Tony Romo and his huge boner

My husband was watching Sunday NFL Countdown, when I overheard the commentator say “Tony Romo had the biggest boner in NFL history.”

Who uses the word “boner” interchangeably with “screw up” anymore? Or ever, for that matter?

In any case this, for me, surpassed the golf commentator’s use of “stroking”, the football colour commentator’s use of “penetration”, and the hockey announcer’s use of “slipped one past the goalie” as the greatest sports observation ever. I wonder if Tony Romo heard that, and I wonder if he felt a deep, misplaced sense of pride. “My boner is HUGE. Biggest in the NFL. You hear that, Ray Lewis?”

Speaking of “boners”, remember how in my last post I commented that since giving up dairy my premenstrual symptoms – sobbing uncontrollably, desire to REDRUM if certain people left their socks on the floor and/or coffee table, dead grass and leaves tracked in by the dog induced rage – had largely abated? Yes, well. Yesterday I suffered through a solid eighteen hours of screaming abdominal and lower back pain, all due to my ladies’ holiday. At one point I lay down on the couch as the children played with Jake’s brand new Jabba’s Palace made out of Lego – purchased proudly with his saved up birthday money and allowance – and, inexplicably, I fell asleep. I say inexplicably because the noise level was such that no normal person could possibly relax enough to drift off. However, drift off I did and I woke up an hour later to complete silence. That would have been unnerving years ago, but happily the children – the dear, dear children, who can leave their socks on the coffee table anytime – realized I had fallen asleep and quietly went downstairs to play on the Wii. Lego Star Wars Wii, no less.

Mothers of small children: there is hope.  One day, you too will be able to have a nap in the middle of the day and wake up to silence and not immediately assume that everyone is a) dead, b) kidnapped, or c) that the house is burning down around you and all the children are gone.  IT’S TRUE.  Someday soon you will be able to use the bathroom and the children will not clamour hysterically to get in, someday soon you will be able to serve a different dish for dinner and while they may not eat it, they won’t collapse to the floor, gagging and crying.  Someday soon – and I say this because it’s September, and it can be a tricky time of year for little ones – you will be able to leave your children at school and they won’t be sobbing with separation anxiety.

The other day I was at the school, which is nothing new. I’ve been at the school so much for the past couple of weeks with various Parent Association responsibilities – I’M THE CHAIR, ALL HAIL THE CHAIR – that a new teacher actually mistook me for someone who worked at the school.  Anyway, I was at the school and I ran into Jake’s old pre-kindergarten teacher.  “Nicole,” she said, “I’ve been telling my new parents about the goodbye routine you and Jake had.  It’s really been helping!”  I was a little surprised, being that it has been four years since Jake was in pre-kindergarten, and I didn’t think that our goodbye routine was anything out of the ordinary.

Now, you know me, people.  I do not generally give parenting advice, especially unsolicited parenting advice.  Part of that is because I think that smugly imparting advice is douchey, and part of it is because I believe strongly in karma and am superstitious.  I knew a woman who was extremely smug and boasty about her lamb of a firstborn, who was completely potty trained at eighteen months due to her superior parenting techniques.  Her second born?  A completely wild child, who was still in diapers at four.  COINCIDENCE?  It’s karma. 

But I know a few of you are suffering with your child’s separation anxiety right now, and so I will share with you the goodbye routine I had with Jake, that dried up any tears from school dropoffs, and that I kind of stole from The Kissing Hand.  As you may know, I rarely leave the house without lipstick.  When it was time to say goodbye, I would draw a circle in Jake’s hand with my finger, then I would kiss the middle of the circle, leaving a giant lipstick mark. I would then rub the lipstick into his hand, so the kiss would “stick with him” all day.  He would then do the same to me, minus the lipstick, of course.  It really worked, and we did that all through pre-kindergarten and kindergarten.  Now, of course, he doesn’t even allow me to kiss him in his lineup; instead we fist bump.  FIST BUMP, MOTHER OF GOD.  In any case, my heart goes out to you mamas dealing with school dropoff sadness; maybe my story will help, maybe not, but know that it gets better and one day you too may be fist bumping your child, and sometimes accidentally jabbing him with your rings.  Then you will only have your own sentimental tears to deal with, and to that end, I have no advice.