The Rumpus.net » kids

Forgiveness is Priceless

Sam Riley — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 22:55:02 +0000

This one goes out to all those young delinquent readers who live in guilt-ridden fear of the public library.

That is, if you are one of the 143,000 kids who have been banned from the NY Public Library due to overdue fees over $15, you are being forgiven, freed from the shame, and welcomed into a whole new world of literacy because the library is deducting one dollar for every 15 minutes of reading as part of their Summer Reading Program. Congrats to the kids and happy forgiveness!

SPACE AVALANCHE: Childhood Trauma

Eoin Ryan — Wed, 10 Nov 2010 13:39:24 +0000

SPACE AVALANCHE: Passing notes

Eoin Ryan — Tue, 04 May 2010 12:14:49 +0000

BAD MOMMY: The Truth About Motherhood! blah, blah, blah

Kaui Hemmings — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 18:00:00 +0000

In case you missed it, the other day Oprah did a show about moms “breaking the silence” about motherhood. Moms talked about their secret lives and feelings. They talked about embarrassing incidents mainly involving their children’s bodily fluids. I don’t know. This whole secret-lives-of-mothers thing seems a bit passe. All you have to do is read a few mommy blogs or listen in on some conversations to know that moms don’t have many secrets, and that no topic is all that taboo. I don’t think it’s the best kept secret that moms are often exhausted, irritated, lonely and bored. Sometimes we feel judged and inadequate. Sometimes we hide in the shower with a beer bong and a twelve pack of Schlitz. What? Like Oprah’s show is a “judgement-free zone.”

On the show Heather Armstrong (writer of the mother of all mother blogs, Dooce) admits she can do away with plastic toys and isn’t good at arts and crafts. Oh snap! SHHHHHH!!! I waited to hear “the parts of motherhood no one knows about.” Just what parts are those? We’ve been literally poked and prodded and sucked dry. Most of our husbands have seen a head come out of our vaginas. Some of them were lucky enough to see us poo on a table while the head came out of the vagina–there’s really not all that much we have left to expose. If anything we’re way too out there. Nothing has been left unseen or unsaid. Our stories are scattered all over the place, giving sitcoms ample opportunity to mess things up. Case in point: the new show, “In the Motherhood.” It’s truly lame. Lame plots and language, and no mothers dress like that just to hang out with each other. The dialogue is awful. We’re way more unpolished immature, awkward, obnoxious, and mundane. We can hang out for hours and just talk about food and our children’s sleeping schedules. We’re also way more crude. Here are some snippets of conversations I’ve had (or overheard) with other moms recently that pretty much represent the gamut.

1.
“I hate it when my boobs sweat. You know, the underneath part?”
“I hate that!”

2.
“Were you horny when you were pregnant? I masturbated constantly.”
“I felt like an ape if I did that.”
“I almost humped my bedpost once. It was looking real good!”

3.
“So I guess “Hayden” is starting Elimination Communication. Why can’t they just say, “Potty Training?” No one better teach my kid to use the word “Elimination.” My son will say, “Poop.” He will say, “Mommy, I crapped my pants.””

4.
“I haven’t had a pot brownie in so long.”
“We should totally make them.”
“That would be so funny!”
“Can you imagine?”
“Oh, did you want to dye eggs Saturday? I got this kit. It has stickers and shit.”
“Sure.”

5.
“Every afternoon I think I’m good then bam. They start whining and I crack open a beer. I have to.”
“I know! I’ve actually been trying to hold out until the weekend. Can’t do it.”
“So it’s okay to drink every night?”
“I think so. It makes me a better parent, personally.”

6.
“I got that Carmen Electra aerobics strip tease video and I’m going to learn something for his birthday. I’ve been practicing.”
“Oh my god are you serious? You’re such a good wife!”

“The other night I took off my underwear and was like, “Ok. go. Before American Idol starts.” It was like the best thing that ever happened to him. I didn’t even shower.”
“I don’t know what song to strip to. I was thinking that Fergie one, but he has this serious thing for Fergie and I don’t want him to be thinking of her.”
“Why not! Then it will be over quicker.”
“That’s true. Kids! Five more minutes!”
“You’ve said that, like, twenty times.”

7.
“I got the crab call in college.”
“The what?”
“The crab call. You know—‘I have crabs and I’m calling you and the other people I’ve slept with to tell you about it so you can shave your pussy hair off and take crab-be-gone pills.”
“I can’t believe he called to tell you. I wouldn’t call. Would you?”
“I don’t think so. It’s pretty responsible. He was all business about it. Offered to make me an appointment.”
“Whoa. That’s the kind of guy who will take care of a baby. He’ll do night feedings.”
“I know.”
“So did you have crabs? Are they actual crabs? Like with pinchers?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t have them. That’s why I wouldn’t call. I mean he endured unnecessary embarrassment. He will forever by the guy with crabs.”
“Forever Crabby.”
“I was such a slut back then.”
“I’ve only slept with three people other than ____.”
“Really? You seem slutty. Like you’d be recognized by the back of your head.”
“Fuck you.”

There. Now you’re in the motherhood, bitches. Now give me a sitcom.

Bad Mommy’s Shorty Q&A with Peter Rock

Kaui Hemmings — Sun, 22 Mar 2009 23:45:34 +0000

James Ellroy says that, “My Abandonment is an electrically charged, bone-deep, and tender tale of loss and partial redemption.” I say that, “My Abandonment is written by Pete Rock! I love Pete Rock! He’s so cool and funny and smart and I wish my last name were Rock. Your first name could pretty much be anything and sound good with ‘Rock’ at the end.’”

But in all seriousness. My Abondoment is inspired by the true story of a father and his thirteen year old daughter found living in Portland’s Forest Park. The novel recounts the ingenious ways the two survive and escape detection. The actual father and daughter had lived in this wilderness for over four years; after being captured by authorities, they were relocated, and then suddenly disappeared.

Ladies and Gentleman I give you Pete Rock…

The Rumpus: Describe your book in one sentence.

Peter Rock: Sometimes you’re walking through the woods when a stick leaps into the air and strikes you across the back and shoulders several times, then flies away lost in the underbrush. (That’s the first sentence of the book, too; need one go further, if this does it?)

Rumpus: Describe your book in one word.

Rock: Bittersweet. or Pretty.

Rumpus: You have a little girl and a baby on the way. When do you write? Do you make your wife do everything?

Rock: I finished this book before my daughter was born; I was racing her. Since then, hmm. When teaching, I try to stay in contact with the current book; this means sometimes half an hour, sometimes an hour a day, sometimes more on weekends. Usually around 3 in the morning or something, which is when I wake up.

My wife does do everything! However, she is 8 months pregnant and works about a hundred hours a week as a physician, so a large part of my existence involves driving a car with three carseats in it (my daughter Ida and my two nieces) all around town. A lot of diaper changing, bath taking, cleaning up, cooking. I’m completely domesticated and I do need to write to be happy, but my inability to get to it the way I like is a source of confusion and bewildering pain. If I didn’t have a teaching job, maybe I would be writing more or better; I wouldn’t trade the daughter, though.

Rumpus: Do you have any problems with alcohol?

Rock: Yes! I like it. I can’t drink like I used to, however. Mostly because I just don’t have time and I don’t recover well, and most of the people I’d drink with are bigger than I am. If I drink more than one beer I tend to wake up at 2 in the morning and be unable to sleep again. And insomnia’s a problem anyway; I get pulled into these terrible alcohol and caffeine spirals. There are many delicious drinks, however. I wish I could drink them more often. Someone was just mentioning making an album of children’s songs called Daddy Drinks Because You Cry. Anyway, not a problem (and I realize that my denial, here at the end, is a sinister sign); my life might be easier if I didn’t drink at all, but would it be happier?

Rumpus: That would be a great album. The follow up could be, Mommy Cries Because You Drink. So, how else do you unwind?

Rock: I spend a lot of time swimming. It’s quiet. I also like riding bicycles and reading books about talking animals.

Rumpus: You teach at Reed College. What do you like least about your students?

Rock: How much they talk about how hard they work. I love them for it, too; it’s an exhausted kind of swagger.

Rumpus: Remember when I visited your class and in your introduction you said something about me drinking at playgrounds? That was awkward.

Rock: I do remember that. I am really sorry if you felt it was awkward; I felt like when I was told that story it was a testament to how cool and together and still untamed you were, but maybe without that context it sounded different. I was meaning to show that you were a renegade outsider and that I could give you a hard time in public and thereby suggest that you and I were tighter friends than we were/are. So that was a mistake, I think. I did mean it as a compliment because I think you’re cool and want to be your friend.

Rumpus: I don’t feel so awkward about it now. Cool, together, untamed? Wow. I’m flattered, and feel like I could be in a deodorant commercial. Anyway, who would you choose to be your daughter’s nanny: Sarah Palin, Ann Coulter or Amy Winehouse?

Rock: Would I be paying them under the table? Do I really have to choose? I guess if any of these three were my nanny I’d stay home, as well, to watch them, or to point out to my daughter how not to do things. So, they could all be entertaining. I think I’d go with Amy Winehouse, even though her hours might be hard on everyone.

Rumpus: What’s your stance on Caillou?

Rock: (After a quick web search.) No stance as of yet. Ida hasn’t really watched any TV yet. I try to distract her with Elmo videos on the computer; she’s only interested in watching the videos of herself that I take with my cheap digital camera. For example.

Rumpus: I’m jealous you don’t have Caillou in the house. He looks like a penis and acts like a pussy. I’m also jealous that you sold a book in this economy. Is there a dog in it? I feel like to sell a book you need a dog in it or someone retarded.

Rock: Well, I sold it about two years ago, when everyone was feeling rich. That said, my books tend to never sell beyond three figures (i.e. units sold), so it is a minor miracle involving people I’ve known for a long time, serendipity, delusion, and the fact that the book is one of those Father/Daughter survival narratives that some people find exciting? My brother just pointed out to me that it’s actually just a rip off of Island of the Blue Dolphins; he sent me an e-mail saying, “Oh man, you mean the wild dogs get little Ramo in your book too? I’m not sure I can take that twice in a row.” Which is to say: yes, there are a few dogs. Some feral dogs. And then, later, a dog named “Chainsaw.” And I think, toward the end, some dogs being bred with wolves.

Thanks, Pete!! Now everyone go buy MY ABONDONMENT.

BAD MOMMY BLOG: Six Reasons Why The Bad Mommy Will Never Be A Good Socialite

Kaui Hemmings — Mon, 09 Mar 2009 21:56:36 +0000

1. Saturday night party/silent auction for a school. Daniel Kim was there, looking around. My husband goes, “Hey, are you lost?”

2. One of the items up for bid was to be the headmaster for a day. In the program this was most unfortunately titled, “Head For a Day.” When this is presented to a table full of drunk people in a context where you’re supposed to be semi-refined and respectful, lewdness ensues. “Maybe I should go in on it with someone,” Andy said. I told him I’d write the check, but then asked, “Wait— who’s the head coming from?” because that really changes things.

3. We bid on a condo in Sun Valley for a week. I think we won, damn that wine. Rumor is they were looking for us but we had bid, dined and dashed. We left our credit card number so we thought that took care of things. We’re hoping they’ll track us down and that we didn’t cause any unnecessary frustration because we really want our daughter to go to the school— I mean— we really want to do what we can to raise money for the school. So call me and we’ll pay up! And about the party— the jokes on the word “head” (so rich in possibilities— We’re usually not that immature, drunk or irresponsible, and any day now I know my mom’s going to tell me about our old family money she’s been hiding all this time so I could have a normal upbringing.

4. Sunday, Hawaii Opera Luncheon at the Halekulani. Two woman sang a duet from Madame Butterfly. The hostess, seated next to me, looked down and wiped her eyes. I thought she was moved and touched her back and smiled.
“Why is she wearing those awful shoes?” she said. I quickly removed my elated expression and said, “It’s ghastly. I mean, really.”

5. At the luncheon we had a fritatta, pork loin, savory bread pudding, and when it came time for desert I couldn’t stomach it, especially since there was a fashion show and skinny models were trotting down the runway making me feel like a Jaba the Hut who lunches. I didn’t eat my panna cotta. My Rubenesque hostess looked at my full dish and her empty dish. “That’s why I look the way I do, and you look the way you do,” she said.
“But who’s having more fun!”
“Well,” she said and downed her champagne.

6. Dinner at friends house. People talking about those Harry Potter jelly beans with gross names like, Vomit and Guts and whatnot. “They should make those for adults,” I said. “They could name one, ‘Pussy’.” Silence.
And that was my weekend.

BAD MOMMY BLOG: Why Can’t Men Say, “Ow?”

Kaui Hemmings — Fri, 06 Mar 2009 18:57:20 +0000

“Ow. That hurts. I’m in pain.” These are a few things Andy (the husband) will never say. After a snowboarding mishap he blacked out, woke and noticed it hurt when his friend kept jabbing him in the stomach. He googled his symptoms and figured he was bleeding internally and he may have ruptured his spleen. Did he call an ambulance? Did he say, “Oh, shit.”? No. He went to McDonald’s. Then the hospital where the doctors freaked out and tended to him STAT. He still did not say, “Ouch.” He said, “Dude. Where’s my spleen?”

Once he jumped some gap on his motocross bike, landing wrong and blacked out. A dark ominous bruise covered his entire thigh–like he was wearing one-legged bike shorts. He would not admit anything was wrong and only saw a doctor after his balls and penis turned purple.

Then there was the “fire incident.” He decided to jump through a campfire.

He burned off all the skin on his leg. His leg turned black. He did not treat it. Instead, he wrapped it in Saran wrap and went wakeboarding.

While getting stitches on his hand (sliced it open) he ate a hoagie.

His latest accident was at his law firm’s family picnic. He was making sure the coolers, grill, food, etc didn’t fall off the trailer. The trailer went down a curb onto his foot. It had to move off his foot, obviously, and took his big toe toenail with it. Blood gushed from his nail bed and from the gash at the bottom of the toe. He hopped around. I had never seen him express pain and was almost delighted, but the horrified children and paralegals brought me back to reality. He said he’d drive himself to the hospital. Um. Even Eleanor knew better. “Daddy you need help,” she said.

Anyway, I drove him to emergency, he got stitches in the nail bed, stitches for the gash that went down to the tendon, and he broke his foot (just found this out yesterday. He said he didn’t need a cast.) We went back to the picnic afterward. (He wanted a beer). He paddled in his canoe race the next day. He refused to take his prescribed Vicoden. So I took it for him. Someone needed to do things right.

So why? What can’t men admit they’re hurt? If the same things happened to me, I’d get out of work, mothering, everything, and would be hooked up to a morphine drip and watching Harold and Kumar go to White Castle. Mmm…White Castle. Please someone drop something on my toe.

BAD MOMMY BLOG: Princesses, part II

Kaui Hemmings — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 23:45:44 +0000

I have a few more things to say about the princess posse. I didn’t say it all in one post because I have a short attention span and figure you do, too. The princesses aren’t that big a deal. Far worse things await: the Jonas Brothers, for instance, or teen idols with babies and/or meth addictions. Disney Princesses are relatively minor. My daughter developed this passion for commercial characters in general at around two. She actually has clothes and underwear with cartoon characters on them, something I always thought was so white trashy, but whatevs–it gets her to put on her pants just as “Seven” or “Paige” gets me to put on my jeans.

One thing I don’t allow in the house are foods with cartoons on them. The little bitches are always on food items whose first ingredient is corn syrup (found to contain mercury, which the FDA has known for years.) Why can’t they put Belle on tofu, Aurora on almonds, Cinderella on garbanzo beans? Call them Hot Chick Peas for all I care. Otherwise I don’t protest too much. The vacant skanks make her so happy, and I’m not the kind of mom who only allows wooden toys and books about bi-racial eagles with two proud fathers. I’m not OBSESSED. In fact, I let it go, for the most part, not because I’m just chill like that, but I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to explain gender and shit. It’s not time yet, and I don’t want to kill the magic, but…

Here’s what happened the other day at the playground:

Eleanor and I were in the hut pretend-cooking when all of the sudden her eyes widened and she screamed, “Dora!” She began stomping her feet and pointing and I looked for someone who had on a Dora backpack or t-shirt, but there was nothing.

“Oh my God, Dora!” she said again, and I looked at the slides, a girl sliding into her nanny’s arms. A short, Mexican nanny with bobbed hair and bangs: Dora.  “No sweetie,” I whispered. “That’s not Dora. We don’t know her name. It could be Louise or Mary.”

“Louise?” she said. ”I don’t know about that.”

She really did look like Dora, if Dora was fifty-five and taking care of twin blonde girls who kept shouting, “Look what I can do! Look what I can do!” A Dora who had stopped her adventures and explorations and spent her time parked at a playground bench, grinding up flax to sprinkle on the in-vitro twins’ tofu dogs.

“That’s not Dora,” I said again, cringing at the way her face fell at this news. She wasn’t convinced.  Was I supposed to explain to her that not all Mexicans are Dora, just as not all Asians are her friend, Austin’s, dad? I’m fairly good at blending in lessons, hiding them like spinach in meatloaf, but this is hard turf.

I remember a while back in San Francisco we went to a funeral for a baby whose name was Thomas. Every time his name was spoken during the service Eleanor yelled, “Thomas? Thomas! Thomas the Train!”  We said, “Shhh.” We said, “No not the train. He’s a boy. A boy.”

Later that night we did our reading routine in the living room. I read a book to her and when I finished she fetched me another. She sat on dad’s lap. ”Where is green sheep?”  I read.

“Where is Thomas?” she asked.  She was two-and-a-half at the time. The question brought tears to my eyes. Andy and I exchanged glances. What do we say? When do you start telling the truth and killing the magic?  “Oh, sweetie,” I said. “Thomas had to go.” She looked at me with her little mouth open. “Oh, he had to go?” “He had to go,” I said. “He’s okay,” Andy said. “Yeah,” she said. “He’s okay.”

There are a lot of women at playgrounds who look like Dora because… Cinderella can suck it because… Thomas is dead because…

Do I have to fill in the blanks?

***

more Bad Mommy Blog

BAD MOMMY BLOG: Balls and Elation

Kaui Hemmings — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 20:20:16 +0000

There is so much brilliant analysis of the inauguration, I figure why add to the mix? Why dissect an already dissected frog? I’ll just write down what I did on this historic occasion.

We got up at 6 a.m to watch the swearing in with Eleanor. “What’s African-American?” she asked.

It was like playing charades. I just made gestures at the television. (I later asked my friends how to explain. They said: “You say he’s black.”
Oh.)
Then we watched the speech (which proved again that prose is better than poetry). Then I took her to school, went to Morning Brew to work, inspired to dust myself off. Then I came home to watch more t.v.

That night we went to an inauguration “ball” where we greeted hope and new beginnings with a keg and fish tacos. I do not like being asked to wear a gown, write a check and then be given a plate of cod rolled into enriched flour dough, but enough. Change, renewal, sacrifice, and nothing could be as unfortunate as Aretha Franklin’s bow and awkward phrasing of “Country.” Tip. When you sing, ‘country’ do not pause between the ‘count’ and the ‘try.’ It’s an old Chinese proverb.

God I’m hung over. There was wine, too–a good mother’s drug of choice. At one point while pouring myself a hearty glass of Twin Fin merlot some dude said, “What’s the vintage?”

“What? I don’t know.” He loomed over me like a cloud. “Oh,” I said. “You’re joking. You made a joke.”

“Are you relieved? Nice dress.”

“Thanks.”

I looked around for my daughter–she’s like a badge that says, “Move along, tool,” but she was across the yard with her buddy, playing with his dad’s iphone. This is her friend who taught her that Martin Luther King got shot by a bad guy. Yes, we brought her to the party. I thought it would be cool if the family was all together on a night like this, and we bring her with us everywhere anyway, even to fancy restaurants because that’s how we roll. I like how Cheney rolls, too.

“It’s such a nice night,” the tool said.

I looked for my other badge, my husband, but he was pumping the keg, his back turned to me. He later said that he didn’t interrupt because he wanted to see his game. Then I sat down and ate a few tomatoes. I participated in a brief discussion about scurvy. Supposedly it’s back, like flannel (which isn’t actually back, neighbor up the street). What if consumption comes back, too? Or the plague? An older gentleman in a tux explained scurvy, the plague and consumption.

“Are you a physician?” P asked.

“No, he’s just old,” I whispered.

“I learned it from watching NCIS,” the man said, which is pretty much the same thing I said. I observed that all the Punahou people were at my table. Practically everyone at our table had received a diploma from Dr. McPhee, the same man who handed Barack his diploma. The woman next to me was Obama’s classmate, but I tuned out when she talked because she didn’t smile and I could tell she was preparing what to say next whenever I spoke. I don’t like that. I like improv. Anyway, about Punahou, about Hawaii. Our table discussed that we’re all very aware that we’re trying to claim Barack in some way, as if by going to the same high school means something. But it does, right? It’s a neat fact, right? And our town, Kailua, could very well be the next Ranch. The ‘shaka’ could be the next fist bump. Let us have our claim.

And that’s that. We drove home on a cold Kailua night. We put our daughter to bed–she insisted on sleeping in her party dress. Then Andy and I retired to the bedroom and dissected the frog a little more (no, that’s not a sexual position–I’m referring to inauguration analysis). We talked, we laughed, we reflected. Then I watched TMZ.

Obama Gets Advice from America’s Kids

Michele Knapp — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 16:31:11 +0000

Hot off the presses is a new book by kids titled Thanks and Have Fun Running the Country. Students of non-profit writing center 826 Valencia have put pen to paper to share their thoughts as to how Obama should tackle his upcoming presidency. Listen to kids read their letters at 826 National. Read more in the New York Times and at McSweeney’s. Stay tuned for a segment on NPR’s This American Life this weekend.

The Rumpus.net » kids

Forgiveness is Priceless

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SPACE AVALANCHE: Childhood Trauma

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SPACE AVALANCHE: Passing notes

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BAD MOMMY: The Truth About Motherhood! blah, blah, blah

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Bad Mommy’s Shorty Q&A with Peter Rock

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BAD MOMMY BLOG: Six Reasons Why The Bad Mommy Will Never Be A Good Socialite

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BAD MOMMY BLOG: Why Can’t Men Say, “Ow?”

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BAD MOMMY BLOG: Princesses, part II

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BAD MOMMY BLOG: Balls and Elation

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Obama Gets Advice from America’s Kids

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