Can I just say, before I move on to more important news, that since I posted this link, I can't get my eyes off of it. The Kid saw me looking at it and made me put it as my wallpaper on my computer. Now I can just sit at my computer, doing nothing, but looking at the Last Judgement from the Abbey Church of St. Foy at Conques, in France. It may not be the most beautiful work of art or sculpture, nor is it the most didactic last judgement, but I have to say that it is one of the most scary last judgements around... Those devils!!! That dastardly devil fighting an angel over the scales where they weigh the souls, where the damned people are being literally fed to the beast, snakes slithering over their skin... And that one heaven-bound woman, looking back in fear and making eye contact with one of the minions of hell... Oooh, it's chilling. I love how the angel is taking one of the dead people out of his coffin, too. It's just so alive, and I'm feeling one of those rare moments where I look back on my former academic career with a tiny tinge of regret.
To those of you who don't know, I got pregnant while working on my masters degree in Ireland. I came home for health care and family (mostly family), and suddenly 12th century Irish romanesque churches (my thesis) meant nothing to me, and I was on to the next project, motherhood, childbirth, etc... One of my professors sent me a card after The Kid was born (after I'd not turned in my thesis which they had given me an extension to do, and had politely informed them that I didn't intend to either), and in it he wrote, "I told you you'd never look back." For the most part, I honestly haven't. A masters degree in medieval archaeology would have been great, but, meh, that's life... Now I'm close to family, now I have (some) financial freedom. Now, I have The Kid. But when I look at Conques' last judgement, I get, well, wistful.
A great deal more later on Wednesday's adventure to the start of The Kid's pyschological evaluations at the University of Denver, and right now I have to get ready to take The Kid to the Shrink, and then to school. I might actually end up finally going to work today as well, imagine that...
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
I have reason to believe we all will be received...
"Tigers eat antidotes, Mom." The Kid just told me that. I think he meant antelope (which, do tigers eat antelopes? Do they even live on the same continent?)... Tigers eat Antidotes. Sounds like a good band name, huh?
Speaking of bands, or at a stretch, of Rock and Roll, I think The Kid has decided to dress as Elvis Presley for Halloween this year. I have a good amount of Elvis memorabilia about the house, which The Kid has noticed and ultimately has come to love. I have some great Christmas decor w/ Elvis on it, several books, photos, magnets, stuff like that. We do have some odd tastes here in the Soapy Water household, and the Elvis Presley thing, is, well, a kind of good story (kind of). Seeing as it is a slow news day as far a progress in the whole "The Kid at School" narrative, consider this my big Elvis apologia.
I am not a huge, die-hard fan of The King (I am more of a Woody Guthrie is the roots of rock and roll type of gal, I like them RAW rock n rollers). I am, however, emotionally linked to Elvis. Like all good stories, this one starts in the middle ages...
When I was a senior at DePauw University, a hybrid Art History and Archaeology major, I took a course on Romanesque art and architecture. A great deal of the church building that took place in the 11th and 12th centuries that are considered "romanesque" in Europe were linked deeply to the popularization of religious pilgrimage from Paris to Santiago de Compostella in Spain (cool links about it here and here), and the resulting churches that were built were stations along the routes (camino). While it was a deeply religious experience (and continues to be), it was also a well-organized cash cow for the Church. See this as the advent of tourism, if you will, the churches and towns along the camino saw windfall profits. Small churches, in order to attract pilgrims, contstructed elaborately decorated churches and made up -er- were devinely gifted exotic and important relics. The art of the time exploded with enormous tympana (the decorated interior of a classic Romanesque arched doorway) carved in deep relief with reminders of man's earthly sins , the sublime possibilities of heaven, and the judgement that awaited them all.
Our final project and paper was to create either a pilgrimage church, its place in the route, its place in history, etc... We were to write a paper and then, with visual aids (most of us were art majors of some kind or another, so greatness was expected, not just toothpick-cathedrals, yo), present our paper, filling up a 1-hour time slot with our material--yikes!!! (and quite obviously the best class I ever took at DePauw...)
As I sat up one night thinking about my final project for this class, I read again what Saint Bernard of Clairvaux had said about the art of that time... That the images were profane, filled with "deformed monstrosities and monstrous deformities" and that the art was simply created for "the concupiscense of the eyes." He believed that the images were so seductive and so explosive that they would distract the pilgrims' minds from the worship and into fiery orgies of sin and decadence.
So, clearly, Romanesque art was totally rock and roll. I instantly knew what needed to be done for my final project: a pilgrimage of my own, to quite possibly the only true American reliquary shrine, Graceland. The home of Elvis Presley, the King of Rock and Roll, the owner of the dynamic pelvis who's movements inspired in parents (echoing the concerns of St. Bernard) the fear of the concupiscence of the eyes (not to mention minds) of American youths. Elvis resided at Graceland, the decor of which remains in tact, frozen in time with his death in 1978, giving entirely new meanings to the ideas of "deformed monstrosity" first fretted over in the 12th century...
I was bartending at the time, and started asking everyone I met or served what they thought about Elvis. I found that tiny Greencastle, Indiana, was literally filled with Elvis fans, and more than that, a large number of people who saw him as more than a man. My bar patrons loaded me up with books (my fave was a cookbook called, "Are You Hungry Tonight?"), tapestries (so very medieval!), black light velvet paintings and even a 10-pound bust that doubled as a whiskey decanter. Most of these things were loans, although I made off with a few things inadvertently, and still keep them in safe places. If there was a fire in my home, I would make a concerted effort to salvage them.
I documented my pilgrimage (which of course doubled as a full-on college road-trip) w/ super 8 film. We couldn't film at Graceland, but I taped with a voice recorder interviews with a few pilgrims there. It was spookily somber. There were people literally weeping when we walked in the front door.
One man I interviewed had come from Holland. It was his first visit to America, and had come straight from Rotterdam to Nashville, followed by Tupelo, MS and finally culminated at Graceland. The next day he flew back to Europe. He insisted that while he was a fan, he wasn't one of those "cultish freaks." As we left Elvis's gravesite, I watched the man reach over a fence, grab a pinecone and quietly put it in his pocket.
I presented my paper as a kind of Elvis-loving High Mass, extoling the virtues of the relics I'd collected from the folks around town, showing my film, playing a song, but mostly talking about the amazingly mystic bent of mind required to turn a man into a legend, and the spaces that he inhabited into shrines. I will be forever in awe of the power that this very simple Mississippi hick holds over us.
So, as I assemble The Kid's chosen costume for the season, I have to laugh. The Kid sees around our house my picture of Elvis's grave, my magnets, my books, and while I, myself, do not subscribe to his cult or am even a huge fan of his music, I've just as quietly and surreptitiously kept my relics of Elvis, only to breed a new generation into it all. How do you explain to a 5-year old your bizarre academic interest in a cultural phenomenon?
I suppose I don't, but instead closely watch as my clandestine child transforms himself on Halloween into that most wicked and ghoulish role to play: that of the American Rock Star.
Rock Star Scare, Indeed!!!
Speaking of bands, or at a stretch, of Rock and Roll, I think The Kid has decided to dress as Elvis Presley for Halloween this year. I have a good amount of Elvis memorabilia about the house, which The Kid has noticed and ultimately has come to love. I have some great Christmas decor w/ Elvis on it, several books, photos, magnets, stuff like that. We do have some odd tastes here in the Soapy Water household, and the Elvis Presley thing, is, well, a kind of good story (kind of). Seeing as it is a slow news day as far a progress in the whole "The Kid at School" narrative, consider this my big Elvis apologia.
I am not a huge, die-hard fan of The King (I am more of a Woody Guthrie is the roots of rock and roll type of gal, I like them RAW rock n rollers). I am, however, emotionally linked to Elvis. Like all good stories, this one starts in the middle ages...
When I was a senior at DePauw University, a hybrid Art History and Archaeology major, I took a course on Romanesque art and architecture. A great deal of the church building that took place in the 11th and 12th centuries that are considered "romanesque" in Europe were linked deeply to the popularization of religious pilgrimage from Paris to Santiago de Compostella in Spain (cool links about it here and here), and the resulting churches that were built were stations along the routes (camino). While it was a deeply religious experience (and continues to be), it was also a well-organized cash cow for the Church. See this as the advent of tourism, if you will, the churches and towns along the camino saw windfall profits. Small churches, in order to attract pilgrims, contstructed elaborately decorated churches and made up -er- were devinely gifted exotic and important relics. The art of the time exploded with enormous tympana (the decorated interior of a classic Romanesque arched doorway) carved in deep relief with reminders of man's earthly sins , the sublime possibilities of heaven, and the judgement that awaited them all.
Our final project and paper was to create either a pilgrimage church, its place in the route, its place in history, etc... We were to write a paper and then, with visual aids (most of us were art majors of some kind or another, so greatness was expected, not just toothpick-cathedrals, yo), present our paper, filling up a 1-hour time slot with our material--yikes!!! (and quite obviously the best class I ever took at DePauw...)
As I sat up one night thinking about my final project for this class, I read again what Saint Bernard of Clairvaux had said about the art of that time... That the images were profane, filled with "deformed monstrosities and monstrous deformities" and that the art was simply created for "the concupiscense of the eyes." He believed that the images were so seductive and so explosive that they would distract the pilgrims' minds from the worship and into fiery orgies of sin and decadence.
So, clearly, Romanesque art was totally rock and roll. I instantly knew what needed to be done for my final project: a pilgrimage of my own, to quite possibly the only true American reliquary shrine, Graceland. The home of Elvis Presley, the King of Rock and Roll, the owner of the dynamic pelvis who's movements inspired in parents (echoing the concerns of St. Bernard) the fear of the concupiscence of the eyes (not to mention minds) of American youths. Elvis resided at Graceland, the decor of which remains in tact, frozen in time with his death in 1978, giving entirely new meanings to the ideas of "deformed monstrosity" first fretted over in the 12th century...
I was bartending at the time, and started asking everyone I met or served what they thought about Elvis. I found that tiny Greencastle, Indiana, was literally filled with Elvis fans, and more than that, a large number of people who saw him as more than a man. My bar patrons loaded me up with books (my fave was a cookbook called, "Are You Hungry Tonight?"), tapestries (so very medieval!), black light velvet paintings and even a 10-pound bust that doubled as a whiskey decanter. Most of these things were loans, although I made off with a few things inadvertently, and still keep them in safe places. If there was a fire in my home, I would make a concerted effort to salvage them.
I documented my pilgrimage (which of course doubled as a full-on college road-trip) w/ super 8 film. We couldn't film at Graceland, but I taped with a voice recorder interviews with a few pilgrims there. It was spookily somber. There were people literally weeping when we walked in the front door.
One man I interviewed had come from Holland. It was his first visit to America, and had come straight from Rotterdam to Nashville, followed by Tupelo, MS and finally culminated at Graceland. The next day he flew back to Europe. He insisted that while he was a fan, he wasn't one of those "cultish freaks." As we left Elvis's gravesite, I watched the man reach over a fence, grab a pinecone and quietly put it in his pocket.
I presented my paper as a kind of Elvis-loving High Mass, extoling the virtues of the relics I'd collected from the folks around town, showing my film, playing a song, but mostly talking about the amazingly mystic bent of mind required to turn a man into a legend, and the spaces that he inhabited into shrines. I will be forever in awe of the power that this very simple Mississippi hick holds over us.
So, as I assemble The Kid's chosen costume for the season, I have to laugh. The Kid sees around our house my picture of Elvis's grave, my magnets, my books, and while I, myself, do not subscribe to his cult or am even a huge fan of his music, I've just as quietly and surreptitiously kept my relics of Elvis, only to breed a new generation into it all. How do you explain to a 5-year old your bizarre academic interest in a cultural phenomenon?
I suppose I don't, but instead closely watch as my clandestine child transforms himself on Halloween into that most wicked and ghoulish role to play: that of the American Rock Star.
Rock Star Scare, Indeed!!!
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Special Day!
We had a very early wake-up call on Saturday to get to the soccer field at 8am for team pictures. I've had so much going on that I've not been able to tell you about The Kid's soccer team, The Earthquakes!!!
If you have never had the pleasure of witnessing 3-on-3 soccer played by 5-year old boys, I urge you to immediately make an effort. It is truly an experiential thing. How can I describe to you in mere words the delicate ballet that is a 6-child scrum of pure heart and kicked shins? The thrill of victory? The tragedy of defeat?
The Earthquakes have been playing together for three weeks. They are coached by two teenage girls, who offer absolutely no strategy or pressure, which makes them quite obviously the greatest coaching staff ever. He's having a blast playing and appears to be making friends with his teammates. Sports are so important, they give you (if you enjoy them and feel like you are good at them) a confidence, feeling of ability, accomplishment, and the friendships that are forged there are somehow different than the ones made in a school setting. There is a lot to that whole "sport is my anti-drug" thing, I truly believe in that one. It's fun to watch The Kid gain confidence, I've watched it grow in only three weeks. It's pretty cool.
This week we played a team from a neighboring town, with a father-coach who is the complete opposite of The Kid's two teenage coaches. I am in no way kidding, this man had one of those clipboards with a soccer field on it and was showing the kids diagrams before the game. Five year olds were being directed from FREAKING DIAGRAMS!!! Once the game started, they clearly didn't have any advantage over The Earthquakes' minimal diagramatic soccer instruction. This didn't stop the coach, however. At one point he picked a kid up in the middle of the game and moved him to where the ball was. It was beyond ridiculous, and my first taste of the "insane sports parent." Mmm. What was that I was saying about sports giving CHILDREN a sense of accomplishment and self? I meant to say, you make your child play sports to give YOURSELF a sense of meaning. What was I thinking?
After the game, we set off for The Kid's special day.
After three weeks of Kindergarten, The Kid finally filled his sticker chart with hard-earned happy faces from school. So, we set off for The Kid's chosen special destination, The Butterfly Pavillion, or as The Kid calls it, The Butterfly Pavilliam, like it rhymes with the name "William." Hee!
The Butterfly Pavillion is pretty awesome. It is relatively expensive, in that it cost us $14 for admission and has only three rooms. The exhibits, however, ROCK. There is a creepy-crawly room, which The Kid loves, but gives me heart burn. There is an exhibit titled, "Beetle or Roach?" While they have a terrarium with freakishly huge and scary South American cockroaches, they also have one with the common household roach. Every time I go there I have to laugh at that one... There are so many people out there that live with these un-killable bugs but here in suburban America, we put them under glass so we can show children what roaches really look like. WOW are we lucky or what?
In the creepy-crawly room they also have a tarantula that a docent and the very brave Pavillion-goer can hold. The Kid has chickened out every time we've gone there. I think he chose to come here for this special day because he was determined that this time, oh yes, he would hold Rosie, The Tarantula. I must admit that I, too, have chickened out every time as well. This time, we both had the steely resolve to hold Rosie. Long story short? We did, and it was SO cool. She had the softest touch. I watched her "feet" on The Kid, and was reminded of the little bushy feet of a Bichon Frise... So, when it was my turn, I just tried to imagine that she was a very small, black Bichon with eight legs and a thorax instead of a tail. This delusion actally worked proving that with bugs, it's all mind over matter.
The other (and main) highlight of the special day was the Butterfly room. It is a huge greenhouse filled with butterflies. They are just everywhere... If it was hard for me to describe soccer, this one is impossible. Its just really cool and you'll have to take my word for it.
Oh, and The Kid saved a turtle. We rounded a corner of the butterfly room where a large crowd of people had congregated. The Kid, who must always know what is going on in a crowd, pushed us forward and we saw two turtles, a small one (about 9 inches long), stuck underneath a large one (about 1.5 feet long). The little one was just big enough to make it impossible for the large one to get any kind of footing to get off of the little one. They were stuck. I have no idea how they got into the predicament, but the kids were all mesmerized, and the parents were all looking at each other with a "what should we do--is there a turtle wrastler among us?" look on all of their faces. The Kid, who cannot stand to see his fellow earthly creatures suffer, just walked up to the turtles, assessed the situation, picked up the large turtle and gently set him back down on the ground, next to the little turtle. The little turtle was no doubt grateful for this and literally ran off of the path and into the faux jungle bushes. I think the whole holding of a tarantula made The Kid quite comfortable with all sorts of tropical creatures. The crowd dispersed, and we followed the big turtle around for another five minutes or so, and watched him try to eat leaves and slowly make his way back to his home in the little pond of the Butterfly Greenhouse.
Our next special day will be the Zoo... I hope he fills the chart before it starts to snow!!!
If you have never had the pleasure of witnessing 3-on-3 soccer played by 5-year old boys, I urge you to immediately make an effort. It is truly an experiential thing. How can I describe to you in mere words the delicate ballet that is a 6-child scrum of pure heart and kicked shins? The thrill of victory? The tragedy of defeat?
The Earthquakes have been playing together for three weeks. They are coached by two teenage girls, who offer absolutely no strategy or pressure, which makes them quite obviously the greatest coaching staff ever. He's having a blast playing and appears to be making friends with his teammates. Sports are so important, they give you (if you enjoy them and feel like you are good at them) a confidence, feeling of ability, accomplishment, and the friendships that are forged there are somehow different than the ones made in a school setting. There is a lot to that whole "sport is my anti-drug" thing, I truly believe in that one. It's fun to watch The Kid gain confidence, I've watched it grow in only three weeks. It's pretty cool.
This week we played a team from a neighboring town, with a father-coach who is the complete opposite of The Kid's two teenage coaches. I am in no way kidding, this man had one of those clipboards with a soccer field on it and was showing the kids diagrams before the game. Five year olds were being directed from FREAKING DIAGRAMS!!! Once the game started, they clearly didn't have any advantage over The Earthquakes' minimal diagramatic soccer instruction. This didn't stop the coach, however. At one point he picked a kid up in the middle of the game and moved him to where the ball was. It was beyond ridiculous, and my first taste of the "insane sports parent." Mmm. What was that I was saying about sports giving CHILDREN a sense of accomplishment and self? I meant to say, you make your child play sports to give YOURSELF a sense of meaning. What was I thinking?
After the game, we set off for The Kid's special day.
After three weeks of Kindergarten, The Kid finally filled his sticker chart with hard-earned happy faces from school. So, we set off for The Kid's chosen special destination, The Butterfly Pavillion, or as The Kid calls it, The Butterfly Pavilliam, like it rhymes with the name "William." Hee!
The Butterfly Pavillion is pretty awesome. It is relatively expensive, in that it cost us $14 for admission and has only three rooms. The exhibits, however, ROCK. There is a creepy-crawly room, which The Kid loves, but gives me heart burn. There is an exhibit titled, "Beetle or Roach?" While they have a terrarium with freakishly huge and scary South American cockroaches, they also have one with the common household roach. Every time I go there I have to laugh at that one... There are so many people out there that live with these un-killable bugs but here in suburban America, we put them under glass so we can show children what roaches really look like. WOW are we lucky or what?
In the creepy-crawly room they also have a tarantula that a docent and the very brave Pavillion-goer can hold. The Kid has chickened out every time we've gone there. I think he chose to come here for this special day because he was determined that this time, oh yes, he would hold Rosie, The Tarantula. I must admit that I, too, have chickened out every time as well. This time, we both had the steely resolve to hold Rosie. Long story short? We did, and it was SO cool. She had the softest touch. I watched her "feet" on The Kid, and was reminded of the little bushy feet of a Bichon Frise... So, when it was my turn, I just tried to imagine that she was a very small, black Bichon with eight legs and a thorax instead of a tail. This delusion actally worked proving that with bugs, it's all mind over matter.
The other (and main) highlight of the special day was the Butterfly room. It is a huge greenhouse filled with butterflies. They are just everywhere... If it was hard for me to describe soccer, this one is impossible. Its just really cool and you'll have to take my word for it.
Oh, and The Kid saved a turtle. We rounded a corner of the butterfly room where a large crowd of people had congregated. The Kid, who must always know what is going on in a crowd, pushed us forward and we saw two turtles, a small one (about 9 inches long), stuck underneath a large one (about 1.5 feet long). The little one was just big enough to make it impossible for the large one to get any kind of footing to get off of the little one. They were stuck. I have no idea how they got into the predicament, but the kids were all mesmerized, and the parents were all looking at each other with a "what should we do--is there a turtle wrastler among us?" look on all of their faces. The Kid, who cannot stand to see his fellow earthly creatures suffer, just walked up to the turtles, assessed the situation, picked up the large turtle and gently set him back down on the ground, next to the little turtle. The little turtle was no doubt grateful for this and literally ran off of the path and into the faux jungle bushes. I think the whole holding of a tarantula made The Kid quite comfortable with all sorts of tropical creatures. The crowd dispersed, and we followed the big turtle around for another five minutes or so, and watched him try to eat leaves and slowly make his way back to his home in the little pond of the Butterfly Greenhouse.
Our next special day will be the Zoo... I hope he fills the chart before it starts to snow!!!
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Thank you, thankyouverymuch!
So, good news today! 4 happy faces! He had a great day!
When I picked him up from day care today, he told me the great news, hugged me and we shared one big happy face between us. I said, "well, we should have a party!!!" We went to the gas station and bought three bottles of soda (a rare thing in my house, that soda).
After dinner, we invited Little Neighbor down for our rocking party. I asked the kids if they wanted to have a dance party, but they decided on a much tamer drink-soda-while-we-play-with-the-Leap-Pad party. I just love parties, so I was in for it. I played, or rather, watched them play for a little while and decided instead to have a do-the-dishes party. We know how to party, yo.
A while later, Little Neighbor came into the kitchen complaining of the hiccups. I handily cured them, I think, because after he drank his water, he ran back down the hall to go party, but instead ran head-to-head into The Kid. It would have been a manageable collision if The Kid hadn't been holding a robotic dinosaur at the time. Little Neighbor got hurt, and I walked him home for some tender lovin' care from his mommy.
When I got home, I found The Kid crumpled up on his bed, quietly crying. I asked him if he was hurt. He said, "No, I ruined my party!"
I said, how can we turn this party around? You had such a good day, let's make this a good night! I was thinking bowl-of-ice-cream better, or perhaps extra-chapter-of-Harry-Potter better.
The Kid wiped his eyes and looked at me, and said, "Mom? I think I need some Rock and Roll."
About three months ago I had a dinner party where The Kid made his room into a concert hall. He put all the blankets and pillows on the floor (so I guess it was more like a jam-band flophouse than a concert hall) and he got on his bed and performed a rock concert for us. We asked him what his band was called, and he replied, "The Rock Star Scare." He sang The Rock Star Scare's biggest hits, "Twenty-million years ago" and "T-Rex/Velociraptor." He even signed autographs. The Kid LOVES the Rock and Roll.
So, rocking and rolling was apparently in order. I asked him, what kind of Rock and Roll do you need? With complete, earnest resolve, he replied, "Mom, I need Elvis." Amen, hallelujah.
We put on my CD of Elvis's 1978 tv concert and rocked out. We jitterbugged, we boogied. I taught him how to dance like Elvis the Pelvis... He got our wooden back scratcher for a microphone and serenaded me with "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" By the end of Don't Be Cruel, he had completely forgotten about the Little Neighbor vs. Robotic Dinosaur collision (although I'm not sure about Little Neighbor, doubt he's forgotten), and The Rock Star Scare ended his very good day with a good night, Thank you! Thankyouverymuch!
On an aside, if you think that is funny, check out Mister Lady's kid's recent night-night "tuck in."
When I picked him up from day care today, he told me the great news, hugged me and we shared one big happy face between us. I said, "well, we should have a party!!!" We went to the gas station and bought three bottles of soda (a rare thing in my house, that soda).
After dinner, we invited Little Neighbor down for our rocking party. I asked the kids if they wanted to have a dance party, but they decided on a much tamer drink-soda-while-we-play-with-the-Leap-Pad party. I just love parties, so I was in for it. I played, or rather, watched them play for a little while and decided instead to have a do-the-dishes party. We know how to party, yo.
A while later, Little Neighbor came into the kitchen complaining of the hiccups. I handily cured them, I think, because after he drank his water, he ran back down the hall to go party, but instead ran head-to-head into The Kid. It would have been a manageable collision if The Kid hadn't been holding a robotic dinosaur at the time. Little Neighbor got hurt, and I walked him home for some tender lovin' care from his mommy.
When I got home, I found The Kid crumpled up on his bed, quietly crying. I asked him if he was hurt. He said, "No, I ruined my party!"
I said, how can we turn this party around? You had such a good day, let's make this a good night! I was thinking bowl-of-ice-cream better, or perhaps extra-chapter-of-Harry-Potter better.
The Kid wiped his eyes and looked at me, and said, "Mom? I think I need some Rock and Roll."
About three months ago I had a dinner party where The Kid made his room into a concert hall. He put all the blankets and pillows on the floor (so I guess it was more like a jam-band flophouse than a concert hall) and he got on his bed and performed a rock concert for us. We asked him what his band was called, and he replied, "The Rock Star Scare." He sang The Rock Star Scare's biggest hits, "Twenty-million years ago" and "T-Rex/Velociraptor." He even signed autographs. The Kid LOVES the Rock and Roll.
So, rocking and rolling was apparently in order. I asked him, what kind of Rock and Roll do you need? With complete, earnest resolve, he replied, "Mom, I need Elvis." Amen, hallelujah.
We put on my CD of Elvis's 1978 tv concert and rocked out. We jitterbugged, we boogied. I taught him how to dance like Elvis the Pelvis... He got our wooden back scratcher for a microphone and serenaded me with "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" By the end of Don't Be Cruel, he had completely forgotten about the Little Neighbor vs. Robotic Dinosaur collision (although I'm not sure about Little Neighbor, doubt he's forgotten), and The Rock Star Scare ended his very good day with a good night, Thank you! Thankyouverymuch!
On an aside, if you think that is funny, check out Mister Lady's kid's recent night-night "tuck in."
Monday, September 19, 2005
Parenthood isn't my only passion, you know...
Being a Denver native, I definitely belong to this club. My sister and brother-in-law have started a new blog...
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