Big Ugly Man Doll

In the catagory of questions I don’t want to be fielding after ten pm, Number One Son came downstairs last night, “Mommy, Daddy, what does lascivious mean?”

Oh god. What the heck are you reading?

“My Lego Star Wars Visual Dictionary. What about a lascivious mouth? What’s that?”

Really? Is that from the Lego Deliverance set? ‘Cause I hear banjos when you talk like that. SOBUMD is, by this time, peeing from trying not to laugh.

Turns out, they’re describing Jabba the Hutt as having a lascivious mouth, which I suppose makes some sort of sick, salacious sense.

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So there we were, Number One Son and I, talking to his teacher’s husband at an after-hours school function. This is supposed to be a dance where he has YET ANOTHER chance to interact with his peers, by which I would like to mean “people his age” but should probably amend to “people he bothers to talk with.” He stays for exactly one point five dances and announces that we’re outta here. As a Big Ugly Man Doll surrounded by third graders, I need little encouragement to leave.

As we go to walk out the door, I spy his teacher and remind him that politeness dictates that we make our apologies as we cut out early. She introduces Number One Son to her husband, who asks him about the drawing he’s made.

Number One Son: Oh, this is a picture of the TARDIS, which stands for Time And Relative Dimension In Space. It’s from Dr. Who.
Teacher’s Husband: Hey, you watch Dr. Who? I used to watch that! Do they still have those tin can robot bad guys with the toilet plungers?
NOS: Excuse me, they’re called Daleks, and they go “Exterminate! Exterminate!”
TH: Right! I remember those! And do they still have…

They went on for five minutes, gushing about the new and old versions of the show.

And as I watched Number One Son find a common ground on which he could relate – head to head, toe to toe – to this guy who’s around my own age, I realized what a fantastic generational bridge science fiction presents. Teacher’s husband hadn’t seen any of the new version of the series – in his mind, Peter Davison is still the Doctor, somewhere beyond the Medusa Cascade – but the shared experience of a well-remembered show provided them both a conversational starting point they would not otherwise have shared.

I’ve noticed this myself with colleagues significantly my senior (which sounds better than ‘old dudes’), that when once in a while I find a shared experience with which we can both relate, it’s generally a science fiction link. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made – of all literary forms, Sci-Fi has always been so uniquely focused on the future that people who read it in years past tend to judge the today’s present against the predictions of their youth. (I, for one, am still waiting for the flying cars and moving roads.)

So long live the Doctor! Number One Son spends a lot of time with the TARDIS, and in a galaxy far, far away. It also gives him access to humor that his age group may not get, but his teachers are howling at – working on something in math, he said, “I’m a Math Dalek! Extrapolate! Extrapolate!”

Even a CyberMan would find that funny!

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BUMD: “WTF – what time is it? Son, did you change the time on the hallway clock?”
Number One Son: “Yes, a few times. If you don’t want people to do that, you should put glass over it so I can’t reach.”

Little bastard.

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It was very nice to see you at the “dancing with the SOL tests” event this evening. I’m sure my son and the rest of your class will do great on the exams, even if you’re not there to see them.

Good luck with the baby – looks like you’re due any day! While we were driving home from the event, I asked my son if he understood that you were going to be leaving the classroom soon.

“Oh, sure Daddy,” he said. “She’s pregnant – she’s going to have a baby. I’m pretty sure she’s having routine sonograms every day.”

“Oh, really? Why would she have one every day?”

“Well, you know, just to check on the fetal heart rate and stuff.”

So, I’d like to apologize in advance if he starts quizzing you in class about what kind of birth you’re planning. He has an unhealthy fixation with the Discovery Health channel and retains far more of it than might be good for a nine year old. That said, if you do have any questions, feel free to consider him a short, unlicensed obstetrician.

And good luck.

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Of all the myriad ways in which siblings will give each other shit, perhaps none is as timeworn and tested as the bid to de-legitimize one another by telling you that you’re adopted.  My sense is that the ‘stigma’ of adoption, if there still is one, is a holdover from the days of primogenitor, when the adopted child stood to inherit less (if anything) than their siblings.  In this more advanced age, adoption seems to have become so commonplace that the idea of any negative connotations seems laughable.  Just my opinion, I have no data.  (I would state that I have no experience, but I was raised by two wonderful and loving parents who to this day tell me I was not adopted.  In my heart, though, I am certain that I was the bastard love child of John F. Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe – what else could explain my charisma, talent, and good looks?)

Before we get to the rest of the story, a little background is required. 

• None of our children were adopted.  (By us.  We’re accepting bids, though.)
• Number One Son looks so much like me that it’s scary.
• The Reigning Queen of Pink was born with a rare genetic disorder called Incontinentia Pigmenti.  It’s a random genetic whoopsie, not life threatening, but making her nevertheless complicated; at 7 yrs old, her medical chart is twice the size of mine at 40, and she’s had more “procedures” than I’ve had.  She’s been diagnosed as “interesting” in our pediatrician’s office.  When they close the shop and sit around and talk, they talk about her.  (We know this.  They’ve called.)

Back to our story.  The Reigning Queen of Pink, who has the innate sense of primogenitor and privilege so common to the aristocracy, decided she should convince Number One Son that he’s adopted.  This does not actually take much effort, since she’s the youngest – he knows where she came from, but he can’t really remember where he came from.  At 9 yrs old, he’s not gullible so much as suggestible. 

“You were adopted!”

“No, YOU were adopted.” 

“No, I was the only one to come out of Mommy’s belly, you and (the Human Tape Recorder) were adopted!”

Mind you, this is all at top volume (any point worth making is worth making really loud), and right in front of me and SOBUMD.  Deciding I didn’t really want to (A) deal with Number One Son getting all spun up, nor (B) go into a lengthy explanation of adoption and/or their birth stories, I stole a classic line from Calvin and Hobbes, and announced that none of them were adopted. 

“Your brother was NOT adopted, we bought him from Sears.”

“Hey!”

(SOBUMD choked on her wine at this point.)  The Reigning Queen of Pink thought that this was the most wonderful thing she could think of, and laughed marvelously while repeating it. 

Not wanting to let her get too full of her pink self, I told her not to laugh, since we’d purchased HER at K-Mart as a Blue-light special.  Now they’re all laughing, and I hear the Human Tape Recorder muttering something in the next room.  “What was that, Nordstrom-Girl?” I yelled, thinking this would have been a logical progression:  Full price for the first one, Sears for the value discount once we saw what we’d gotten for the money, and finally the bargain hunting. 

Number One Daughter gives me The Look, as only an 11-yr-old can:  “I said I’ll bet you’re wishing you’d paid more for her now.” 

Oh, snap!  I mean, just… Damn.

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