It’s August, and in the Waterman house that means back-to-school preparations and the start of football season, by which I mean soccer. My British husband scoffs at the word, reminding me that American football is a poor copy of the English sport of rugby.
I watched a rugby game once. The players wear no padding, no helmets, and from the looks of it, no protective cups! They are a ruddy, muddy lot with great-looking legs and even better looking bums. That’s Brit-speak for tookus which is Yiddish-speak for derriere which is French for … oh, just look it up!
Every weekend I wake to the dulcet sounds of the Brit and our grandson, Mini-Brit, coaching their British football club, Arsenal, as they watch the game on Sky Sports. So does everyone else in the neighborhood.
“Go to the ball! Shoot!” Brit screams.
“What, are you kidding me? Kick it into the net!” rejoins Mini-Brit.
I remember when our little man was so small I could carry him. Now I smile as I listen to him emulate his Granddad in the living room. We make sure that he emulates the good things, too, like being respectful, courteous, helpful, and rubbing my feet. Hey, I reciprocate!
Mom once told me that raising boys is easier than raising girls.
“They’re so sweet when they are small, and then they turn 13 and just go crazy,” she explained of girls. “Parenting would be much easier and the world a calmer place if you could deep-freeze girls from ages 12 to 21.”
She should know. She raised two of each. My brothers, Bugs and Daffy, were easygoing, goofy, and sweet. However, Yosemite Sam and the Tasmanian Devil (my sister and I), five years apart in age, gave Mom a combined 10 years of hell on earth called menarche. Ah, good times!
Living with 1 1/2 men brings its own penance when sharing a bathroom. Would someone please explain to me how two people can kick a small ball across a field straight into a net, rimshot a larger ball into a smaller net from across a court with amazing accuracy, and catch a tiny ball in a large mitt from 50 feet away, but cannot hit the inside of a toilet bowl while standing right over it?
Don’t get me started on the toilet paper! The Brit worked for years as a sales representative for a cigar purveyor. A connoisseur of fine smokes, he can accurately clip a stogie using that small guillotine device with his eyes closed. Mini-Brit can create a full-scale aircraft carrier out of Legos in his sleep. But neither has yet been able to master the highly technical skill of replacing a roll of toilet paper on a 7-inch dowel. They would rather helplessly shout, “For the love of God, can someone please bring me some toilet paper?”
Mini-Brit is definitely growing up. At age 9, he has discovered the universe, especially the planet Uranus and how hilarious it is to say “Uranus” over and over again.
He is also a Harry Potter fan. Not a day goes by when he isn’t hurling spells at me. “Expecto experiamus!” he incants. “Yes, and I expecto you to emptiamus the dishwasheramus!” I hurl back. “That’s not even a spell, Grandma!” he derides, to which I imperiously reply, “It will be when you find yourself grounded for a spell!”
The Yiddish have a wonderful word for what grandmothers do when discussing their grandchildren: “kvelling,” meaning “to brag lovingly.” I kvell a lot. Our boy is a remarkable chess player, reads at an advanced level, and is becoming quite a good cook. He is also becoming quite handsome, and this has not gone unnoticed by the ladies.
I recently took him to a Selena Gomez concert, featuring boy group Big Time Rush, to pay for my sins. Ten thousand fans packed the grandstands at the Mid-State Fair, 90 percent of them 8- to 12-year-old screaming girls. I truly experienced the Tenth Circle of Hades, set aside for those who, as teenagers, put their mothers through hell (see above).
Min-Brit, attired in plaid shorts, a Vans T-shirt, and a cool gray fedora, turned heads. Even other mothers were impressed. Being his personal stylist is not an easy job! He has appeared each morning dressed in every combination from plaid shorts and a green Bakugan shirt, to royal blue sweats and a red bowling shirt emblazoned with flames. His socks rarely match (when he thinks to wear socks) and his thick, dark hair is usually in delightful disarray.
He hates clothes shopping. Like my husband, he’d sooner grab the first thing off the rack. If it fits, he’s done. “Look at these shirts,” I’ll coo hopefully. “No,” is the adamant answer. “How about this one?” I’ll plead. “No way,” comes the royal decree. “This one looks nice,” I’ll insist. “Really?” he responds with a look that says I’m such a geezer.
Shoe shopping is an adventure, because Mini-Brit’s feet are growing so fast he looks like the letter “L.” Hair cuts were another issue and dreaded more than vaccinations: “I just had a hair cut. It can wait another month.”
“By then I’ll have to rent a weed whacker,” I said. “Now get in the car!” Then I took him to my guy.
Bruce Lee Ent at Healing Touch Spa in Nipomo is my guy. He gave Mini-Mop-head the royal treatment, complete with scalp massage, a chair that rubbed his back while Bruce washed his hair, a warm cup of cocoa, and a magazine filled with Mustangs and cool cars. He even gave the lad a “faux-hawk,” spiking his hair like his favorite Arsenal player’s. As soon as his tush hit the backseat of the car, Mini-Brit proclaimed, “From now on I want to get my hair cut here and nowhere else!”
Now he even reminds me: “I’m looking scruffy. I need a hair cut!”
“You had one four days ago,” I remind him back.
“Hey,” he’ll smile charmingly, “I’m a growing boy!” He certainly is!
Ariel Waterman is still recovering from the Selena Gomez/Big Time Rush concert. Please send bottles of Excedrin via Executive Editor Ryan Miller at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Aug 25 – Sep 1, 2011.
