let me tell you, I’m a mother. I know. And I know you shouldn’t hit your children. If you didn’t want children, you should have used birth control.

Which definitely did not help the situation. When the 911 operator (who I would like to add was a WOMAN) picked up the line, I explained the situation and the operator said nonchalantly:

Operator: Well, is she hitting her child or beating her child? We cannot do anything if she is just disciplining her child.

Which stopped me in my tracks. You can’t do anything if a child is getting physically harmed? In public? I was so shocked at all of this, that I unfortunately said,

Me: Well, she hit her child three times in the face.

And this went on for a while and in the meantime, the abusive mother left the store. With her child. Who I am sure she will hit again. And again. Which made me cry all the way home from the store because in the end, I felt like I did not make the situation better, but exacerbated it because now the abusive mother was REALLY angry.

Therefore, if I had to do this over again, I think I would have done the following:

1) Ask the mother if she was okay and if the child was okay.

2) If the mother started yelling and getting worse, I would have calmly moved to the side and quietly called 911. If other people were witnessing this, I would quietly inform them to do the same thing, because the more calls 911 received, the quicker the police would have gotten there.

3) When asked if the child was being beaten, I would have said yes.

4) I would not have yelled back at the woman who was either drunk, on crack, or both, because in the end, that didn’t help the situation.

There is no witty wrap-up for this post or I wish I had something meaningful to say, but I don’t. I truly hope that you don’t witness something like this, but unfortunately, I bet you will. And I just felt that maybe if I shared this, you could deal with it in a way I wished I had.

My son has figured this out at the ripe age of 5. His big epiphany came last night when I told him he needed to stop clomping around our bedroom in my favorite shoes.

G: Why can’t I wear these (red, shiny, stiletto) high heels?

Me: Because you are a boy and boys don’t wear high heels.

G: Well, that’s not fair.

Me: Nope. It’s not.

And then he was quiet for a moment. Finally he said,

G: Well, I guess some people get more than others.

That only took me 37 years to figure out.

And it didn’t make him mad or sad or anything. He just said it in a matter-of-fact way, calmly took off the shoes, and went to play in his room with legos. But before he left the room I called out to him,

Me: Don’t worry. Although women get to wear high heels, you’ll get better jobs and get paid more when you are older.

His response:

G: I’d rather wear high heels.

Right.

Turns out I was wrong. I found out what it was through the following, utterly confusing, conversation:

Me: G, you ruined this book. There’s some gross food all over the back of it!

G (without looking up or batting an eye): Oh, that’s not food. It’s pee.

Let me interject here that this said book had been in his backpack for over a week. I guess covered in pee.

Me: WHAT?!

G: I said (now speaking VERY slowly, like I am stupid or someone who has a hearing deficiency) that…it…is…pee.

Me: WHAT?!

G (now shouting): PEE!!!!!!! I said PEE!!!!!!!!

I am now silent for a moment. All the various circumstances where a book could get PEED ON for God’s sake go through my head. And let me tell you, I didn’t come up with many. Until it occurred to me—I know. He took it into the bathroom!

Me: Why on earth would you take your book into the bathroom with you? That’s disgusting. Don’t do that.

G: I didn’t take it into the bathroom.

A minute goes by while I wait for him to give me more information. No more information comes out of his mouth.

Me: Well, then how did you get pee on it?

G: I didn’t get pee on it.

Me: Who did?

G: We were at the playground during Reading Buddies* and we were UNDER Charlemagne (clearly not the child’s real name who did this. I did not want to embarrass the poor child and put his real name) and he had an accident.

Me: ?

G is now looking at my blankly like he cannot believe we are having this mundane conversation as to why his book has pee all over it.

Me: Under him? Were you all making a pyramid?

G: What’s a pyramid?

And that’s how this conversation continued. To this day, I don’t know how G’s “Froggy Goes to Camp” book got peed upon. And I doubt I ever will. My big question now is—what do I do with the damn book?!

*For those of you wondering what “Reading Buddies” is, it is a charming program where the preschoolers are paired with a 2^nd grader and the 2^nd grader reads to his/her preschool buddy, usually on Tuesday afternoons. Where the brave  2^nd grader hopes to not get peed upon…

And before you get any ideas, he’s not angsty, nerdy, or busy taping other little boys’ buttocks together.

Nope. He’s only five. And he’s decided we have to leave even EARLIER in the morning than usual so he can go eat breakfast at school with his other preschooler friends.

At first, I thought it was just a fad. But now into week 2, turns out it is a lifestyle. Which I have to say, really cramps MY STYLE, since I now have to wake up 30 minutes earlier just so he can eat breakfast at school which consists of:

1)      Milk

2)      A piece of fruit

3)      One of those little individual boxes of cereal

4)      Something insanely unhealthy and non-breakfast-like such as saltine crackers or a chocolate cookie

When asked why he can’t eat cereal at home, he promptly ignored my question and ran to the door to put on his shoes. After experiencing breakfast with his friends (which usually consists of two 5-year-old boys and one little girl), I have figured out breakfast at school is a necessity so they can: a) brag about what movie they recently watched or b) eat out of those little individual boxes of cereal that all children (and adults) secretly love. These are the conversations I experience:

G: I watched Spider Man 2 yesterday. It was great!

Boy #1: Me too!

Boy #2: I didn’t watch that one. But I watched G-Force.

G: I didn’t see that one.

Boy #2: Oh I did. It was good.

Girl: I saw Cinderella. I loved it!

Silence. Boys don’t watch princess movies OR if they do, don’t admit to it.

G: I saw Transformers 3 (which is a big, fat lie, since this movie doesn’t even exist).

Boy #1 and #2 both admit that their parents won’t let them watch the Transformers movies. They all look at me like I am the coolest mom EVER since G has seen these movies. I therefore don’t have the heart to tell them all G didn’t see the 2^nd or pretend 3^rd one either.

And so it goes. Every morning. Some mornings, I actually get milk spilled all over me which makes me want to hurl since I cannot STAND the smell of milk. Most mornings I have to wipe up the numerous spills and shepherd the children into class before the 2^nd bell rings. But for now, I am fine with this. As far as I am concerned, it is the best breakfast ever—I don’t have to talk, pick up the bill, or even look nice. It just doesn’t get any better than that!

Within the first two moves, he had skipped college to become a computer consultant, was making $70,000 a year, had home and auto insurance, and had purchased 2 stocks. I, on the other hand, was $50K in debt and slugging my way through college.

At first I felt like I should really encourage him to not skip college, but then when the kid purchased his 4-bedroom colonial home and I was BARELY able to afford my log cabin in the woods as a low-paying policeman I thought,

“WHAT?!Come on!”

Plus, I kept spinning the number 8, which automatically gave him $10,000 for one of the stocks he purchased. And I realized, maybe this whole college thing is now a bad idea, considering how expensive it is. Most kids are starting off their adult life in debt thanks to $20-$30K a year for college tuition and expenses. You don’t need a college degree to become a real estate or travel agent, so why not?

As we continued playing and I continued sucking, G was racking up dollar after dollar. I found myself getting grumpier and grumpier.

Yes, I know it was only a game. And yes, I know that I am now 37 and he is only 5 and that none of this should matter. But it seemed so realistic to me in this bad economy where people who are making bad decisions (like buying houses they cannot afford) are getting breaks and aid to get out of debt. And the suckers (like us) who played by the rules and paid our dues are barely getting by.

The game of LIFE was showing me something that I have now realized with too much conviction:

Life just isn’t fair.

That is until G hit the “mid-life crisis/pick a new career” spot. When you reach this spot on the board, you have to give up your old career and salary and pick a new career and salary from a stack of cards. And what do you know—every card he picked, he needed a college degree, and so he would have to pick again. And again.

He picked accountant, to which I gleefully said,

“Nope—can’t have that one little boy! You didn’t go to college, remember? Pick another one!”

He chose the doctor card, to which I yelled,

“Looks like you need a degree for that one as well. Too bad! Pick again!”

And then he picked artist. No degree needed for that one. I was still in my prime, because I was SURE he was going to pick a $15,000 or $25,000 a year salary card.

Nope. The kid somehow became an artist with a $100,000 a year salary.

As I slumped back into my seat and the child proceeded to hit TWO SALARY spots within one turn and therefore made $200,000 with one spin he said to me,

“This Life is good, Mama!”

Let’s just hope life really works out like that for you in the end, my dear.