Bugsy and The Wrong Mother

The Christmas gift from my sister consisted of 2 things representing opposite ends of my life so far. The kid end: "Bugsy Malone" soundtrack. The mid-life adult end: "The Wrong Mother" by Sophie Hannah, contemporary fiction. Both were very meaningful.

Bugsy Malone was a huge favorite of ours growing up (in the days before Scott Baio was Chachi or Charles and before he became a complete tool on reality TV). Our parents took us to see the movie when it came out. I remember picking out Willy Wonka candy to take with me to see the show, and becoming extremely thirsty during Blousie's song, "Ordinary Blues." I think it had something to do with the type of film it was shot on: it looked dusty and sepia like - very parching. (These were the days before juice boxes and bottled water - if you tried to bring beverages with you, it had to be in a thermos, and those always leaked, so no one ever used their lunch box ones.) I never noticed the amount of violence in the film until my own kids saw it last summer at a roof top drive-in in downtown LA. It took on a different feel watching it as a mother. Although you'd think I'd be used to the gun fascination thing as a mom to 3 boys. Happily, we've escaped this phase for the most part. But being a mom didn't stop me from singing along with the movie: we owned the record and it was one of the most played records in the playroom. I'm happy to report that it's still in the playroom, alongside the other LPs of my childhood: Saturday Night Fever, Sound of Music and Grease. Sadly, all of the Donny and Marie albums have disappeared. I'm not sure why Bugsy survived the cleaning purge and Donny did not. So this Christmas, Hilary gave me Bugsy on CD - part of my childhood in song form.

The other part of the gift was the joke part. Hilary is great at joke gifts - a skill passed down from our father. One year, after a particularly long commercial ad-campaign by Manny, Moe and Jack, he followed their advice and got each of his "girls" (mom included) some little tidbit from the Pep Boys: "get all your Christmas needs at the Pep Boys" the commercials promised. He got each of us a trinket and wrapped them up in small jewelry boxes. I believe mine was some kind of spark plug. Upon unwrapping, the girls were confused, and the dad was crying with laughter. It took a bit of explanation before we all started laughing with him. This year, Hilary got dad a Snuggie. And for me? "The Wrong Mother." Hee. She said she walked by it and the title spoke to her.

So I've cracked open "The Wrong Mother" this weekend, as I've been stuck with a cold in bed and there is only a limited amount of Joss Wheden produced material starring Nathan Fillion I can see on Netflix. "The Wrong Mother" is a British Book. Written by someone who lives in England. Uses the queen's English in her writing. Which I find exciting, actually. It's like reading a foreign language book that you can understand *most* of. It's a little like travelling abroad, which, let's face it, all authors try to do: transport you into his/her world. It's usually a world I like to think myself a part of. I studied abroad in Essex for 6 months. I've seen the BBC versions of ALL the Jane Austen classics. I drink Tetley tea and Boddingtons ale. I know the difference between Crisps and Chips. You know, all the important stuff that makes you feel more British, and a little snobby too. But there's something about reading a British author that illuminates your American-ess. It's not just the spelling. Or the slang. It's the assumption that you know what "O levels" are. And how the police system works - and what the initials in it stand for. Or that post (mail) boxes are standardly red. (I knew that one!!!)

So when I understand something that to a Brit makes perfect sense but is slightly baffling to their Western Atlantic counterparts - I feel a bit excited (I knew that one!!!). Like I've read a passage in Latin or some other foreign language. And it makes *this* mother feel smart.

I won't ruin the story for anyone. In fact, I haven't finished it myself. It's turning out to be a great tale. A mystery. I won't be surprised if it's made into a movie; hopefully starring a Kate Winslet and NOT a Gwyneth Paltrow faking a British accent. That would be rubbish. (hee) And I don't tend to discuss - at length - books with anyone anymore. Been there. Done that. Paid 5o grand to do it for 4 years and have a piece of paper to prove it.

And how does this relate to raising 4 children - as the blog title suggests? It doesn't, really. But some of the passages of the book dwell on the dark side of motherhood (yes, there is that side - you see it the moment you go into labor and it peeks it's head out fairly often after you've gone through the trauma of birth) and acknowledging the dark can be a healthy thing from time to time. Bit of perspective and all. And it can be nice to hear another mother say, even fictionally, "What the f*ck have I gotten myself into..." - comfort in numbers and all that.

"You give a little love, and it all comes back to you..."

Trash

I am a semi-feminist. I was full-blown at age 18, 19, 20 and 21. Now? Not so much. As I get older (or "age gracefully" as I like ot call it) I find that life is far less black and white. Much more shades of gray. I am sure of less *now* than I was *then* but I know *more*. Hmm...
So back to the feminist, I can do anything a man can do, and better! thing. When it comes to trash, I happily defer to the age-old sexist sterotype that male people should take the trash out. I live in a house with 4 of them. You'd think one of them would get it.
Tuesday is trash day. As in, the big truck comes right up to your curb and takes your stinky cans, dumps them into the truck and drives away. There is no excessive hauling. The curb is less than 30 feet away from where we store the big trash bins. This is not Italy where you had to carry your trash down 4 flights of stairs and walk half a block to the communal trash dumpster. No, it's not.
So when I freak out about having to remind those who have penises to Take. The. Bins. Out. I (understandably) get a little bent out of shape. Because it happens every Monday. I have tried ALMOST everything to get my point across to the p-bearers in the household: reminding, threatening, withholding allowance, contemplating storing the trash bins in their rooms so they can live with the smell. Nothing has worked.
Last week - I threatened the boys (as I waited in the car while they hurried to get the bins out to the curb after I reminded them AGAIN that it was trash day) that the next time they forgot, I was taking $20 from each of them. No more of this losing a day of allowence. No extra chores. No make up chores. Just pay me when you screw up. I thought this would get through to them. If not Aidan, then Colin, because he is scrupulous about his money and keeping it.
Today? I'm $40 richer. Because they have no frontal lobe function - no memory. No concious thought that doesn't revolve around their stomachs or other (less important) organs. They cannot possibly do this one SIMPLE task. Hmmm. What's a creative mom to do? Think of more creative ways to INSTILL THIS PRIMAL MALE FUNCTION INTO THEIR TINY, TINY BRAINS. Wish me luck.
Eventually this may work with Colin - he paid me cash already. Didn't want me to transfer money out of his savings account because then he would lose interest. Seriously.

Fundraising = ***dra****g

Fundraising should really be a 4 letter word. I don't know who actually enjoys this aspect of raising children. Maybe the kids for about the first 10 minutes? Certainly not me. I don't care what the fundraising "theme" is - the mere sight of a catalog/order form throws me into an anxious state. I really don't care how great or deserving the organization is: I'm averse to whoring out my children as cute little salespeople.

I hated selling Camp Fire Candy as a kid. This was back when you could go door-to-door by yourself and hawk some overpriced product to strangers. It's also when I learned what the "No Soliciting" sign on the door meant.

And now there are few (if any) activities which don't require the participants to sell something. Part of my aversion comes from asking people for money. I will concede that there are some people out there who are extremely adept in selling; and who can sell ANYTHING. You know who they are- they probably have part of your bank account in their wallet.
They are not me. In any way, shape or form. And since the selling really comes back to the parents, my kids are kind of screwed in the fundraising area of life. Doesn't matter if it's candy, magazines, cookie dough, wrapping paper, Tae Kwon Do lessons, car washes, cookies, popcorn, peanuts - and that's just a list of what we've been asked to sell this school year. 75% of the time, I will buy my way out of the fundraising part: I have a cupboard full of nuts to prove it.

And how about the donation part of fundraising? That's the one my quasi-hidden Republican self likes. The donation and the write-off. For me, as painful as the check may be, it's FAR less painful than hawking stale popcorn to people who don't want to buy it. But please don't make me ask other people to donate - it's really a form of selling something and again pushes me way too far past my comfort level.

Sadly, I don't have an alternative solution that is equitable for all teammates/schoolmates/scoutmates. So the selling continues. And will not stop for at least 10 years. Food for thought though: less selling = less perks. No catered Cub Scout party. No monogrammed soccer backpack. Hmm... maybe the kids do with a little less, and still have fun?