We discussed how we couldn't believe it snowed again, when we've had several tastes of spring - enough to stow away winter things until next year.
This snow will be gone as quickly as it came. We'll likely be in the yard this weekend working on beds - seriously. This snow doesn't bother me. It's too beautiful.
Then again, I'm in the house drinking coffee in my pajamas, with my hair sticking out like Witchiepoo's from H. R. Pufnstuf, while Toddler Child occasionally asks, "Can I touch you ear?" [Ear fondler, remember?] I'm not shoveling it or peeing in it.
Per Wikipedia - "In colloquial speech, bullying often describes a form of harassment perpetrated by an abuser who possesses more physical and/or social power and dominance than the victim. The victim of bullying is sometimes referred to as a target. The harassment can be verbal, physical and/or emotional.
... Targets of bullying in school are often pupils who are considered strange or different by their peers to begin with, making the situation harder for them to deal with."
One of our sons has been bullied recently. He seems to grasp what has happened and although hurt and fatigued, he has a surprisingly logical perspective about the situation. The bully-er is not a bad or mean child and is fortunate to have a mother who received the information graciously and will redirect his behavior appropriately. I'm confident of this.
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My brother Mallory Joe was severely bullied when he was in the sixth grade. We were raised to be lovers, not fighters. No toy guns in our house, no hitting, no unkindness tolerated. Mother wouldn't even allow us to say the word "weird" because it was derogatory. People aren't weird, she would say, they're different.
Mallory Joe didn't know how to handle the bullying. I don't think Mom knew how bad it was. She listened to my brother and encouraged him to take the high road, remember sticks and stones may break my bones—all the quasi-hippie, make love, not war encouraging words. Mallory Joe did what Mom said...and continued to get. his. ass. kicked.
One day Mallory Joe came home from school, disheveled, clothing torn and clearly shaken. Mother asked him what had happened. I watched her make-love-not-war-philosophy fly out the window as she listened to the humiliation my brother had endured after school.
She sent Mallory Joe and one of his friends out to find the bully that afternoon. She was calm and firm as she gave the boys specific instructions on how and what to say to the bully.
I'll never forget seeing Mallory Joe and his friend confidently ride away on their bicycles, empowered with the knowledge that amnesty for acts not yet committed awaited them when they returned home. Mother channeled her best pissed-off Miss Piggy voice and yelled after them, "OH... AND MAKE HIM BLEED, HONEY!"
"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye." -Miss Piggy
The boys dyed eggs on Friday evening. I always buy one or two extra Paas egg decorating kits so we can dye eggs another time. Once a year seems unnecessarily infrequent for something so fun, but every month seems excessive. Two or three times a year feels about right.
On Saturday I was running last minute errands on behalf of the Easter Bunny. While I was away, Oldest Boy whispered in Chris' ear, "I know you and Mom are the Easter Bunny," and gave a smarmy wink. Chris winked back and said, "Shhh. Don't ruin it for your brothers."
Middle Boy still believes—in everything. It's a blast. He's nine so we know he's close to discovering the truth. Either through his own mental gymnastics, or other kids planting seeds of doubt with their stories of revelation.
"Dad, I can't figure out how the Easter Bunny gets around the whole world. How does he get over the oceans? He can't just hop. Santa at least has the reindeer. They can fly super fast, plus they're part of the horse family." [Duh.]
Middle Boy repeated his thoughts and questions to me this morning.
"Mom, even if the Easter Bunny didn't have to cross the oceans, he has to hop way fast. I can't figure it out. Do you know how he delivers eggs and baskets around the world?"
"No, I don't. [looking up, faking a concerned, confused expression] He has a way though. I'm sure."
What I do know? That the Easter Bunny at our house deserves the wine she drinks while dying eggs, because she hops her ass off making Easter special for the children. [Or "shildren" if it's been a particularly long day.]
Thursday, April 16, 2009 
