Keeping Up With The Madoffs

I like to think my husband and I are good parents. When our children ask us tough questions, we straddle the line between telling the truth and seeking advice from Noggin. Hey, it's preschool on TV. Until recently this has worked like a charm.

This past Sunday, our children watched “101 Dalmatians.” Our 6 year old daughter was deeply affected by this cute Disney movie about kidnapping, thieves and animal cruelty. At bedtime she seemed extremely unsettled so my husband asked her if she was alright. He asked if the movie had upset her. She wanted to know if thieves were real and could they break into our house? This is what I like to call a “requesting backup” parenting moment. If her fear had been ghosts or monsters he could have gone in solo. However, thieves are tricky and he went it alone. 15 minutes later I slid into bed with my sweet girl. I prepared to sing her the same song I’ve sung to her almost every night since she was a baby. She snuggled into position with her arms around me and said, “Mama. Is Bernie Madoff gonna steal my puppy?”

My wonderful husband, the smartest man I’ve ever known, chose to make white collar criminal Bernie Madoff my daughter’s “Boogie Man.” I explained to her Bernie was never ever coming to our house, or any other house for that matter, since he was spending the rest of his life in jail. She was still freaked out. She wanted to know as much as she could about Mr. Madoff. “What does he look like? Does he have a roommate? What does he wear? What is his bed like?” I revealed as much as I could about him and then remembered his wife, Ruth. “Is Ruth alone? Does she have pets? Where does she sleep? Does she have a comfortable bed?” We also talked quite a bit about prison. Mostly about the food. We both wondered if inmates eat dessert. I sincerely hope serial killers don’t get tapioca.

Before I knew it 45 minutes had passed. I promised her we’d Google him in the morning. Sadly, I bet Bernie gets “Googled” a lot in prison. I felt really good about our conversation and she seemed to be ok. I kissed her goodnight and started to get up. She pulled me back and said, “Mama, I still have 4 scary things in my head. Ghosts, Monsters, Haunted Houses and Bernie Madoff.”

As I left her room my heart broke. I hope the only thing my beautiful children will ever have to fear is a 71 year old lying sack of shit billionaire thief who's safely tucked away in prison for 170 years.

Power To The Penis

The other day I was at a friend’s house when I heard my 4 year old yelling for me to “wipe his ass.” This child could potentially go off to college not knowing how to properly clean his Holey-O. After I did my motherly duty, I asked my daughter why she didn’t come and get me. I expected her to give an excuse involving Polly Pockets and their ongoing drama. Instead she said, “Because he told us to smell his poop AND his penis.” My first reaction was to laugh. Who else but a drunken frat boy would tell someone to sniff their junk? When I confronted my son he freely admitted he offered up this odd request. As we drove home in silence it dawned on me, I’m raising a GUY!

I’ll admit I was surprised when I found out I was having a boy. I didn’t grow up with a brother and my father was more Larry David than Tony Macelli. Boys are a bit of a mystery to me. It doesn’t matter what a baby’s packing. Either way it’s gonna get a rash and need Triple Paste. I’ve been very frank in teaching my children about their private parts. I thought I was pretty clear about the rules of genetalia. I didn’t realize I had to add “no smelling.” In my son’s defense he’s really into his penis right now. He just needs to learn he can’t have an afternoon taffy pull on the couch watching “Ni How Kai Lan.”

Then one night it hit me like balls in the face. I was watching my son wish his little weenis a fond farewell and tuck him safely into a Pull Up.

“Son, do you like to touch your penis?”
“YES!”
“If you wake up with a dry Pull Up for 2 weeks, you can sleep in underwear. And you know, if you sleep in underwear, you can touch your penis. AT NIGHT! Don’t you want to touch your penis at night?
“YES!”

Was it a little wrong? Sure. But that boy hasn’t had an ounce of urine in his Pull Up, for two weeks. He’s been toting around his dry training pants like a gold medal he knows he’s about to wax all night long. Maybe raising a boy won’t be that hard.

Oh Little Playmate

For the past few weeks my daughter has been carting around a dirty, pink sock with crumpled up paper taped on for eyes and a mouth. I’ve come to learn this is her imaginary friend, “Socky.” She started telling me Socky’s likes and dislikes and asked if she could take him to school. My first instinct was to tell her no. I’m not sure you can get away with talking to yourself in Kindergarten. Then I realized if she feels like she needs to roll with a sock, who am I to deny her? Frankly, I’m a little jealous. Who doesn’t want an imaginary friend?

Being a stay at home mom can be lonely. I’m surrounded by amazing friends and family, but they have their own “stuff.” An imaginary friend would chill with me while I clean the kitchen. We could snark about news stories and listen to music. I’d be more inclined to go to the grocery store if I had an imaginary friend with me. It would certainly make cart dancing to Diana Ross a little less awkward. Plus, all the smelling and knocking in the world can’t help me pick the right cantaloupe. I basically need someone to keep my ass in check. I’m enthralled by movies about people who bungle through life until they’re visited by a dead ex-husband or girlfriend or George Burns. People think they’re crazy for a while, but once they’re “shown the way” everything works out. The movie ends with the person knowing they have finally gotten it right.

I started thinking about what kind of imaginary friend I’d want. I couldn’t have a man because I’d want him to look like Michael Vartan. We would end up having imaginary sex while waiting in the pick up line. I don’t really want a girl either. We’d end up on the same cycle and that grosses me out. I’m thinking my imaginary friend is half man/half women. The Michael Vartan half can help me figure out which grade of gas to put in the car and tell me I’m pretty. My imaginary girl half would have my back on the playground with some of the “cracka-ass-cracka” moms.

It could get old though. We would start to argue about working out and she’d tell me my ass is fat. I’d tell her she has a big zit on her chin. We’d realize we’re PMS’ing, hug and then eat something with bacon and cheese. Imaginary friends take on different forms when you’re an adult. It can be drugs, or shopping, or Social Networking. Come to think of it, sometimes I have an imaginary friend named “Sake”, too.