Recently, my son was diagnosed with Little League Shoulder which you can read about by clicking on the link.
My son made an appointment to chat with his baseball coach about his arm, his ability to try out or not try out and potential involvement in the 2012 JV Baseball Team. I give the kid major snaps for being proactive to have this discussion. At 15, I preferred to deal with difficult situations by mostly feeling sorry for myself, crying a lot and avoiding all manner of adult interaction.
It was a good conversation. He was reassured that even if he can’t play, he can still be involved on the team. Keep book. Do stats. Lead in other ways. I could see the relief wash over his face when he shared the news of his meeting. I’m also sure the relief washed over mine. I’m pretty sure I’m taking this whole shoulder setback harder than he is.
In addition to feeling huge quantities of mama duck pride, I was just so very grateful to his coach/teacher for taking the time to meet with him. I totally get that this is a part of his job and that he should be meeting with kids; but we all know that some teachers just don’t get it. And this one does. And I am appreciative. That should be acknowledged.
I really wrangled with sending his coach an email. (I fully admit I’m talking out of both sides of my mouth here since I just blogged about the value of hand-written notes, but I think we can all agree, email probably was appropriate in this situation).
I don’t want to be one of “those mothers” who inserts herself their kid’s athletic scenarios. I’ve witnessed those mothers. There are unpleasant people and I have no desire to model myself after the athletic version of the stage mother demanding more playing time for their kid. But as a tax-paying parent of the MMSD, I wanted his coach to know that a.) I am aware of the discussion and b.) thankful of his time to meet with my kid on this issue and reassure him of his value to the baseball program.
And so I did just that. And I’m glad I did. He was appreciative of my appreciation. Clearly we could have formed a mutual admiration society. But I do think it’s important to acknowledge the things that people do for us day in and day out, even if they are part of the job expectation. I don’t think we do that enough. I know I am guilty of taking these types of gestures for granted, albeit unwillingly.
The human animal needs a pat on the head for a job well done. And I was happy to give it.
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Monday, March 19, 2012
Friday, February 24, 2012
Lifes Curveballs
My son plays baseball. It’s his thing. And because it’s his thing. It’s my thing. It gives me joy to watch him play. I’m his biggest fan. Which I tell him often and I’m sure causes the internal eye roll.
From t-ball to present we’ve spent every summer at the ballpark. He is a skilled player, excellent command of the game and great defensive skills. He doesn’t have the biggest bat in the line-up but he consistently executes. He’s practices hard and has earned his way onto all-star teams for being a solid versatile player. He has never hit a home run. He doesn’t pitch with the same velocity as a kid who has 6 inches and 30lbs on him. When other boys were growing 4-5 inches in a summer and smacking the ball out of the park, he was consistently one of the smaller players on the team. He’s had to work a little harder than some of the bigger boys to be noticed and hone his skills.
Baseball has provided many life lessons. As clichéd as it sounds baseball has taught the value of teamwork.
How to lead by example.
How to not be “that kid” that throws his bat or argues with the umpire.
How to be a gracious winner and a gracious loser.
How to hold your head up after taking a pounding on the field.
How to shake off hitting a batter, a strike out or multiple strike outs.
How to savor the moment of batting in the winning run during a district game or experiencing a hitting streak.
The good with bad. The sweet and the bittersweet. The wins and the losses.
All good life lessons.
In the big picture of life he has an awesome youth baseball experience. His hard work has paid off. He has been privileged to play on an All-Star team every year since he was 10. He has been on a district winning team and a state winning team. He represented his state in the Regional tournament. All things being equal – baseball has been more fair, than unfair, to my son.
Until this year.
One of the challenges of growing body, is it’s growing. Youth athletes are not fully matured physically, yet they are put through their paces. Injuries are bound to occur.
At age 13 it was “Little League Elbow” – kind of fancy name for growth plate irritation and overuse; which made sense. That was “the summer” of non-stop baseball; games, practices and lots of throwing. His body sent a warning signal. Please stop. Rest. Heal. And he did. He worked hard. He did physical therapy. He built muscle mass. He refined his technique.
At age 14 he battled some bicep tendonitis. He rested. He iced and continued physical therapy. He did everything he was supposed to do. He had a good season. He continued his PT through the winter.
At age 15, a mere four weeks into open gym conditioning for the spring season there is shoulder pain. Not soreness. But pain. Now in all fairness, the season hasn’t really started, so overuse can’t really be an issue here. But it causes concern so we trot off to Sports Medicine where we are delivered a nice curveball…. Little League Shoulder – another fancy name for growth plate irritation. LLS is normally caused by overuse (which doesn’t apply here) so it basically boils down to bad luck. He just has one of those bodies that have sensitive growth plates.
6 weeks rest. No throwing. No batting.
Tryouts are for the spring seasons are in 4 weeks.
Now as a parent I am the first one to say, life isn’t fair. It isn’t. But this is doubly unfair. It sucks actually. It’s a mammoth disappoint for a 15 year old to be faced with the possibility of missing the entire season just because his growth plates are sensitive. It is taking all of my parental acumen to look at the big picture and not break down into a puddle of tears.
It could be worse and it’s not. It’s fixable. It doesn’t require surgery. It isn’t a career ending injury.
It will force some challenging conversations with coaches, which is good experience. It will require honest self-assessment. It may mean he has to work doubly hard to make the team next year, if he misses the season. It will force showing up for open gym and participating in what he can, if only for political posturing. It will help him develop tenacity.
I have mixed feelings about a 15-year old being put into a position to have those conversations, but I am confident in the long run it will make him stronger, more confident and earn respect from his peers and coaches for facing a very difficult situation with grace and class.
I have confidence in his ability to weather the disappointment, if it comes to that. To come out the other side stronger. That all said, I would gladly take on this disappointment for him if I could.
In a heartbeat.
From t-ball to present we’ve spent every summer at the ballpark. He is a skilled player, excellent command of the game and great defensive skills. He doesn’t have the biggest bat in the line-up but he consistently executes. He’s practices hard and has earned his way onto all-star teams for being a solid versatile player. He has never hit a home run. He doesn’t pitch with the same velocity as a kid who has 6 inches and 30lbs on him. When other boys were growing 4-5 inches in a summer and smacking the ball out of the park, he was consistently one of the smaller players on the team. He’s had to work a little harder than some of the bigger boys to be noticed and hone his skills.
Baseball has provided many life lessons. As clichéd as it sounds baseball has taught the value of teamwork.
How to lead by example.
How to not be “that kid” that throws his bat or argues with the umpire.
How to be a gracious winner and a gracious loser.
How to hold your head up after taking a pounding on the field.
How to shake off hitting a batter, a strike out or multiple strike outs.
How to savor the moment of batting in the winning run during a district game or experiencing a hitting streak.
The good with bad. The sweet and the bittersweet. The wins and the losses.
All good life lessons.
In the big picture of life he has an awesome youth baseball experience. His hard work has paid off. He has been privileged to play on an All-Star team every year since he was 10. He has been on a district winning team and a state winning team. He represented his state in the Regional tournament. All things being equal – baseball has been more fair, than unfair, to my son.
Until this year.
One of the challenges of growing body, is it’s growing. Youth athletes are not fully matured physically, yet they are put through their paces. Injuries are bound to occur.
At age 13 it was “Little League Elbow” – kind of fancy name for growth plate irritation and overuse; which made sense. That was “the summer” of non-stop baseball; games, practices and lots of throwing. His body sent a warning signal. Please stop. Rest. Heal. And he did. He worked hard. He did physical therapy. He built muscle mass. He refined his technique.
At age 14 he battled some bicep tendonitis. He rested. He iced and continued physical therapy. He did everything he was supposed to do. He had a good season. He continued his PT through the winter.
At age 15, a mere four weeks into open gym conditioning for the spring season there is shoulder pain. Not soreness. But pain. Now in all fairness, the season hasn’t really started, so overuse can’t really be an issue here. But it causes concern so we trot off to Sports Medicine where we are delivered a nice curveball…. Little League Shoulder – another fancy name for growth plate irritation. LLS is normally caused by overuse (which doesn’t apply here) so it basically boils down to bad luck. He just has one of those bodies that have sensitive growth plates.
6 weeks rest. No throwing. No batting.
Tryouts are for the spring seasons are in 4 weeks.
Now as a parent I am the first one to say, life isn’t fair. It isn’t. But this is doubly unfair. It sucks actually. It’s a mammoth disappoint for a 15 year old to be faced with the possibility of missing the entire season just because his growth plates are sensitive. It is taking all of my parental acumen to look at the big picture and not break down into a puddle of tears.
It could be worse and it’s not. It’s fixable. It doesn’t require surgery. It isn’t a career ending injury.
It will force some challenging conversations with coaches, which is good experience. It will require honest self-assessment. It may mean he has to work doubly hard to make the team next year, if he misses the season. It will force showing up for open gym and participating in what he can, if only for political posturing. It will help him develop tenacity.
I have mixed feelings about a 15-year old being put into a position to have those conversations, but I am confident in the long run it will make him stronger, more confident and earn respect from his peers and coaches for facing a very difficult situation with grace and class.
I have confidence in his ability to weather the disappointment, if it comes to that. To come out the other side stronger. That all said, I would gladly take on this disappointment for him if I could.
In a heartbeat.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Hippity Hoppity Movie Hopping
I popped my movie hopping cherry this weekend. Who knew? I am a glorified movie-geek and I have never ever done the movie hop. The pay for one movie, watch it and when it’s done, skirt into another movie. A two-fer.
I’m a little embarrassed to admit that my teenage son suggested we movie hop. I’m not embarrassed that I did the movie hop with my kid, only that I didn’t think of it first. Damn kids are too smart for their own good.
Times are tough, the economy is sluggish. I’m all for stretching my entertainment dollar as far as I can.
I suppose I should feel guilt; movie hopping doesn’t reek of leading by parental example but honestly, I don’t feel that bad when movies are $7.50 a piece (and that’s a matinee). I’m pretty sure the fine people at Paramount or Fox Studios of whoever it was that didn’t benefit from our extra $15 in ticket sales will find another way to fleece the movie going public.
Despite my novice standing in movie-hopping, I am an expert in the sneaking in of concessions. When a small diet coke is roughly the same price as a 12-pack at the Pick-N-Save…all’s fair in love and smuggling. It’s all about survival.
I highly recommend stopping at Walgreens for the boxed movie candy. Nine times out of ten they are on sale for $1 a box which is far more reasonable then AMCs take- it-in- the -shorts price of $4.25 for a box of Junior Mints.
Popcorn is a bit trickier, but it can be done. A ziploc freezer bag will hold plenty of popcorn and can typically be shoved in the arm of a jacket. Carry the jacket in over your arm. In the summer months a big purse works well. Empty out everything you don’t need, carry your wallet and stuff in the much needed provisions.
The movie-hop was great fun. We probably had success because it was a Friday afternoon, there weren’t a lot of ushers around and it’s a multi-plex. The multi-plex lends itself to movie hopping potential.
For the record we saw “Crazy, Stupid, Love” which was worth the price of admission and then hopped to “Rise of the Planet of the Apes”.
Kinda glad I didn’t pay for that last one.
Putrid.
I’m a little embarrassed to admit that my teenage son suggested we movie hop. I’m not embarrassed that I did the movie hop with my kid, only that I didn’t think of it first. Damn kids are too smart for their own good.
Times are tough, the economy is sluggish. I’m all for stretching my entertainment dollar as far as I can.
I suppose I should feel guilt; movie hopping doesn’t reek of leading by parental example but honestly, I don’t feel that bad when movies are $7.50 a piece (and that’s a matinee). I’m pretty sure the fine people at Paramount or Fox Studios of whoever it was that didn’t benefit from our extra $15 in ticket sales will find another way to fleece the movie going public.
Despite my novice standing in movie-hopping, I am an expert in the sneaking in of concessions. When a small diet coke is roughly the same price as a 12-pack at the Pick-N-Save…all’s fair in love and smuggling. It’s all about survival.
I highly recommend stopping at Walgreens for the boxed movie candy. Nine times out of ten they are on sale for $1 a box which is far more reasonable then AMCs take- it-in- the -shorts price of $4.25 for a box of Junior Mints.
Popcorn is a bit trickier, but it can be done. A ziploc freezer bag will hold plenty of popcorn and can typically be shoved in the arm of a jacket. Carry the jacket in over your arm. In the summer months a big purse works well. Empty out everything you don’t need, carry your wallet and stuff in the much needed provisions.
The movie-hop was great fun. We probably had success because it was a Friday afternoon, there weren’t a lot of ushers around and it’s a multi-plex. The multi-plex lends itself to movie hopping potential.
For the record we saw “Crazy, Stupid, Love” which was worth the price of admission and then hopped to “Rise of the Planet of the Apes”.
Kinda glad I didn’t pay for that last one.
Putrid.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Things I learned from Judy Blume
There are a series of conversations that my mother failed to have with me during my growing up years into adulthood. Let me be clear, my mom, while being a lovely women is not a proactive conversation starter especially on sensitive girl topics.
In my opinion there are several topics that moms are required to cover off on with their daughters. Primarily they revolve around the periods, puberty and sex. To be fair, I’m sure my grandma never talked to my mom on either of these topics and judging from the separate rooms my grandparents kept, any topics on sex probably wouldn’t have been a good news message anyway. In hindsight, my mom’s lack of parental conversation is a bit surprising as she walked in on me and my high school beau, heatedly making out in the basement family room with a blanket over our laps, more than once. It was those experiences that will lead to my “no blankets-no closed door policy” with my teenage son should girls come a visiting. I vividly remember being 14 and all the hormones therein.
All of my information on girl biology came via the teen classic “Are you there God, it’s me Margaret.” That book combined with the filmstrip shown in 5th grade on “men-strooo-a-shun” was the extent of my health education. The girls received a flowered pamphlet and box of kotex pads covertly disguised in a brown paper lunch bag. I took my new treasures home and laid them on the butcher block in the kitchen for my mom to see and then exited the crime scene.
To be clear, I’m sure I didn’t really want to have any conversation with my mom about this subject. Education via Judy Blume worked for me just fine. As a parent, I quickly figured out conversations on these types of subjects should take place early and often, as opposed to a one-time event. That’s probably why I avoided my mom like the plague. I was uncomfortable. She was uncomfortable. Avoidance was the best option for all concerned parties.
My mom did attempt to address the brown paper bag on the counter and the conversation was as follows:
Mom: "Do you have any questions?"
Me: "No."
Case closed. Crisis averted.
All my information about s-e-x was also delivered via Judy Blume. The book "Forever" was a favorite title circulating between my girlfriends in high school. My best friend asked her mom for permission to read it.
I just read it. I was a rebel that way.
Between that book and my real life boyfriend I was a fountain of life experience. A fact that my parents would probably not appreciate. But my girlfriends did. I could dispense advice ala Judy Blume. Once again in hindsight I’m more than stunned they didn’t sit me down and try to lecture me on the evils of the flesh or teen pregnancy. Mostly they just suggested that we go downstairs and “watch a movie” when my boyfriend came over.
Needless to say, I don’t have a basement with a TV and a couch for good reason.
In my opinion there are several topics that moms are required to cover off on with their daughters. Primarily they revolve around the periods, puberty and sex. To be fair, I’m sure my grandma never talked to my mom on either of these topics and judging from the separate rooms my grandparents kept, any topics on sex probably wouldn’t have been a good news message anyway. In hindsight, my mom’s lack of parental conversation is a bit surprising as she walked in on me and my high school beau, heatedly making out in the basement family room with a blanket over our laps, more than once. It was those experiences that will lead to my “no blankets-no closed door policy” with my teenage son should girls come a visiting. I vividly remember being 14 and all the hormones therein.
All of my information on girl biology came via the teen classic “Are you there God, it’s me Margaret.” That book combined with the filmstrip shown in 5th grade on “men-strooo-a-shun” was the extent of my health education. The girls received a flowered pamphlet and box of kotex pads covertly disguised in a brown paper lunch bag. I took my new treasures home and laid them on the butcher block in the kitchen for my mom to see and then exited the crime scene.
To be clear, I’m sure I didn’t really want to have any conversation with my mom about this subject. Education via Judy Blume worked for me just fine. As a parent, I quickly figured out conversations on these types of subjects should take place early and often, as opposed to a one-time event. That’s probably why I avoided my mom like the plague. I was uncomfortable. She was uncomfortable. Avoidance was the best option for all concerned parties.
My mom did attempt to address the brown paper bag on the counter and the conversation was as follows:
Mom: "Do you have any questions?"
Me: "No."
Case closed. Crisis averted.
All my information about s-e-x was also delivered via Judy Blume. The book "Forever" was a favorite title circulating between my girlfriends in high school. My best friend asked her mom for permission to read it.
I just read it. I was a rebel that way.
Between that book and my real life boyfriend I was a fountain of life experience. A fact that my parents would probably not appreciate. But my girlfriends did. I could dispense advice ala Judy Blume. Once again in hindsight I’m more than stunned they didn’t sit me down and try to lecture me on the evils of the flesh or teen pregnancy. Mostly they just suggested that we go downstairs and “watch a movie” when my boyfriend came over.
Needless to say, I don’t have a basement with a TV and a couch for good reason.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
When Parenting Sucks
Sometimes parenting just sucks.
My son and I have this “arrangement”. The arrangement goes something like this: I pay the cell phone bill and because I pay the bill, I have access to take a quick glance at his text messages. Herein lies the conflict. He has been pre-emptively deleting his messages. Yeah. I know. Very naughty and sneaky. So the question at the top of mind is what is he hiding?
I don’t want to be one of those parents waltzing through life with blinders on, absolutely ignorant to the fact that their kid is throwing beer parties or into some other type of mischief. That said – I know my kid. He’s home every night, is currently pulling straight A’s and doesn’t spend time lolling about the mall unattended. So I’m guessing it’s a girl.
Regardless, it did prompt a very gross conversation which ended with tears. His not mine.
I get it. He doesn’t want his dorky mom reading his text messages. He wants privacy. I get that also. And I want to give him privacy. I really do. But I also need to make sure he is not getting bullied (or bullying) or receiving sext messages or sneaking beer out of the house. So I tried my best to reassure him that I have absolutely no interest in reading the minutiae of his conversations with his friends and that as a parent it’s my job to make sure he gets through the next 4 years as unscathed as possible. And other parents may not care what their teens are doing, but I do care and someday he’ll be glad. At which point he stomped upstairs to his room and slammed the door. Sigh. So much for open dialogue.
After about 20 minutes I made my way to him room where I essentially reiterated my position. He either gets on board with my cursory review of his text messages or the texting goes away. And as an editorial side note: I am discreet about it. When I do check he isn’t around and it really is just a quick glance. Trust me. None of these text conversations are particularly deep.
I take his sullen "I hate my mom" look and stony silence as acceptance of the offer. And then I ask if there is a girl. No answer (whilst he intently stares at his iTouch screen). But I can tell he is fighting back a smile.
Ah. Mystery solved. Yes. Clearly a girl which I am sure will inspire content for another blog entry in the future.
P.S. I am happy to say that when I checked his phone recently texts had not been deleted. And the “I hate you mom” phase only lasted about an hour.
My son and I have this “arrangement”. The arrangement goes something like this: I pay the cell phone bill and because I pay the bill, I have access to take a quick glance at his text messages. Herein lies the conflict. He has been pre-emptively deleting his messages. Yeah. I know. Very naughty and sneaky. So the question at the top of mind is what is he hiding?
I don’t want to be one of those parents waltzing through life with blinders on, absolutely ignorant to the fact that their kid is throwing beer parties or into some other type of mischief. That said – I know my kid. He’s home every night, is currently pulling straight A’s and doesn’t spend time lolling about the mall unattended. So I’m guessing it’s a girl.
Regardless, it did prompt a very gross conversation which ended with tears. His not mine.
I get it. He doesn’t want his dorky mom reading his text messages. He wants privacy. I get that also. And I want to give him privacy. I really do. But I also need to make sure he is not getting bullied (or bullying) or receiving sext messages or sneaking beer out of the house. So I tried my best to reassure him that I have absolutely no interest in reading the minutiae of his conversations with his friends and that as a parent it’s my job to make sure he gets through the next 4 years as unscathed as possible. And other parents may not care what their teens are doing, but I do care and someday he’ll be glad. At which point he stomped upstairs to his room and slammed the door. Sigh. So much for open dialogue.
After about 20 minutes I made my way to him room where I essentially reiterated my position. He either gets on board with my cursory review of his text messages or the texting goes away. And as an editorial side note: I am discreet about it. When I do check he isn’t around and it really is just a quick glance. Trust me. None of these text conversations are particularly deep.
I take his sullen "I hate my mom" look and stony silence as acceptance of the offer. And then I ask if there is a girl. No answer (whilst he intently stares at his iTouch screen). But I can tell he is fighting back a smile.
Ah. Mystery solved. Yes. Clearly a girl which I am sure will inspire content for another blog entry in the future.
P.S. I am happy to say that when I checked his phone recently texts had not been deleted. And the “I hate you mom” phase only lasted about an hour.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
The Road to Independence
Most parents would define the road to your child’s independence as fairly obvious accomplishments; potty training, dressing themselves, cutting their own meat and so forth. As my son inches toward high school, each day the apron strings are cut just a little bit more. I feel proud that he is developing into an independent person, gratified that I haven’t screwed him up too badly yet (although there is still time); and sad that there will come a time where he just won’t need for me anything. My heart breaks a little.
Today’s step towards independent life skills came in the form of ordering a pizza. It sounds a little silly but the reality is we all learned how to do it at some point and today was his day to learn it. As adults we’ve all ordered a pizza no fewer than a thousand times. It’s rote. We can do it in our sleep. We know what questions will be asked and how to answer them. I had to remind myself that for the inexperienced pizza ordering rookie the whole ordeal is a bit nerve-wracking if you have no idea what to expect.
I am pleased to report that my son called me before ordering a pizza to ask how to do this. Yes I am happy to be needed for something as mundane as pizza ordering 101. I quickly discovered it wasn’t the act of ordering the pizza that was daunting; it was the tipping of said pizza delivery person. This is understandable. For an adult, tipping is a confusing and inconsistent custom. There were lots of questions. How much do I tip? Do I pay the bill for the pizza and then give the tip, or give the whole thing at one and say “Keep the change”?
Ultimately for my son it wasn’t just about ordering the pizza, as was about ordering the pizza and not looking like a dork. I get it. No one wants to be the subject of ridicule back at Pizza Hut Central when the delivery driver relays a story about a couple of 14 year old kids ordering a pizza for the first time. Life at 14 is hard enough without that kind of pressure.
At the end of the day the pizza was ordered, the driver was paid (“Keep the change”) and one more skill was added to the life experience toolbox. And one more thread was cut on the apron strings. My heart breaks a little.
Today’s step towards independent life skills came in the form of ordering a pizza. It sounds a little silly but the reality is we all learned how to do it at some point and today was his day to learn it. As adults we’ve all ordered a pizza no fewer than a thousand times. It’s rote. We can do it in our sleep. We know what questions will be asked and how to answer them. I had to remind myself that for the inexperienced pizza ordering rookie the whole ordeal is a bit nerve-wracking if you have no idea what to expect.
I am pleased to report that my son called me before ordering a pizza to ask how to do this. Yes I am happy to be needed for something as mundane as pizza ordering 101. I quickly discovered it wasn’t the act of ordering the pizza that was daunting; it was the tipping of said pizza delivery person. This is understandable. For an adult, tipping is a confusing and inconsistent custom. There were lots of questions. How much do I tip? Do I pay the bill for the pizza and then give the tip, or give the whole thing at one and say “Keep the change”?
Ultimately for my son it wasn’t just about ordering the pizza, as was about ordering the pizza and not looking like a dork. I get it. No one wants to be the subject of ridicule back at Pizza Hut Central when the delivery driver relays a story about a couple of 14 year old kids ordering a pizza for the first time. Life at 14 is hard enough without that kind of pressure.
At the end of the day the pizza was ordered, the driver was paid (“Keep the change”) and one more skill was added to the life experience toolbox. And one more thread was cut on the apron strings. My heart breaks a little.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Revoking the parent card
I am by all rights a cool mom. At least in my opinion I’m cool. I’m sure other freakishly obsessive controlling parents would color me un-cool, too open and too forthcoming with my 14 year old son. But he still talks to me so I consider my approach, at least so far, successful. He’s starting high school this month so ask me in four years how this approach truly worked.
My son has inherited my affinity for movies. Inherited is probably a strong word. Let’s be honest. I’ve been molding and shaping his exposure to film since I took him to see the re-release of The Wizard of Oz when he was three years old. Oh yes, he’s all about the wieldy action adventure popcorn movie but he is also a closeted rom-com watcher (he’ll never admit it), thinks the Bond movies with Sean Connery are the best ones, can recognize Cary Grant and likes Charlie Chaplin (although I have to reluctantly give a nod to my mother in law for that influence). He loves movies. I’m mama duck proud.
Now that he has hit 14, PG-13 is sooooooo yesterday’s news and he is beginning to push the “R” rated envelope for movie watching. I admit, in some cases an “R” in 1984 is not quite like an “R” in 2010. Parental latitude has been given. So his suggestion for us to watch Revenge of the Nerds on a recent Saturday night, seemed reasonable.
Having seen it a few times, I did the mental rolodex, thumbed through the scenes in my head. Yeah ok – some language, maybe a quick boob shot, some sex references…how bad can it be? I mean 16 Candles has a full on boob shot of Caroline Montfort in the shower and that was PG-13. And the kid goes to public school. He’s been hearing f-bombs on the playground since he was 6 – at least I would be sitting next to him during the movie offering full-on parental support.
Important parenting tip. If it’s been, oh say, 15 years since you’ve seen a movie, it may be a good idea to do a quick refresh of said movie in lieu of relying solely on the mental rolodex . IMDB.com has a nifty little “parental advisory” feature of every film which outlines the f-bombs and other adult situations. It’s a nice little memory jogger. Too bad I didn’t use it in this instance.
Apparently my mental rolodex failed to recall these key classic Revenge of Nerd film moments:
At that point I wouldn’t have been surprised if Social Services broke down my front door with an axe and revoked my parent card with all rights and privileges therein. My son, of course, thought the movie was hilarious and I’m sure I’ve officially locked in my position as the coolest mom on the planet award – at least for one day.
And in an act of spousal transparency I disclosed some of the more mature elements of this classic feature film to my spouse, who responded with a Beavis and Butthead laugh.
“Heh heh, heh-heh-heh – you said bush.”
My son has inherited my affinity for movies. Inherited is probably a strong word. Let’s be honest. I’ve been molding and shaping his exposure to film since I took him to see the re-release of The Wizard of Oz when he was three years old. Oh yes, he’s all about the wieldy action adventure popcorn movie but he is also a closeted rom-com watcher (he’ll never admit it), thinks the Bond movies with Sean Connery are the best ones, can recognize Cary Grant and likes Charlie Chaplin (although I have to reluctantly give a nod to my mother in law for that influence). He loves movies. I’m mama duck proud.
Now that he has hit 14, PG-13 is sooooooo yesterday’s news and he is beginning to push the “R” rated envelope for movie watching. I admit, in some cases an “R” in 1984 is not quite like an “R” in 2010. Parental latitude has been given. So his suggestion for us to watch Revenge of the Nerds on a recent Saturday night, seemed reasonable.
Having seen it a few times, I did the mental rolodex, thumbed through the scenes in my head. Yeah ok – some language, maybe a quick boob shot, some sex references…how bad can it be? I mean 16 Candles has a full on boob shot of Caroline Montfort in the shower and that was PG-13. And the kid goes to public school. He’s been hearing f-bombs on the playground since he was 6 – at least I would be sitting next to him during the movie offering full-on parental support.
Important parenting tip. If it’s been, oh say, 15 years since you’ve seen a movie, it may be a good idea to do a quick refresh of said movie in lieu of relying solely on the mental rolodex . IMDB.com has a nifty little “parental advisory” feature of every film which outlines the f-bombs and other adult situations. It’s a nice little memory jogger. Too bad I didn’t use it in this instance.
Apparently my mental rolodex failed to recall these key classic Revenge of Nerd film moments:
- The “hair pie” reference. Yeah. I know. It’s a really dated and rarely used slang term to reference the coochie. It’s so dated it prompted the following question: “Mom, what’s a hair pie?” Mental head slap.
- The panty raid scene which includes multiple scantily clad girls running up and down the dorm room screaming, full on boob shots bouncing up and down.
- The cameras in the shower scene which sets up the classic movie utterance by “Booger”….”We’ve got bush, we’ve got bush!” I’m not sure if I should be relieved or worried my son didn’t ask “Mom, what’s a bush”. I think he figured that one out on his own.
At that point I wouldn’t have been surprised if Social Services broke down my front door with an axe and revoked my parent card with all rights and privileges therein. My son, of course, thought the movie was hilarious and I’m sure I’ve officially locked in my position as the coolest mom on the planet award – at least for one day.
And in an act of spousal transparency I disclosed some of the more mature elements of this classic feature film to my spouse, who responded with a Beavis and Butthead laugh.
“Heh heh, heh-heh-heh – you said bush.”
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