Idiot Parade

There is something I’ve suspected for quite a while now, but has only recently been confirmed.

Kids today are total pussies.

Now, granted, this is a relative statement. My parents’ generation had dangerous toys like a miniature Atomic Energy Lab or the original Creepy Crawlers Thingmakers, not to mention cap and/or BB guns. The only gun I was ever allowed to have was a light-up Star Wars Storm Trooper Blaster (aside: holy crap, that thing rocked. If I still have it tucked away somewhere, I will save it for my own future geek-spawn). Hell, I was born in the 80s and still completely missed out on lawn darts and slap bracelets.

I saw an article today on AOL Shopping called The Most Dangerous Toys. A few of my favorites:

*The Fun Roller. How awesome does that look? I want one! It’s the closest I would ever get to having my very own hamster ball. But don’t buy one for your child. They might roll out into the street and get hit by a car. Okay, that is a valid fear. Might I offer a couple suggestions? Have them play with it in the backyard. Even better! Try some good, old-fashioned Adult Supervision.

*Hulk Smash Hands. Put on the gloves, hit things, they make Hulk noises. What’s that you say? It makes children aggressive? They could hurt someone? Well, have a Come-to-Jesus Meeting with the kid where you explain that hitting the cat or their little brother is not, by any means, okay. At the very least, get another pair for the younger sibling so he/she can fight back.

*Lite Brite. I grew up with this. It’s pretty, it inspires creativity, it’s a choking hazard. Look, the pegs are tiny. It will not kill you. If the child (who should be old enough to know that swallowing toys is a dumb idea) or a baby swallows a little light peg, he/she will poop it out. No big deal. Same goes for pennies and small pebbles.

*Trampoline. We’re not talking a regular, ordinary, old-school trampoline. A bunch of my friends had those, all filled with holes and relatively high of the ground. We fell off, and it hurt like hell. We were more careful the next time. This Is How We Learn. But these spiffy trampolines have a big piece of netting around it, so the kid can’t fall and get a concussion. However, “the safety net could pose as an entrapment issue”. What does that even mean?

In junior high, I was the only girl in my group of friends. Well…that’s a mostly true statement. The boys I played with would occasionally have girlfriends, and Allison stayed in the group for a while, but I was the token vagina. I liked the way that worked. It allowed me to do *fun* things that other girls weren’t into…like playing tackle football or doing a host of stupid things for money (keep my hand in a frozen puddle of water until it turned blue, eat a bug, spit across the street, etc). It also gave me special access to Frog Pond, the boys haven. It wasn’t a pond, and I never once saw a frog. I think the only creature I ever found in there was a blue and deformed crawdad. Makes sense that it would be a bit retarded, because Frog Pond was (still is, actually) where the sewer lets out. It is smelly, awful, poop water. And we stomped around in it. We fell in it. We climbed down a garden hose that was tied to a tree branch, balanced on slippery boulders and discarded couches, all so we could make our way through the liquid poo. It was brilliant. The most fun I’ve ever had. I felt like a freaking Goonie. I also twisted my ankle more than once, fell down a ravine and nearly hit my head, and generally came home wet, bloody, and/or bruised. Because (and this is the point of the anecdote, so pay attention) kids get hurt. They are supposed to get dirty and get hurt. If you live in a bubble, you will never learn about your limits, you will never get any stronger, and probably not much smarter in the terms of being street-wise. Grade-school children aren’t even allowed to play Dodgeball for chrissake, and I can’t think of a single game that was more important in my childhood. If you wanted to win, you had to earn it. You had to be fast, alert, and willing to get a few scraped knees. Sitting in a circle and playing nicely with your peers, while valuable when learning about sharing and cooperation, doesn’t teach a child anything about survival.

We are making our kids weak from the get-go, and then wonder why they are growing up to be weak adults.

I can’t believe I’m a month late in seeing this (thanks for telling me about it, Chels-face)

How to Talk to Girls

It might seem odd to think that a child would be an authority on dating an relationships…but maybe he has a clearer view of it than any of us. A nine-year-old doesn’t know about mind games or power plays or ridiculous rules of conduct. It should be as easy as saying “hello”, at least at the beginning. Why do we make these thing unnecessarily complicated?

“If I say hi and you say hi, we’re probably off to a good start.” I could not agree more.

Two days into it, and I’ve already hurt a friend by posting about a certain incident.

In light of this, I’d like to make a couple things clear.

I write about my life. What happens in it. The people involved. Sometimes, that might include you. However, I will not use real names unless given permission, and I will be willing to delete or amend a post if it makes someone truly uncomfortable.

Thank you.

The universe works in mysterious ways.

A week ago, I could answer most questions posed to me in class. I sounded like an intelligent and eloquent young woman. To be fairly blunt, when it comes to English Literature, I know my shit.

This was completely decimated once Pretty Creative Writing Boy starting hinting that he might be attracted to me. Now my brain exclusively sings The Fail Song, leaving exactly no room for anything resembling…anything.

I can’t WAIT to see how this plays out.

I thought I had a few more years before this would become an issue. Not even an issue, really, just a reminder of impending adulthood. Three of my friends are engaged–one of them is a friend from junior high; the other two, I’ve known since elementary school. It’s this weird juxtaposition. My young friends are starting their new live together, while a good number of my older friends are struggling and watching their relationships fall apart.

I know that divorce rates are high. I know that young marriages are more likely to fail. And I seem to have plenty of people to remind me of this in case I start to forget. But god, I desperately want these to work. I want my friends to be happy. I want to believe that, even if I don’t wind up living a fairy tale, maybe someone I care about will.

I’ve never read House at Pooh Corner (please don’t hurt me), but I found the final passage, when Christopher Robin has to go off to school and grow up. It seems….relevant. At one time or another, I think we’re all a bit like Christopher Robin.

“Pooh, promise you won’t forget about me, ever. Not even when I’m a hundred.”
Pooh thought for a little.
“How old shall I be then?”
“Ninety-nine.”
Pooh nodded.
“I promise,” he said.
Still with his eyes on the world Christopher Robin put out a hand and felt for Pooh’s paw. “Pooh,” said Christopher Robin earnestly, “if I — if I’m not quite —” he stopped and tried again — “Pooh, whatever happens, you will understand, won’t you?”