Last night my son had a friend here for a sleepover. They are “old” friends, these two. They’ve know each other since they were very small boys, too small to play together in any formal sense.
This friend moved away a year ago. It was sad when he left, although truthfully I thought the friendship would gradually fade into the periphery of my son’s consciousness and then dissolve entirely. But the boys still ask for one another; they still love one another. They do things my son doesn’t always do with his other friends – they rough and tumble and fight and play make believe and run around until they are exhausted and they – in their words – “Settle things like men!”
Apparently, “real men” settle disputes by grabbing each other around the waist and roll on the ground like puppies.
These boys sweat and they yell, and stop only for cookies. They build forts and climb trees, and drink gallons of milk and spill gallons of milk and use my very best pillow case to wipe up the mess.
Next time they are sleeping at his house.
Here are some other things that happened this week:
I read this at GoGoZen this week. I know this frame in time; I was there with my daughter a short eight years ago, and Kelly is right to hang on to these fleeting days. Because one day you are reading in bed together, and then before you know it you are crying in the maxi-pad aisle at the drugstore buying items for a daughter who can now wear your shoes in an non-ironic way, and you’re doing clock math to see if you can get to the liquor store from here before they close.
And as if going to Ikea wasn’t worth the $2.99 meatball lunch special alone, this week I learned another reason to shop there, courtesy of a tweet from Annie at PhD in Parenting. Ikea is teaming up with UNICEF and Save the Children by donating one dollar from every soft toy sold to support the charities and their child education initiatives. My kids love the soft toys from Ikea, especially the tiny collection of mice. They have them in all colours: Brown (they call him “Cocoa,”) White (they call him “Snowball,”) and Grey (you guessed it… “Gary.”)
This article in Salon about Racism/Obama presidency made me sad. And mad.
IT MADE ME SO SMAD.
It made me think about things I’ve read on Facebook from people I know, people I maybe even went to high school with. People I might have let kiss me on the mouth, or shared a beer with, or spent an afternoon together, all the time never knowing what was truly in their hearts. This article was an excellent reminder to speak to my children yet again of the power of words, and that following up vitriolic, racist statements with “But that’s just what I think” does not eliminate or lessen the inherent hatred behind them.
Let’s finish with some funny, shall we?
I wrote at Mampop.com again this week, about Octomom and why she kinda deserves our pity but also needs to get a job at Target.
Over at iVillage I am talking about grandparents. My Gramma joined the Air Force after the Blitz Bombing in London, where she lived at the time. She also joined because “girls were allowed to wear pants in the Air Force.” That explains in one sentence a lot about why I love this woman.
She is having eye surgery on Monday – her 89th birthday. In light of the eye patch she’ll have to wear for a few days, her party will be “Pirate” themed.
Arrrr! Raise a frosty grog to the wench, won’t ya? Have a great week, matey!