I should have known that raising two boys in Hoboken was going to have some weird consequences.
This town is full of machismo. I'm talking about Old World machismo. Seventyish-year-old Italian men smoking cigars outside the Juventus Soccer Club a few blocks from our apartment. ALL freaking DAY. Soccer club? More like an I-need-somewhere-to-hide-from-my-nagging-wife club.
It should have been enough of a warning for me that Frank Sinatra was arrested on these very streets for renegging on a marriage proposal. The swine.
So it shouldn't have surprised me when I got a talking to from Julian about my, ahem, femininity.
"Mom, why don't you wear dresses?"
"I don't know, Julian. I don't like dresses."
"But you're a girl. All girls should wear dresses. All the time." His little hands flip up in the air like they do when he feels that what he's saying is more than obvious. Duh.
Really. We're packing up our lunch bag and getting ready to head out the door for pre-school. I'm thinking of switching out the pretzels for liver and onions.
Juli bounds away to his room. Oh good, he forgot something. Maybe my tiara.
"Here! Mom!" he says, running back to the kitchen and swinging several red strands of mardi gras beads. "Put these on." I oblige. "And Mom?" I can't wait. What else? Oh right, my garter and stockings. Jesus, why didn't I think of that? "Mom?"
"Yes, Julian. I'm standing right here."
"Can you put that stuff on your nails, too. Mabye like a red, or a pink, or something like that."
"You mean nailpolish?"
"Yeahyeahyeah. That. Nailpolish. Can you put on that? Can you put that now?"
I don't look at him. I shove a napkin into his lunchbag. "No. We have to go to school. We're late already."
He's disappointed about this. Not about going to school, but about having to go to school with me not having nailpolish on. It reminds me of a recent episode of What Not To Wear. They were trashing this mom on the show because she took her kids to school in yoga pants. I had to turn it off. Do Stacy and Clinton take kids to school? Not even close. They probably don't even walk their own dogs. When Stacy and Clinton stay up all night with monsters under the bed and spend all morning in a power struggle over a 3T outfit, then they can tell me what to wear to take my kid to school. Julian, on the other hand, is another problem.
This town is full of machismo. I'm talking about Old World machismo. Seventyish-year-old Italian men smoking cigars outside the Juventus Soccer Club a few blocks from our apartment. ALL freaking DAY. Soccer club? More like an I-need-somewhere-to-hide-from-my-nagging-wife club.
It should have been enough of a warning for me that Frank Sinatra was arrested on these very streets for renegging on a marriage proposal. The swine.
So it shouldn't have surprised me when I got a talking to from Julian about my, ahem, femininity.
"Mom, why don't you wear dresses?"
"I don't know, Julian. I don't like dresses."
"But you're a girl. All girls should wear dresses. All the time." His little hands flip up in the air like they do when he feels that what he's saying is more than obvious. Duh.
Really. We're packing up our lunch bag and getting ready to head out the door for pre-school. I'm thinking of switching out the pretzels for liver and onions.
Juli bounds away to his room. Oh good, he forgot something. Maybe my tiara.
"Here! Mom!" he says, running back to the kitchen and swinging several red strands of mardi gras beads. "Put these on." I oblige. "And Mom?" I can't wait. What else? Oh right, my garter and stockings. Jesus, why didn't I think of that? "Mom?"
"Yes, Julian. I'm standing right here."
"Can you put that stuff on your nails, too. Mabye like a red, or a pink, or something like that."
"You mean nailpolish?"
"Yeahyeahyeah. That. Nailpolish. Can you put on that? Can you put that now?"
I don't look at him. I shove a napkin into his lunchbag. "No. We have to go to school. We're late already."
He's disappointed about this. Not about going to school, but about having to go to school with me not having nailpolish on. It reminds me of a recent episode of What Not To Wear. They were trashing this mom on the show because she took her kids to school in yoga pants. I had to turn it off. Do Stacy and Clinton take kids to school? Not even close. They probably don't even walk their own dogs. When Stacy and Clinton stay up all night with monsters under the bed and spend all morning in a power struggle over a 3T outfit, then they can tell me what to wear to take my kid to school. Julian, on the other hand, is another problem.
We head out the door and he looks reluctantly toward my hand that his held out to take his, but he takes it anyway.
"Mom, that's OK. When we go to the store again, when we go," he rubs his sleeve across his nose. Now who's gross? "When we go, I'll find a dress that you can wear. OK? I'll find it for you and then you can wear it and then you'll be sooooooo beautiful."
He looks up at me, absolutely enamored with his plan. Smiling like a carved pumpkin. I shake down the leg of my yoga pants and follow him into the elevator.
