The Big O Gets a Checking Account, a Debit Card and a Name Change

Kids don't learn cursive anymore, and if they do, they forget it when they don't use it. Yes, I know some of you think the loss of mandatory instruction in cursive ranks up there with the other downfalls of modern civilization and depravity, but I honestly could give a flying foo foo. When prompted to sign his name, Oliver had a moment of panic and then with painstaking effort and concentration did so. He lay the pen down and told me how much he hates how long his last name is and what a pain it is to write it out. That's why I'm changing my name when I get old enough, he reminded me. Oh, yeah, I said, What are you changing it to again?

Luck, Oliver replied, Oliver Luck! Doesn't that sound dope?

Reader, I believe he will change his name when he's old enough to do so, and when you see it printed everywhere you'll remember this tiny little blog post, sprung from my tiny little mother mind.™

I Heart the Big O

My son is making so much money from his lemonade stands that he is donating part of the proceeds to the organization that is providing access to medical marijuana to children.  He's also donating to me in the form of the above perks. He's a fine, fine son, and I'm grateful to have the privilege of being his mother (although I'm tempted to dig into his stash -- shhhhhh.).

Boy Conversation #2,368,921

There's a constant war going on in the car between The Power That Is (that would be myself, The Driver) and the Big O. It involves the radio. I prefer KCRW -- both the talk part and the music. The Big O prefers KISS FM which plays the same three or four songs over and over, although sometimes he'll switch to the station that plays fairly decent "old" rock and roll or another pop station that plays one or two songs over and over in between commercials. This morning, I managed to keep The Big O from twiddling with the dial because of an enthralling episode of This American Life, a story that recounted the discovery of pork bung masquerading as calamari. Pork, what? The Big O asked, incredulous? Bung, I said, evidently a slang term for rectum. He still looked confused. I stared straight ahead and said, you know, butt. For once, the Big O was quiet and listened avidly. He didn't touch the dial. When it was over, he shook his head and said that can't be true. That's just stupid.

Later, as we waited in the drive through line at In 'N Out, he switched the station from KCRW to KISS FM which was playing the song of that guy, according to The Big O, that Miley Cyrus had twerked to. I pretended to not know what twerking was, mainly to see if he really knew (which he did), and then I asked him what he thought about that whole incident and he replied the following, quite priceless answer.

Mom, you know it was MILEY CYRUS? You know her, right? First she was Hannah Montana? Then she started singing? Then she got old? Now she's twerking? 

He shook his head. I felt compelled to tie together pork bung, bad pop music, the perils of old age and twerking, but I refrained and shook my head. That can't be true, I said, that's just stupid. Oliver turned that guy off so we could roll down our window and order our lunch.