The Gay Uncle spoke with an old friend recently who, in the intervening time since they’d last conversed, had gotten herself married and had a child. Said baby is now an adorable two year old with whom mom spends a good deal of time while holding down a full time academic job. Talking as she was to the G.U., the conversation turned quite quickly to recreational activities (drinking, gunplay, porn), and mommy-friend said she hadn’t been doing much of this. “Right,” Gunc said, “because it’s the summer. You’re not teaching and you’re home with your son full-time.” His friend shook her head. “No. It’s not that. I find that drinking just puts me to sleep. Actually,” she paused, as if working up the nerve, “I think that taking a little puff of something often helps me to focus on my son, and not to sweat some of the small stuff he does, to let it go. I feel like I’m a better parent when I’m just a little high.” The Gay Uncle nodded like he understood. And in many ways, he did. He often finds himself to be more agreeable with his B.F. when he’s smoked up, less likely to be his usual combative self. And he knows that interactions with his nieces (and everyone else) on family trips can certainly be lubricated by an afternoon beer or Bloody Mary, or a half a Percoset and a Vodka/soda at cocktail time, so it’s not like he doesn’t get the lure of being altered when interacting with a group of those closest to you. He’s aware that plenty of mommies raised “healthy” kids on daily doses of Valium. And he’s certainly well-versed in the idea that a host of experiences–watching a bad movie, having sex, reading the New York Review of Books–can be made much more interesting when one has their weed on. But it still seemed a bit…off to him to think that this would make one a better parent. Being high makes him feel at once focused and forgetful. He loses track of time. He misinterprets actions and signals. He doesn’t take control of power tools of vehicles under the influence, and those are inanimate and respond directly to his actions, so the idea of solely supervising a kid in this state makes him nervous. He’s hardly one to pass judgment (ahem). So…YOU do it. What do you think? Bong-hit parenting: yea, or nay. And why? Have at it in COMMENTS.
Forgetful Guncle
The Gay Uncle must confess that he broke his own cardinal rule (“If you’re not cross-selling, you’re not doing your job”), and forgot to remind you to read his Vanity Fair column this past week. Bad Gay Uncle! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Once again, the column goes up every Thursday, usually by noonish. Here’s a link to last week’s exciting piece.
They Grow Up So Fast
This is the Gay Uncle’s seven month old niece. He’s not sure if her early onset (and gender variant) puberty is caused by factory farm hormones in the milk, whatever it is that’s killing the bees, or her father’s testosterone-replacement therapy creams.
But he does know one thing: she has grown a mustache that would make any of the Village People jealous.
Cain and Abel Department
The Gay Uncle received a note from a mommy-friend the other day in response to a recent-ish post on sibling rivalry. She told the story of her boys Adam (5) and Josh (8) who began the morning, prior to going to their summer day-camp, engaged with an “action figure”ť that the older boy had built out of fruit leather, fudgy cookie crĂ©me, and a stale chocolate-covered malted milk ball (which G.U. assumes was the head). While the boys were engaged in their “play”, the mom took this opportunity to enact what Gunc calls Sunscreen Torture: the ritual application of ultraviolet blockers, a favorite past-time of parents everywhere. [Note: imagine enacting this with 18 kids every morning before heading out to the urban sprinkler park and you have some idea of what the Gay Uncle’s job was like.]
With only five minutes remaining before the boys’ bus arrived and mom had to peel out to head to the office, the younger of the two boys (Cain?) became over-excited (G.U. wonders if it was the fault of the action figure’s ingredients, which could make a hyperactivity-inducing breakfast). In his rage–sugar-induced, or otherwise–he managed to mangle FruitLeatherCrĂ©meWhopperMan. This irritated his older brother, who was the genius behind the creation of this charming toy. “You are the stupidest brother in the world,” the 8 year-old screamed, “and I hate you forever!”ť This boy is apparently quite a sweet child, and doesn”t ordinarily talk this way to his sibling, and his reaction stunned and shocked little Adam, whose face froze for a moment as he absorbed the intent of this hateful comment. Then, in typical second-child fashion, he went full-on Naomi Campbell. “You fucking biiiitch!!!”ť he screamed, and he grabbed the first thing that came to hand and began beating his brother about the face and neck with it (fortunately, it was a stuffed animal, and not a mace). Then, once mother managed to pry them apart, he kicked off his shoes, removed his socks and shirt, and announced that he wasn”t going to camp. The babysitter was on vacation and mom had to get the boys on the bus (and come to work), and so she suggested that G.U. simply “imagine what the next 5 minutes looked like.”
The problem is, he isn’t at all sure . He could picture it involving duct tape, roller skates, and a long nylon rope, but that’s just where his mind always goes.
Tick Check
The Gay Uncle’s close friends, and parental whipping posts, Kate and Dylan came upstate for a visit this weekend, bringing along their adorable kids Max (nearly 6) and Athena (3). Fortunately for the Guncles’ sleep patterns, a friend with an empty country house nearby offered to put the family up there, allowing a win-win situation: hanging out with the parents as late as possible at Chez Empty once the kids were in bed, and then being able to retreat home to sleep and sleep in. Oh yeah, and being able to get rowdy with the little tykes without worrying about breaking any of the Gay Uncles’ shabby but beloved crap. The first daytime activity was a trip to a local swimming hole on the River, which entailed taking a short walk through tall grass. Urbanites to the core–both New York natives–Kate and Dylan were worried about bugs. Fortunately, they also have ADD and forgot to be worried during the trip, focusing more on keeping their tots from being washed downstream by the strong current. But this concern came alive again when they were performing the children’s bedtime ritual. “I have to check you for ticks,” Kate said once she’d finished reading them their stories. “And they say it’s particularly important to check your genitals–your private parts.” The wee ones lit up at this opportunity–Mommy’s going to tickle our fancies?–and once they’d enjoyed their first check, Athena insisted on a repeat. “You need to check me again,” she said, smiling slyly. This catalyzed a need for another check for Max as well. “You checked her again,” he burbled, pointing at his penis “now you need to check me again.” Oneupmanship followed. “You checked him more times than me! Again.” “Now you checked her four times, and me only three!” “You need to check me again, mommy!” “Mommy!” Finally, Kate had had enough. “You’re done. There are no ticks. Now go to bed.” She came out of the bedroom and grabbed her margarita. “I don’t know who’s more perverted, him, or her.” The G.U. shrugged. “Kids are pleasure seekers. It’s human nature. Would you turn down the opportunity? In fact,” he turned to Tal, and smiled lasciviously. “Maybe you should check me…?”
Daddy Mouth
The Gay Uncle’s beautiful sister called the other day to alert him to a milestone: his baby niece’s first word. Being a clothes hound, like the baby’s mother, G.U. was pleased to hear that the child’s first coherent utterance was…”Outfit”. He knew he liked that kid. But her second word held an even better story. Sis Roxy has been trying to get the little bugger to say “Mama” for months, repeating it to the girl all day long in various inflections. “Mama. Mama. Maaama. Maaama. Mama.” The child seemed to relish this focused attention, so even though it delivered no results, Roxy kept it up. Finally, one evening when she was getting together an OUTFIT for her weekly girl’s night out, she became so frustrated with the girl’s steadfast refusal to deliver the all-important maternal designation, that she began browbeating her with it. “MAMA! MAMA! MAAAA-MAAAA! Say MAMA. Mamamamamamamamamama. Say it! Say it!” Her baby, perched on the bed, looked up at her, tilted her head, and spoke. “DA-DA.”
Roxy was devastated (and enraged) by this betrayal, until Gunc reminded her that the infantese word for father in just about every language contains an easier-to-pronounce hard consonant sound, whereas the word for mother contains a more-difficult soft one, stacking the odds in daddy’s favor. “Why is that?” Roxy asked. “Well,” G.U. responded. “It’s a little thing called The Patriarchy. But don’t worry. We’ll bring it down soon.”
A Friendly Reminder
The Gay Uncle lives by the motto “if you’re not cross-selling, you’re not doing your job”, so he wants to take this one line to remind his gorgeous readers that a new posting is up in his Vanity Fair column Stick Shift. Check it out.
Not an SUV
Look at this, all of you idiot parents currently stuck in traffic and reading this blog on your iPhone. This is how moms get around in the great Pacific Northwest. The Gay Uncle received this image (minus the blurred-out face) from one of his absolute favorite readers today. This is what is called a “South-East Portland Mom-Mobile”, and it comes to you live from the land of slugs, rain, and
TrialAthalon
The Gay Uncle talked to his friend Danika today. Always a rich source of stories, she told him one during their call about her older daughter Erica. Erica is eight and a half, and is very interested in mastery. She excels at most of what sets herself to–gymnastics, ballet, violin, horseback riding–an interesting contrast with Danika’s own (self-confessed) non-competitive nature. The most recent of the girl’s interests is biking. A cycling enthusiast himself (though one completely without skill) Gunc and Danika had a good laugh about him and Tal taking the girl on a seaside trail ride during their next annual summer visit. “Maybe part of it,” G.U. suggested. “It’s a long way to the lighthouse.” Danika chortled. “Well, she’ll likely be pretty advanced she is by then. She’s driven. Plus, the twins are into biking.”
The twins,, G.U. thought. He’d heard about this duo before: an inciting–but mismatched–pair of girls, one of whom is thin and pretty, and the other of whom is pudgy and clumsy. (Guess which one is favored by their parents? Here’s a hint: when both twins recently made the horseback riding team, one received a brand-new, form-fitting, custom equestrian uniform, while the other had to make do with ill-fitting, adult-size cast-offs purchased from the Salvation Army and brutally chopped down to size.) “As you know, their parents are very competitive,” Danika explained, “They’ve recently had their girls biking for hours every day in training for some intense course they’ll complete in September.” This kind of insane sportiness (combined with the whole good/bad twin thing) piqued Gunc’s interest. He’s always been fascinated with endurance athletics, in part because he can’t understand the appeal of this kind of self-torture, in part because he loves the stories of people cheating during said events (like the lady in the New York Marathon who took the subway for part of the route), and in part because he likes to watch the end of these races when a few people inevitably collapse yards from the finish line, lose control of their bodily functions, and pee and poo all over themselves. “How far do they have to ride in this so-called course?” he asked. “Well,” Danika replied, “last year they went about twenty-six miles in one day. Which is kind of impressive” “Um, yeah,” Gunc said, recalling his own recent bragging about a seven mile ride. “Of course,” Danika continued, “one of the girls had a severe knee problem after, and couldn’t walk for over two weeks. But still. Her parents were very pleased that she finished.” Finished, indeed, Gunc thought. He wanted to tell his niece (and nieces everywhere) that life isn’t a race. Or if it is, it’s certainly not that kind.
Biter
The Gay Uncle provides another report on his sister Roxy’s good friend A-M. You might remember A-M from a long-ago post on providing a name for her newborn-ish son, or for the one on this cranially blessed baby boy. Well, that darling little head case is about nine months old now, and is both teething and breast feeding, as most kids that age do. A-M has been somewhat distressed of late, as her son has been occasionally using his newly developed chompers to clamp down on some of her more sensitive bits. “He’s driving me crazy with the biting,” A-M told Gunc’s sister. “So the last time he did it, I’d had enough. I took matters into my own hand, and finally bit him back.” Roxy stared, flabbergasted. “What?” A-M said. “You gotta’ show ’em who’s boss sometimes or they take advantage.” Roxy nodded, walked away, and immediately called her brother and asked him if he thought this was an appropriate response to an infant’s behavior. “Um. I don’t think so,” the Gay Uncle said.
Well, the next time the G.U. spoke with Roxy, after their usual catch up, he asked how A-M’s boobs were faring. “She’s doing okay,” Roxy said. “Jorrdan’s not clamping down as much as he was–maybe the bite-back was effective? Though the other day at work, she had the baby there, as well as her nine year-old daughter, Ambrosia. A-M was taking a break to nurse and deal wit the kids, and all the sudden I heard her squawk from the break room; the baby bit her again. She looked down at the boy, tensed up her hand into a fist, and screamed Hey. Cut it out, asshole!. Her daughter was right there, and she looked at her mom, forlorn and protective. Mom. Don’t call my baby brother an asshole!” To which A-M apparently shrugged, and replied. “Well, tell the little asshole to stop fucking biting me then.”