Jesus was definitely not the word

Ezra’s sweet teacher called me back Sunday afternoon.

“Sorry I’m so late returning your call,” she said. “I had family in over the weekend, and today I was at church all day. We’re hosting a group of homeless women so I was helping to set up.”

For real, she said this.

And then she went on to say that the "word" that had gotten Ezra in trouble in the library last week was fuck-a-duck.

Except she totally pussied out and said f-a-duck.

I’m a little disappointed in Ezra. I’m bummed that he didn’t go great guns. Sure, he started out strong with the fuck, but then he went and ruined it with that lame-ass kindergarten rhyming action.

He was telling the truth when he said his friend Justin had taught it to him. That’s not the way we swear in this house. (Not that we ever swear, unless we’re mildly irritated or vaguely frustrated or really upset or trying to emphasize a point or tired, in which case the swearing is 100 percent justified.) When we swear, we do it with gusto; and I guess I expected the same from my five-year-old.

Truth is, I had kind of hoped that my cocksucker guess was balls on.

color me haggard

As if I needed more evidence that motherhood has taken its toll on me:

a) Last night as I was getting undressed, long after the kids went to bed, I discovered a crayon in my bra.

b) What with my formerly ample and now deflated boobs, there was room for it in that right cup--so much room that I didn't notice its presence until hours after it had been placed there.

And just the other day I was remarking to Stupid Daddy that my muffin top had become more like a fallen souffle. Talk about adding insult to injury.

just one more reason that I love him

One of the most endearing things about Stupid Daddy is that he can build or fix pretty much anything. He's framed houses and repaired dishwashers and tiled back splashes. He's completely taken apart the engine of a truck and then put it back together again. In recent weeks, he's been busy winterizing our 100-plus-year-old home--heat-shrinking plastic wrap on some windows, replacing a couple of windows entirely, weather-stripping the front door, and the like.

Another incredibly endearing thing about him is that he loves to brush and blow-dry my hair. This, however, also happens to be one of the most annoying things about him, because invariably, he forgets that there are nerves inside my scalp, and that these nerves, they feel things.

So when he's brushing my hair and he meets some resistance from a tangle putting up a good fight, he just yanks harder. And when he blow-dries my hair, he focuses on getting that one section he's working on really dry, never mind that he's dangerously close to setting my scalp on fire.

Presumably, this activity is a prelude to s-e-x. It certainly gets him in the mood. Me, not so much. But then I'm also not one to request that he handcuff me to the bedpost and drip candle wax onto my nipples.

The other night, after a trip to the grocery store, I went upstairs to find Stupid Daddy getting Lilah dressed for bed after her bath--her hair, which is now well past her shoulders, obviously brushed out and bone dry. I became concerned for her well-being.

"Does she have third-degree burns?" I asked. "Or were you gentler with her because she's only two?"

"Shut up, bitch," he said. "You're lucky I don't use my heat gun on you."

doing what little we can

Adorably and transparently, Iris finds multiple reasons each night to return to our house, if only for 30 frantic seconds. She brings one of our cats inside for us, she brings the other cat inside for us, she stops by "on her way" to deliver the compost into the compost bin in her own back yard, she wonders if she's left this scrap of paper or that somewhere over here. And then, invariably, she panics about how much time she's taken, and what the consequences will be when she gets back home.

"Gotta go!" she'll announce, and then practically bolt out the door.

Earlier this week, on one of these whirlwind unauthorized visits, Iris asked us if we would like to come hear her sing a song at her school's "harvest festival" on Saturday.

"You're performing!" I said.

"Most likely," she said. "If I can get a ride there."

Because mom's weekends are apparently so booked with Qi Gong and chanting and all the other activities that help her be "present as a parent" (direct quote) that she can't actually be present, Iris spends both nights of every weekend at a somewhat mysterious friend's house. (We've asked her a bit about the family, and what her connection is to them, but she's always been cagey about the details.)

This particular Saturday was apparently booked with flu shots for the family's kids and Christmas pictures at WalMart, so it wasn't clear they'd be able to get Iris to where she needed to be.

I told Iris we would love to come and we could drive her there as well if her friend couldn't take her. She smiled a great big smile and practically skipped her way home.

We found out this morning that Iris would indeed be getting a ride from her friend, so we all piled into the car and drove directly (except for the getting lost part) to Iris' school.

There's Iris on the left, just before the performance began. She was pretty psyched to see us.

The kids sang their song laughably out of key, and they forgot half the words, but I almost cried watching Iris up there--because her mom couldn't be bothered to come for her daughter's performance, and also because I really do love that girl.

We spent another couple of hours there with Iris before driving her back to her friend's house. The kids bounced around in one of those portable bouncy houses that are a carnival staple, got their faces painted, went on a hay ride, toured the "haunted gym" (which pretty much scared the pants off of Levi), did crafts projects, and ate hot dogs.

There's Iris about to dive into her hot dog, which she can't tell her mom about or she'll be punished.

There are Ezra and Levi with Iris, who is proudly displaying the painted rock that her mom will make her throw away.

There's Iris just plain old enjoying herself. That will have to be a secret to. It's one I hope she can hold onto.

probably not what she signed on for

I wrote a note to Ezra's teacher asking for more details about the inappropriate language. Did he really not remember the word? Was it sometimes inappropriate or always inappropriate? Did it seem like he understood what he was saying?

She wrote back today that Ezra told her the word later (i.e., I guess, he did in fact remember it). She also said that it qualified as an always "bad" word, and she didn't want to write it down. I was instructed to call her for more information.

I left a message for her this evening. I have no idea when she'll get back to me. She's a kind woman with a school-age daughter and I'm sure they have plans for the weekend--a PG movie tonight, perhaps, with a big bucket of popcorn between them; tomorrow, a walk in the woods to enjoy the foliage, an afternoon in the yard raking leaves.

In the meantime, I've decided the offending word must be cocksucker. It's both long and unfamiliar, so it matches the description Ezra gave me yesterday.

But I won't know for sure until I hear it from the kindergarten teacher's mouth.

those words are on the SAT, right?

My previously angelic (at school) kindergartener came home today with a note from his teacher. The librarian had to "speak to" Ezra about his use of "inappropriate language."

Even though I had hoped that Ezra would loosen up enough to misbehave every once in a while, and even though I had hoped he would finally break through his shyness and be so engaged with a classmate that the conversation just couldn't stop even after the teacher had warned them twice about whispering, I got a little panicky.

The following questions screamed through my head simultaneously:

What has happened to my son? Is he turning into a derelict? Is his diet of three baby carrots a day causing him to lose all sense of judgment? Is peer pressure getting the better of him? Do I need to bring him to a doctor? If yes, what doctor would that be? Is he never going to get into Harvard?

And then this: What was the "inappropriate language"?

I asked him what it was that he had said in the library, but he wouldn't tell me.

"I don't remember," he said, looking at the ground.

"Was it a bathroom word?"

"No."

"Was it a body word?"

"No."

"Well, what was it, Ezra? I'm not mad at you, really. Everyone gets into trouble every once in a while. I just need to know so we can talk about why it wasn't okay to say it in the library."

"I told you, I don't remember."

"Is it a word we use sometimes at home?"

"No, it was a new word. It was a long word. Justin said it and then I said it and then he told me it was a bad word."

"Well, what does it mean?"

"I don't know."

Clitoris? I'm thinking. Fellatio?

I switched tacks for a minute, because even in my infinite insanity I recognized that this wasn't the most productive line of questioning.

"What happened when the librarian talked to you?"

"She put me in a time out. And I'm not allowed to take out a book from the library until next time."

He was on the verge of tears at that point, and I think that, not to blame the victim or anything, part of what upset me so much about the teacher's note was that there was no mischievous joy about the incident--even before I started peppering him with questions. It seemed like his own sense of his behavior was that he was doing something not playful but ugly.

Still, I was dying to know what he had said.

"Was it 'shit,' Ezra? Was it 'fuck'?"

"No, Mommy," he said, rolling his eyes, exasperated. "I already told you, it wasn't a word we use at home."

just your average wednesday morning

You know, the kind where a parent at your kid's school files a police report about you. You've had those Wednesdays, right?

I had just deposited Ezra (late) in the school lobby and gotten back into the car to drive the other two to preschool. There was a car idling in the very narrow drive leading to the street, and there was no way I could get past it.

I waited politely behind to see if the car would move. Then I tapped on my horn--one of those "hey, maybe you didn't see me behind you" taps. No response. I tapped a bit longer. Still no response. I honked--not quite a "get the fuck out of my way" honk, but perhaps an "I know you know I'm here waiting, now do something about it" honk.

The driver began gesticulating wildly into her rear view. So I got out of the car to ask her to move. She rolled down her window and introduced herself to me.

"You get any closer to the car and I'll knock your teeth out," were her exact words.

It escalated from there. I kept trying to ask her--though since she was yelling, I was yelling too--to just get out of the way, while she kept threatening me/accusing me of "deliberately" getting out of my car (well, Christ, I should hope so) and trying to provoke her/calling me a dumbass/asking me if I wanted to hit her.

We weren't communicating very well.

At one point she just decided to roll up her window and ignore me. I then, um, banged on her window. Not one of those "I'm trying to break your window" bangs, but perhaps a "Hey, lady, I'm not done talking, don't you shut your window on me" bang.

At which point she announced that she was going to call the police because I had just "assaulted" her car. At which point the assistant principal came out of the school and told her she had to move. At which point I thanked the assistant principal and made off with my two kids.

An hour or so later, I received a phone call at home from one of Asheville's finest. He asked for my side of the story, then told me, sounding very tired even though it was only 9:30, that the woman was "adamant about filing a report" and so he was obligated to do so.

"I can't imagine anything will come of this," he said with a sigh. "But here's the case number on the off chance you need it."

The woman was obviously kind of bonkers, and I'm upset that I didn't handle the situation as well as I might have. Why didn't I think of threatening to knock her teeth out first? Why did I use my bare hands to bang on the car window instead of grabbing the baseball bat from the back of the minivan?

For real, though, if I were somebody who was on Zoloft again and therefore nice, I'm sure I would have figured out how not to get into it with her. Dumbass.