Confession #8: Maybe It's Time to Take Up Birdwatching

After writing about the abundance of boy-related vanity plates around town (see my previous blog entry on "5BOYS"), I thought it would be fun to visually document the phenomena.  I spend a lot of idle time in parking lots anyway, waiting to pick up the boys from school and extracurricular activities.  I figured I could use that time patrolling for license plates, and it might make for an interesting hobby.

"That's not a hobby," my husband shook his head, when I told him what I was up to.   

"How is it any different from, say, birdwatching?" I asked.  "Apparently some people spend entire weekends looking for rare birds."

"Birdwatching is a legitimate sport," he answered.  "Well, I guess it's not a sport.  But there are official field guides on birds."

"Well, this is my version of birdwatching," I retorted.  "So can you canvass your side of town when you're at work, and I'll cover the suburbs?"

"No," he replied.  "I'm not going to take pictures of license plates for you.  That's just odd. And a complete waste of time."

"You wouldn't even have to get out of the car," I replied.  "You could just whip out your iPhone if you happened to spot one at a red light.  How difficult would that be?"

He grimaced and shook his head again.  "You are so weird.  Did I mention this sounds like a huge waste of time?"

Having hit a dead end with him, I decided to solicit help from my next of kin: my sister.  A few days later, she sent me a photo of "3SONSMOM."  Her picture was just the motivation I needed.  I figured I'd see how many license plates I could capture on film in a week.   

On Monday, I snapped a photo of "TWO BOYZ" in the school parking lot.  This was kind of a freebie because I see the black SUV bearing this plate almost every day in the pickup line.  A few months ago, I met the mom who owns this plate at a birthday party.  I think I awkwardly blurted out something like, "So you're TWO BOYZ!" when we were introduced.  As if I need another reason to be a nerd.

Here's another "BOYZ" plate I snapped after soccer practice.  I'm guessing it belongs to a family named Butler.

I see "2GR8BOYS" around town a lot.  Incidentally, I also spotted "3GR8SONZ" at a traffic light but wasn't quick enough to capture a photo of it.  It has become by great white whale.










This one took me a little while to figure out, but I finally concluded that "DBOYZ NI" is license plate slang for "The Boys and I."  











Continuing on the same theme... I snapped a photo of "DA3BOYZ" at a red light some time later.  

Here's another one my sister sent me.  She captured  this "MOM4BOYS" plate at night.

Another SUV with 4 boys... I wanted to roll down my window and call out "me too!" when I saw "MY4SONS" at an intersection.

I saw this car on a rainy night, and loved the not-so-obvious, slightly geeky way of describing three boys!

This quality of this photo is pretty poor, but I like the message on this plate: "BOYS RUL".  Yes, they do!

Sadly, the quality of this photo is terrible.  Blame it on the fact that I had four boys in the car throwing Cheetos at each other while I made the discovery at a red light.  I'm guessing the plate either belongs to a mom with three boys, or the baby of the family got a car for his birthday and his mom picked out the vanity plate.





In the course of one week, I spotted "4ARROWS" three times.  This is probably a reference to Psalm 127:4, which refers to children as arrows in the hands of a warrior.  Older translations of the Bible use the word "sons" instead of the gender-neutral "children", so at first I thought the plate belonged to a fellow mom of four boys.  But the second time I saw the minivan, I noticed a stick figure family on the rear windshield.  I realized that said arrows were in fact three sons who enjoy basketball, weightlifting and soccer... and finally a daughter who dances ballet.  So technically, this one doesn't really belong in my collection... but I like it nonetheless.

And then there was "3FELAS&I".  I passed this plate at a stoplight and assumed it had something to do with cats.  Unfortunately, after the light turned green, I realized it was Southern license plate slang for "Three Fellows and I".  Alas, I circled back in hopes of finding the sedan bearing this plate, but it was gone. 

On Friday night, I thought I spotted "3BOYSMOM" on a Toyota Sienna ahead of us.  I let out a giddy scream, startling my husband who was driving.  Energized by the good fortune, I frantically gesticulated to catch up to the black minivan in the right lane.  He obliged, muttering, "I can't believe I'm doing this for you."  I unrolled the window and held out my camera like a seasoned member of the paparazzi. After scrutinizing the photos, however, I realized that the plate actually read "3BY30MOM"... probably belonging instead to a woman who had three kids by the time she was 30 years old.

And alas, my final sighting, "MI3SUNZ", was likely a legitimate boy-related plate, but it was too dark that night for me to capture a good photo as evidence.  

During my little enterprise, I was surprised that I never encountered any license plates referencing daughters.  The scarcity of girl-related license plates started to bother me.  I began coming up with my own theories.  Perhaps there is a some kind of misogynistic conspiracy in the DMV.  Or maybe mothers of girls are more creative and therefore come up with vanity plates that don't state the obvious.  I asked a few moms their opinion on this question.  They all gave me variations of the same answer: "Girls are easy.  Raising boys is a tough, thankless job.  If you're a mom of a boy, you might as well come up with your own badge of honor, even if it's just a license plate." 

On that note, my own vanity plate finally came in the mail.  It might be the last plate I add to my collection, because as much as I hate to admit it to my husband, it might be time to resign this fake hobby of mine.  Summer's almost here, and there will be plenty of easier ways to waste time.  I might even try birdwatching.

Let's Not Mistake Laziness for Efficiency

In a house overrun by boys, I often find myself snickering at behavior that is inexplicable and bizarre to my female brain.  It's tempting to poke fun at things you don't understand. However, this week I realized the converse is true: A woman is just as likely to engage in behavior that is utterly absurd and pointless to the male brain.  For example, if you're a woman, you're probably familiar with the following type of image:

If you're a man, a little explanation may be required.  You see, there is a segment of the female population that enjoys creating virtual outfits like the above, and then sharing them with other women on sites like Pinterest or Polyvore.  Their fashion ensembles are often posted with pithy comments like: "Perfect outfit for a summer garden party!"  And, you must understand that no detail is spared on these compilations.  We're not talking about simply pairing a blouse with a coordinating skirt.  These women have scoured the Internet for matching heels, earrings, two choices of necklaces, a handbag that can double as a crossbody purse if you switch out the strap, sunglasses in case said garden party takes place at high noon, sparkly hairband for wind contingency, the precise hue of Revlon nail polish and lipstick to accent aforementioned hairband, lacy bra and panties intended to be worn under outfit, and a complementary perfume that smells like hibiscus.

This "hobby" is basically the modern day, adult version of playing dress up with paper dolls.  Why a grown woman would spend hours of her life putting together outfits for non-existent future social engagements is completely beyond male comprehension.  Men don't plan what they're going to wear the next day, let alone next month to a hypothetical garden party that may or may not take place in a field of hibiscus flowers.

The way a man picks out clothes is very simple.  He walks into his closet and figures out what's clean, often by using the "sniff test," as we call it in my house.  (If there is nothing clean, he sifts through the dirty laundry pile to find something that doesn't make him wretch.)

My husband has distilled this process down even further by wearing only black shirts and jeans.  And whenever he finds jeans that fit, he buys several pairs of the exact style.  This way, he doesn't have to waste time thinking about what color he should be wearing on a Tuesday versus a Wednesday.

"Don't you ever worry that someone thinks you're wearing the same thing you wore the day before?" I asked him one night.  "All your black shirts look the same to me."

"Haven't you heard that Steve Jobs wore the same thing for twenty years?  Black turtleneck, jeans, sneakers.  Mark Zuckerburg always wears a grey hooded sweatshirt, even when he meets with Wall Street investors.  These are guys who have better things to do with their time than think about what to wear.  That's what I call efficiency."

My boys are already adopting this predilection for "efficiency", if you can call it that.  For example, a few months ago, the older two boys decided they could save a whopping ten minutes in the mornings by going to bed wearing their school uniforms.

"We can't let them sleep in uniforms," I told my husband, when the idea first came up.  "Doesn't that encourage them to be lazy?  They might grow up always looking for short cuts in life."

"If it saves me time getting them ready for school," he replied, "I'm all for it."

With a decisive vote of three to one, I was quickly overruled.  Apparently, there is a fine line between laziness and efficiency that my female brain cannot appreciate.

Which brings me back to my original point on how much time women spend thinking about what to wear.  Maybe the household majority is onto something here.  After all, I waste a lot of time admiring fancy dresses that I can't imagine myself ever wearing in real life.  I have an entire Pinterest board devoted to the pin-tucked and lace-embellished frocks featured on "Downton Abbey".  However, the truth is that I hardly wear dresses, not even the simple, unadorned kind.  So, why do I bother browsing for a pale yellow number that reminds me of what Lady Mary wore to the cricket game in Season Three? 

Perhaps I can learn a thing or two about "efficiency" from the men in this house.  I mean, it's not like I can't appreciate the difference between laziness and efficiency in other areas of my life.  I'm all for saving time when it comes to cooking dinner or cleaning the hardwood floors.  Am I lazy for making spaghetti again this week?  No way, mister, that's what I call... efficiency!   

Or maybe I should just throw my own garden party.  It wouldn't have to be that girly.  The boys could play cricket in the backyard.  I could dress them up in fancy sweater vests and white knickers, and I could wear a wide-brimmed hat decorated with cream-colored satin gardenias.  I wonder if Anthropologie sells a pair of ballet flats that would match such a pretty hat.  Maybe if I just take a peek on Pinterest...

A Little Serendipity, A Lot of Boys

There must be a lot of families with boys around here, because I keep driving by minivans with vanity plates that read "TWO BOYZ", "MY3SONS", "2GR8BOYS" and so on.  On Sunday, I found myself once again stopped at a red light behind such a car.  I turned to my husband and remarked that perhaps I should join this friendly contest of the vanity license plates.

"Why don't you get one that says '4GR8BOYS'?" he suggested.

"Or I could outdo all these moms and get a plate that says '5BOYS'," I muttered, mostly to myself.  "You being the fifth boy, of course."  In my mind, I thought: Now that would be simple and effective.  Not overly braggadocious.  But it would get the point across, and the point is: Muhahaha... I win! 

However, after some Googling, I discovered that the DMV has a search engine that allows you to check if your desired vanity plate is available.  And alas, "5BOYS" was already taken!

The following day, I kid you not, I pulled into a parking spot at Target... right next to a black minivan bearing the plate "5BOYS"!

"Oh my goodness," I exclaimed, "I don't believe it!"

"What's going on?" my oldest son asked.

"I've got to get a picture of this!" I screamed, giddy with excitement.

I bounded outside and pulled out my cell phone to snap a photo of the license plate.  My mind was whirling, and I felt a little light-headed from the euphoria of this rare sighting.  I casually peered inside the car and spotted a toddler seat, booster seat, and a few toys on the floor.  I considered whether to stake out the parking space to see what mother of all mothers had procured this coveted vanity plate.  I wondered if I'd be able to track down this queen bee inside the store.  Surely a woman with five boys buzzing around a shopping cart would not be hard to spot!

While I was still standing at the back of the minivan admiring the license plate, a woman with two boys approached the car.  She was in the middle of yelling at one of the boys when I lunged toward her and cried out, "Is this your car?"

She looked startled and replied tentatively, "Yes..."

Before she could write me off as a stalker, I launched into my story.  I have a vague recollection of using too many words and speaking too quickly, the way one might upon meeting a celebrity.  She laughed while I rambled.   After I finished, we exchanged a few stories about raising boys, and I felt as if I'd just met a kindred spirit.  She understood the husband bit completely, and joked that she could buy a new plate that read "6BOYS" so that I could have hers.  At the end of our conversation, she ordered her boys to help my youngest son out of the van, as if we were already old friends. 

As she got into her car, she turned to me and said, "You know, when you first ran over to me, I seriously thought you were going to tell me how dirty my car is!"

By now, we already understood one another so words weren't really necessary.  What mom of multiple boys has a minivan that isn't littered with empty juice boxes, week-old cracker crumbs, and a small collection of die-cast race cars?

After she drove off, I excitedly sent the photo to my husband.  Still flustered from the brief encounter, I smiled to myself and loaded my four boys into one shopping cart.  I can't recall having experienced many moments of serendipity like this before.

As for the vanity plate contest, I'm fresh out of ideas.  Either I have to settle for some variation of "4BOYS" (which incidentally is already taken), or maybe it's time to admit defeat. 

What's So Funny About "Downton Abbey"?

My idea of a good punchline is a zinger delivered by a certain Dowager Countess.  But alas, "Downton Abbey" wraps up its season on Sunday, and the rest of the family doesn't think "What is a weekend?" qualifies as side-splitting humor.  I'm the only one who will miss the aristocratic barbs that come from Dame Maggie Smith's stiff upper lip. 

Humor is a matter of personal taste.  In my 8-year old's opinion, there's nothing funny about "Downtown Abbey" (as he calls it) except the British accents.  Show him a Youtube video of a middle-aged guy tripping down a flight of stairs, however, and the kid will be rolling on the floor laughing.

Most boys I know prefer slapstick.  Ask any boy what is the funniest part of the movie "Elf".  Forget Buddy's hilarious comments about life in the North Pole or the deadpan quips by Bob Newhart and Zooey Deschanel.  Even the visual farce of seeing Will Ferrell in tights is lost on them.  Boys will tell you the comic highlight of the movie is when Buddy slurps down spaghetti with syrup, polishes off a liter of soda and delivers a 12-second belch at the dinner table.  To them, the burp alone is worth the price of admission.

The other day, I overheard my 6-year old and his friend discussing which "Alvin and the Chipmunks" movie to watch.

"I don't remember which one it is," one of them remarked.

"Is it the one where they go on vacation?" the other asked.

"No...."

"Is it the one with the girl chipmunks?"

"I don't know," he replied.  "I just want to watch the one where the guy gets a wedgie." 

"Oh, the wedgie!" the other exclaimed.  "The wedgie is my favorite part too!"

For those of you who haven't watched "The Squeakquel", the wedgie scene takes up maybe five seconds of screen time.  It is quickly followed by a scene in which one of the chipmunks receives a "swirly", i.e., gets his head dunked in a toilet.  And apparently, a movie that features both a wedgie and swirly scores big laughs with 6-year old boys.

Needless to say, there are no wedgies, swirlies or record-breaking belches in "Downton Abbey".  And according to male viewers under the age of 10 (at least those who reside in this household), the show is poorer for it.  To them, a series about a privileged family living in post-Edwardian England would be a lot funnier if the butler set booby traps around the castle and someone fell down the front staircase once in a while.  And if the Dowager Countess let out a loud burp during afternoon tea... surely that would be a show worth watching.

Now would be a perfect time to direct a snarky comment to the boys, delivered in my best Oxford English accent (not to be confused with a Yorkshire accent--how very middle class!), about vulgarity being no substitute for wit.  It would be so funny.  Hilarious, even. 

Unfortunately, no one except me would laugh.  

If You Think About It, "Crude" is Just One Letter Away From "Prude"

A few weeks ago, my husband asked me to stop writing about our boys' fascination with potty humor. 

"People will get the idea we're bad parents," he said. "Your blog is becoming really lowbrow."

"I thought you found my blog mildly amusing," I replied, tapping away on my laptop.  At that moment, I was jotting down notes about a numeric code the boys had created. Everyone knows what it means to go "Number One" or "Number Two".  My older boys had taken the phraseology to another level by coming up with a dozen rather detailed (and if I may say, unusually nuanced) permutations involving peeing, pooping and upchucking. They'd spent the better part of an afternoon quizzing each other so they would not confuse Number Seven with Number Eleven, and so forth.

"Well, it was funny at first," he continued.  "I mean, the humor comes from the fact that someone like you found yourself raising boys who enjoy being crude..."

"Someone like me?" I looked up from typing.

"You know, you're kind of the, um... prim and proper type."

"Prim and proper" is the nice way of putting it.  "Prudish" is probably more accurate.  I'm not proud of it, but I can admit that from time to time, I am a prude.

Perhaps that is why I was given one husband and four sons who rather enjoy--no, dare I use the word revel--in breaking down my prudish sensibilities.  For example, a few nights ago, the two oldest boys came running over to me, clutching their stomachs from laughing so hard. 

"Mom," one of them began rather impishly, "we have a riddle for you.  Are you ready for it?"

I nodded, wondering what was coming next.  They were both giggling and jumping up and down in excitement.

"Even if you couldn't hear or smell it..." he continued, speaking rather slowly to draw out the suspense, "how would you see a fart?"

It was obvious they had spent a fair amount of time discussing this topic.  The one who came up with the "riddle" was beaming with pride, as if he'd stumbled on a deep metaphysical quandary.  I suppose this was their version of the philosophical debate about the tree that falls in the forest when no one is around to hear it. 

"Take your time," the other nodded, as if to reassure me.  "We want you to think about this."

"Really, guys," I replied.  "I could probably think about it for an hour and not come up with the answer you're looking for."

"We'll give you a hint," they whispered.  "The answer has something to do with bubbles.  And water."

My first reaction was to be a prude.  It's a hard disposition to correct.  But I realize I've spent enough of my life being a prude, and now that I share my life with boys whose idea of an afternoon well spent involves numbering the ways one can empty his bowels... I might as well embrace the transformation.

So instead, I congratulated them on contemplating an age-old question and added that, in fact, I knew of a second method.  They leaned in with the kind of palpable anticipation one would expect before hearing the truth about Roswell.

"Did you know," I began, making sure to enunciate my words slowly for dramatic effect, "that it's possible to light farts on fire?"

The boys exploded in laughter--the kind of laughter that is contagious and unstoppable and ends up either making you cry or feel sick to your stomach.  They shrieked and howled like this for several minutes without coming up for air. 

"No way, no way!" they screamed. "You're kidding, right, Mom?"

Finally, they calmed down and started asking questions about the mechanics of this improbable and glorious discovery.  I admit that I fudged part of the explanation because I only vaguely remembered hearing in college about a guy who succeeded in this endeavor.  But I spoke with confidence, as if I were an expert on the subject, because I understood the importance of this oddly momentous exchange.  And when I finished answering all their questions, they looked at me in a way that only young children who belong with you can... and I realized I might as well have received the award for Best Mom of the Year in their eyes.

There is a deleted scene from the movie "Love Actually" that may be one of the funniest clips I've ever seen.  It kills me that it wasn't included in the movie.  If this isn't one of Emma Thompson's finest acting bits, I don't know what is.  If you have three minutes, watch it.  If you're a mother of a son, watch it together.

My boys and I watched the clip twice last night, as I was finishing up my writing.  I don't mean to brag, but based on their riotous laughter followed by looks of utter devotion, I knew I'd clinched that Best Mom award for the second time this week.  Not bad, I might add, for someone who used to be a prude.

Confession #7: How I Faked This Year's Christmas Photo

By the time I post this, my annual Christmas photo cards will be in the mail.  In the spirit of keeping it real for the five people who read this blog, however, I hereby confess that this year's family photo is a fake.  That's right.  After an hour of cajoling, bribing, pleading and yelling at the boys to give me one good pose with everyone smiling at the camera, I was left with only one option: Photoshop.  In the two hundred shots we took, every picture featured at least one member of the family squinting, grimacing, tripping, shoving, or otherwise not spreading holiday cheer.  Necessity being the mother of invention, this mother merged two different shots into one holly jolly pose to send to unsuspecting friends and family.

I am not proud of this forgery.  It was not so much clever as it was desperate.  You see, every year, the annual family photo session is the boys' dreaded event of the pre-holiday season. Perhaps if I had given birth to four girls, I might have produced children who enjoyed donning formal attire and striking glamorous poses for a family portrait worthy of adulations, tears and followers on Pinterest.  With four boys, however, a successful photo session is simply one in which no one is sucker punched.

In order to understand the challenges of taking photos of my boys, I present a random sampling of what I usually capture on film after the phrase "smile for the camera" is uttered. 

Lest you think I'm making this up, here is another set of vacation photos sabotaged by my boys:

I have literally hundreds of photos like these.  They are not products of a parent prompting, "Come on, boys, let's make some silly faces!"  No, these are actual shots of my offspring refusing outright to give me one decent smile.  These pictures are only good for one thing: making graphics for my blog.

So, here is a rundown of the morning we attempted to have our family photo taken for the annual Christmas card.  

9:00 a.m.  Begin dressing four boys in coordinating outfits.  Field indignant questions from older two sons on why they have to wear "fancy sweaters" instead of rumpled t-shirts they slept in overnight. 

9:15 a.m.  Search house frantically to find matching shoes for the baby.  Ignore reasonable requests from husband to calm down ("He doesn't walk yet, so why does he need to wear shoes?  Who's going to look at his feet anyway?").

9:30 a.m.  Chase boys around house in futile attempt to apply hair gel.  Field additional questions from sons on why they have to comb their hair anyway.

9:40 a.m.  Locate pair of matching shoes that are unfortunately two sizes too large for baby.  Accept defeat and vaguely nod to voice of reason, i.e. husband, who mutters for the third time: "Trust me, no one's going to notice." 

 

9:55 a.m.  Swipe hair gel in boys' hair as they run out the door.

10:00 a.m.  Attempt initial shots at first choice of location.  Listen to repeated complaining from boys about the sun being in their eyes.  Ignore melodramatic demands to be provided sunglasses to wear in photo.  Realize that one of baby's ill-fitting shoes must have fallen off his foot on the way to photo location.

10:10 a.m.  Move to a shady location after prolonged complaints about the sun.  Attempt further efforts to recreate saccharine "hugging family" pose pinned last week from Pinterest.  Efforts are derailed when oldest son begins to climb "hugging family" like a tree trunk.

10:15 a.m. Baby and 4-year old begin odd combination of yelling, laughing and crying in sync.  Take 15 minute break for younger sons to calm down.  Upon realizing opportunity for freedom from onerous family obligation, older sons use breaktime to climb trees.

10:30 a.m.  Resume phototaking attempts.  Baby begins grabbing my nose and poking fingers into my nostrils.

10:45 a.m.  Take second break and attempt discussion with baby on the inappropriateness of sticking fingers into other people's orifices.  During fruitless negotiation, boys quickly become bored and resume climbing trees.

10:55 a.m.  Baby falls asleep.  After series of shots with baby's face turned away in sleep position, photographer (my ever-patient sister) asks if we want to try again next weekend.  Husband and I look at each other, glance at our boys hanging from tree branches, and shake our heads "no" at the same time.  Photo session is officially canned.