About mybrightspots

I'm a married mother of three livin' the good life and amusing my friends with tales of parenthood that can only be told by someone on the front lines of child rearing.

Puddle Jumping

Let’s just stick with the teenage boy for another post. I came home from choir practice the other day and he was sitting at the table doing homework. He was calling out questions to his dad and asking Siri about socialism and communism and suffrage. I was surprised. I don’t catch him doing homework very often.

I passed through the room and walked down the hall through our bedroom to the master bath. Once there, I settled on “the throne” for a bit of quiet me time. It wasn’t quiet for long. He came into the room wanting to show me something on his phone.

It was a Snapchat video of a bunch of football players. They were running and then leaping or sliding into huge puddles of water. It’s been raining a fair amount around here lately. And it’s cold. Ok, not northern-states cold, but cold for Texas. Hovering around freezing at night and not getting out of the forties or low fifties during the day.

He was naming each of the boys as they came into view and threw themselves into the mud. “And here’s ME!!! BOY!!!” he exclaimed just as I saw his lean frame make a smooth slide through the puddle. He finished naming the boys before pulling his phone back.

“There was that puddle and then another bigger one over there. We were all doing it. Even Big Mo and {honestly, I don’t remember the names…you get the idea}. It was fun!”

“You know who else likes to jump in puddles?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Four-year-olds. Four-year-olds like to jump in puddles.”

“It was fun!! But, man! It was cold. Like really, really cold.” He said that as if I would be unaware it was cold without his first-hand account.

“And it soaked my underwear and socks!” He gave a small laugh. “I didn’t know we were going to do that. I didn’t bring extra underwear and socks.” (They wear school-provided workout clothes during Athletics).

He stuck his foot out. “Man, I’m not wearing white socks anymore. Look at these!”

I soon heard him regaling his father with the same tale. He was very proud and very excited. I mean, he had to be. What 16-year-old boy wants to hang out with his mom while she’s using the bathroom?

Like I’ve said before, he can go days or weeks without having any substantive conversation with me at all. And then there’s days like this. I guess it’s the age, but it always, without fail, is about something stupid he’s done, a friend has done, or he’s heard. But it’s always fun. He’s living the good life.

A Truck In Sheep’s Clothing

“I’ve got some stuff that I want to get,” my teenage son said.

“Like what?” I asked, looking up from my laptop. He had a funny smile on his face and was fiddling with the door frame above his head.

“I wanna get some stuff for my truck,” he started, looking out the door toward where his truck was parked. “I want to get some floor coverings. Like some carpet.”

“Sheep skin,” my husband called from the other room. “He wants sheep skin floor mats.”

“What?” I asked.

“Yeaaahhhh…. that would be SO cool, dude!” my son said.

“You want sheep skin floor mats?” I clarified. “On the floor of your truck. Where your feet go.”

“Yeah! Think about it! It would be awesome!”

“I’m already writing one blog post about you. You’re going to go give me another?”

He didn’t respond but kept enthusing about the sheep skin floor mats.

“They are going to get dirty!” I tried.

“No, man. I know how to keep them clean! Like my shoes.”

“Oh, so you are going to stop driving the truck, is that it?”

“I wear those shoes all the time!” (side note: No. He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to risk creasing them.)

He continued as he looked at the ceiling and ran his fingers along the wall: “And I want to get LED rope lights.”

“Inside your truck?!”

“No! In my room. I’m talking about my room now. It’s gonna look good with those lights….But the sheep skin, mom!”

“How are you going to keep the sheep skin clean?” I asked.

“I’ll take my shoes off. Can you imagine how great that would feel? Your left foot just resting on that?”

“And what about when it’s raining? You gonna just stand outside in the rain and take your shoes off before you climb in?”

“Or I can sit down and take them off first.”

“With all the rain pouring in? Everything will be soaked!”

“I’ll put a rain cover on it.”

“A rain cover.” I deadpanned.

“Yeah! Dude. I’ll watch the weather and put a rain cover on if it’s supposed to rain.”

“On the floor mats.”

“Yes! They don’t have to be all fluffy and thick. They can just be carpet. Lots of people have carpet in their cars.”

“You said sheep skin. That’s thick and fluffy.”

“I know! My truck’s going to be awesome. Get those floor mats and get the radio installed. Dude.”

Chalk this up as another conversation that I never, ever imagined having. With anyone. As my mother-in-law would say, it’s a good thing he’s cute.

Taste Buds

“Did you know you have taste buds on your ball sac?” my son asked…me. Yes, he asked me. Directly.

“No, actually. I know for a fact that I don’t have any taste buds on my ball sac. Since I don’t have a ball sac. Being a girl and all.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. You know. There’s taste buds on ball sacs. It’s science.”

“Where did you see this? Snapchat?”

“No, an Instagram page,” my husband countered.

“No, for real. It’s science. You can look it up.”

“You did not learn about this in your Chemistry class,” I said patiently.

“No.”

“Then where?”

“It’s true. I think you can taste like soy sauce and orange juice man!”

“So what are you going to do? Stick your balls in a bowl of orange juice and see if you can taste it?” I asked.

“Nah, man. I’m not going to do it. But I’m just sayin’. Just look it up.”

So, with considerable misgivings, I picked up my phone. Opened Google. And began to type:

t-a-s-t-e- -b-u-d-s-

And then I noticed the suggested completions.

“‘Taste buds on balls’ is the second suggestion?” I asked incredulously.

“It’s trending right now,” my husband said.

And he was right. The article I opened was dated just four days earlier and acknowledged that the internet was suddenly fascinated with a study published in 2013 that stated two protein receptors allow certain tastes to be recognized in cells throughout the body, including – you got it – testes. Apparently, they are critical for fertility.

I then read to him: “But whether or not these taste receptors create…typical taste is another question. Indeed having tested the theory, many Internet users are disputing that any taste sensation occurs.”

“Great,” I said. “That means there are plenty of other guys out there sticking their balls in orange juice.”

“And soy sauce,” he said.

I sighed. I know I mentioned in a recent post that I treasure conversations with my 16-year-old son, but times like this… Oh, who am I kidding? I still love it. I just kind of wonder about him while we are talking.

Where’s My Phone?

Ever lost your phone? I know you have. We all have. It’s usually baffling and sometimes funny. Like the time you are talking on the phone to someone and the conversation leads you to want to Google something so you start searching for your phone and eventually exclaim to the person on the other end that you can’t find your phone!

On a recent Sunday morning, my husband and I were preparing for church at different speeds. He had to be there early to open and I was baking something for potluck so was going to come along later. As such, I came through the bedroom still in my pajamas and reading an article on my phone as he put the finishing touches on his outfit: mismatched socks, shoes, and a spiffy leather vest. He’s unique.

Anyway, I sat down on the bed to tell him about the article and then set the phone on the foot of the bed and started pulling all the sheets and blankets into place to make it. When I was partially done, I scanned the bed for my phone.

“Where’s my phone?” I asked as I lifted the one pillow still resting at the foot. He looked around the bed confused.

Thinking I had accidentally made the bed with the phone inside the bedding instead of on top, I spread my hands out across the bed, feeling for the familiar little box shape. Nothing. We were both flummoxed.

Before I had a chance to even ask him to call my phone, he reached to his nightstand to pick up his phone to do so. But then he stopped.

And I shall stop too for just a moment to let you know something. We happen to have the same phone. His is in a big textured, blocky, black Otterbox while mine is in a slim, smooth, off-white case with a picture from A League of their Own on the back. They are not easily mistaken for each other. Ok, back to the story.

“Hey,” he said, reaching into the interior breast pocket of his vest, “why don’t you take your phone and I’ll take mine instead?”

With that, he pulled my phone out of his vest and handed it to me.

Calling Mom

We were eating dinner at a local fast food establishment recently. A family of five has unique challenges at fast food restaurants since the tables tend to be bolted to the floor and arranged for groups of 2-4.

This particular location is even worse because the choices are small booths or round tables that tightly fit four. The round tables are impossible for five people. They do happen to not be bolted to the floor, allowing them to be moved side-by-side. But have you ever tried to group around, essentially, the infinity symbol? Or two-thirds of a snowman? It doesn’t work particularly well.

Our usual choice is to add a chair from one of the round tables to the end of a booth. Once the four booth sitters are in, the chair sitter can squeeze in at the end. No one ever wants the chair which means it’s usually me sitting there. As a result, I’m usually trying to figure out where to place my purse.

One time, I chose to put my purse on the table against the wall, directly across the length of the table from me. My phone was in my purse and still on “silent” from our time at church.

As we ate, Hal kept looking at me and grinning expectantly. I returned the look quizzically. He’d fumble around under the table and grin at me again. I decided to ignore him.

Finally, he asked, “Mom, where’s your phone?”

“It’s in my purse in front of you, why?”

He glanced at my purse and looked confused. About then, we all heard a distinctive voice say, “Hello? Hello?”

It was my mother-in law. Speaking from my husband’s smart watch strapped to Hal’s wrist. And then all the pieces fell into place.

Hal had his dad’s watch, from which he could make calls for the phone still in his dad’s pocket. He had thought it’d be funny to call me. Probably hoped it would confuse me since my husband, sitting next to me, was clearly not making a phone call.

I was not confused, but he sure was! It was an easy mistake for an eleven-year-old to make. A man does not store his wife’s number under the name “Mom.” If you call “Mom,” you are going to get, well, his mom – not yours. Which is exactly what happened.

Poor kid went from playing a prank on mom to talking to grandma on the phone while mom and dad and siblings laughed.

Tick…Talk…

I don’t know about other teenage boys. So far, I only have the one. But I find the one I have to be a little lacking in the communication department. Trying to carry on a conversation with him is often less fruitful than talking to an infant. At least the infant makes eye contact, coos in a way that seems responsive, and maybe drools on you a bit. This guy, he just looks somewhere past your shoulder or toward the floor and shrugs. Mumbles in a way that could be words or could just be him clearing his throat. Waits quietly for you to release him.

That’s what makes the talkative times so unbelievable and special. I drink them in and try to store them up, in the hopes the maternal high will hold me over until the next time. It’s what makes me willing to talk about literally anything, just to keep the conversation going. I’ll talk NFL, NBA, rap stars, internet personalities, high school drama, Modern Warfare. Literally anything. Or, at least, I’ll ask questions and sit back and bask in the flood of words coming out of his mouth, hoping each question will keep the hole in the breached dam open just a little bit longer.

I had one of those nights recently. I came home from work late. Very late. It was almost 8:00 in the evening. Daryl was in his bedroom, I think. I’m not sure because he was walking toward me just as soon as I entered the house. He was already talking before I had set down all of my belongings. He had a big smile on his face.

“I’m moving up to varsity,” he said.

“This week?” I asked.

“No. For the playoffs. I’ll finish the season on JV this week.”

“Oh. That’s not a surprise, right? I thought the whole starting team was moving up for the playoffs.”

“No.” He was obviously pleased. “Only about 7 of us moved up.” He rattled off some names. I started preparing a salad for my late dinner. I asked questions about the names he didn’t mention. We talked about who moved up and who didn’t and why we thought that was and whether he was likely to actually play.

“They said they might put us in for special teams some. And maybe a play or two. Maybe.”

I sat down next to my husband to eat my salad. I expected our son to wander off but he kept standing at the corner of the table, shifting his weight and flipping his hair back, and talking. Talking, talking, talking.

It was, simply put, glorious.

By the next night, we were back to our regularly scheduled programming. He didn’t look up from the PS4 when I walked in the door. He didn’t say hello. I wondered if he even noticed I was home. When I spoke to him, he’d quickly mute his microphone so his friends wouldn’t hear me, then he’d nod or give a one-syllable reply before resuming the online conversation about the game.

I was busy working on a project later in the evening when my husband walked up and said, “Did Daryl tell you about getting pulled over today?”

“By a cop?!” I asked, shocked. How, exactly, does a newly-minted sixteen year old fail to mention that?

“Yes,” my husband smiled. When I asked if he freaked out, he responded, “Thelma said he did.”

“Wait, Thelma?” Apparently a friend happened to be driving by and saw it. She said he looked really worried. It was during the school day. He was returning to the high school from a class at the middle school and had two other students with him. It was a legitimate trip for legitimate reasons, but having more than one passenger is technically against state law. I would have expected him to be terrified!

He didn’t get a ticket – just a warning for his brake lights not working. But still. I would have expected getting pulled over to rank up there with making varsity on newsworthy events. But then, I’m not a teenage boy.

I got his attention later that evening. He muted his mic. I asked him to come talk to me when he finished that round. “You aren’t in trouble,” I reassured the lad who was not the least bit concerned about what I wanted. The mic was already released; his attention had never left the screen.

A few minutes later he came into the bedroom, where I was propped up against pillows, writing this blog post. He paused at the corner of the bed, glanced at me, and rubbed his right arm with his left hand while he waited for me to speak.

“Is there anything you forgot to tell me about today?”

I got a brief confused glance and a mumbled “I don’t think so.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary happened in your day?” There was a brief pause.

“Oh, do you mean the brake light?” he asked.

“You getting pulled over. Yes. That’s what I’m talking about.”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t worried about it. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong.”

“That’s not what the bystander said.”

“What?”

“Someone saw it. They said you looked freaked out.”

“I wasn’t. I told Brian and Aaron that it was probably a taillight or something.”

“You were away from school during school hours with more than one passenger and you weren’t worried at all?”

“No.” Shrug. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Ok.”

Silence.

“Just for the record, this is the kind of thing I expect to hear about.”

A single nod.

“Anything else happen today that I should know about?”

A single head shake.

“Bomb threat? Lock-down? Teacher had a heart attack and you had to use the defibrillator on them?”

Slight smile, amused huff, more pronounced head shake followed by a “no.”

And that was it. He was back to his game and I was back to my blog. Wondering what makes him tick and when the cat would release his tongue again. And could I hold over until then. Ticktock… Ticktock… Tick… Talk…

You Can Get Anything You Want

There’s been one aspect of preparing Jane for college this summer that has me singing. A very specific song. A song that has come up in multiple situations recently. That’s kind of the cool thing about this song. It’s as versatile as quoting The Princess Bride.

The first sing-along moment came while I regaled a co-worker with my tale of a frustrating phone call with the tech support person responding to my emailed problem. She basically called and asked, “So what’s the problem?” I hate it when she does that. I had described the problem in the email.

“I mean,” I said to the co-worker, “I sent her an email detailing each step she needed to reproduce it, including screenshots with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one describing what each one was so that it could be used as evidence…”

I was rewarded with only a weak smile. He knew but didn’t sing along.

The next usage was better rewarded. This time, I was talking about a person who had received a valid request for equipment from my group. It had all the management approval signatures it needed and all the paperwork was correct. Yet she had sat on it for months because she had decided on her own that we had plenty of that type of equipment and didn’t actually need what was in the request.

The song popped into my head and formed the next sentence before I stopped to think about how obscure the reference might be: “She’s got a lot of damn gall…”

The co-worker responded gleefully and with just the right tone: “I mean! I mean! I’m sitting here on the bench. I’m sitting here on the group W bench.”

Much more satisfying.

That afternoon, a co-worker originally from Louisiana said something about a task going “horribly wrong.” He says it more like “har-ible” and it always transports me to the end of the most popular live recording of Alice’s Restaurant when he’s trying to get the crowd to sing the chorus with him. The first attempt is lackluster. He responds by saying, “That was har-ible” in exactly the same accent as my friend.

But that’s not what I’m here to tell you about. I was telling you about Jane heading to college. Remember Jane? This is a post about Jane.

You see, Jane owns a lot of clothes, and havin’ all those clothes (seein’ as how she always claimed she needed more), she decided that she didn’t have to do laundry for a long time. For her entire senior year of high school, it seems.

See what I did there? I’m telling you, the song is versatile. When you know it by heart like all red-blooded Americans should, you can apply it to almost every facet of your life. And as I helped sort through the large trash bags she had put her clothes in to make some semblance of order out of the chaos of her room and then ran 12 loads of laundry through and folded all the clothes and carted off all the stuff too small or no longer desired, his lyrics about Alice and her husband’s penchant for not taking out the trash sang right into my head.

Having proved the powerful versatility of the song, I shall quote it once more.

You can get anything you want. From Alice’s Restaurant.

Alice’s Restaurant with Lyrics on YouTube for the Unenlightened