The 10 most dangerous toys of your childhood.

The birth of my son may have been a joyous occasion for me but for my Mother, it was a miracle that ranked right up there with the parting of the Red Sea or turning water into wine.  Her only grandchild clearly became more loved than either me or my brother which I think we both understood at first.  I am ashamed to say there was a point that this abundance of adoration for my son became less endearing and more of a tinge of jealousy.

I remember the day the tides turned because it will be seared into my memory forever as the moment I realized my Mother loved my boy more than me.  It all began when he was preparing to ride his skateboard, which his Grammy was not all that thrilled about him having.  She had bought him a helmet, elbow pads, knee pads and gloves.  He was reluctantly putting on his armor when I looked at her and asked, “Mom, why are you making him put on all this crap just to ride his skateboard?”  She looked at me as though my question was a foul smell and said, “I just don’t want him to possibly get hurt, is that such a big deal?”  I said, “It is a HUGE deal, woman!  You NEVER made us wear that stuff and we had those crappy plastic banana skateboards, rode our 10 speeds barefooted, wore shorts on  three wheelers and you never said a damn thing except ‘have fun’.  Now you are all the sudden Miss ‘Safety Conscious’?”

Now she was a bit pissed off at me and I was beginning to think I might need the safety equipment for myself by the way she was glaring at me.  She then did something that made me begin to question whether or not she was losing her memory.  She said angrily, “Well you are the one that insists on buying him things he could possibly get hurt on!  I am just trying to counteract your carelessness with some safety measures.”  My mouth dropped open as I stood there in complete disbelief that this woman had the gall to say that to me.  After I gathered my bottom jaw from the floor and reeled back in my wits I said, “Are you freaking kidding me Mother?  You bought me and Corey LAWN DARTS!  You thought it was a good idea for us to have a toy that even without trying could possibly land in our skulls and kill us.  You put that kind of fun in the hands of siblings, who immediately invented our favorite game of who could get the closest to each other with a huge, pointy, icepick like object without actually hitting them!”

She said, “Well, I don’t recall buying those for you, but you didn’t die did you?  You are still standing here making me feel bad for wanting my ONLY grandchild to be safe so I guess I wasn’t THAT horrible of a Mother!”  I said, “Just admit it, you love your grandson more than your children!”  She said, “Well, duh, have I not made that clear from the very beginning?  Are you sure you were not hit in the head with one of those things, grandkids are way better than kids.”  While her and I were arguing Devin was removing all the equipment.  My Mom asked him, “Aren’t you gonna go ride your skateboard?”  He said, “Nah, I am gonna go play video games.  Mom, I really want lawn darts for my birthday!”  My Mom yells, “NOOO WAY!!!”  I look at her and say, “SERIOUSLY????”  She says, “Well you made good points about how dangerous they are.”  This entire conversation while being disheartening for me was good news for my therapist, it added on at least three 100.00 an hour sessions.

Being the single mother of a teenager brings endless amounts of entertainment.  Sometimes the entertainment is humor, sometimes it is more like something out of a horror flick, but always completely entertaining any way you slice (or stab) it.   He is a good kid, with enough teenagerness to pay me back for the stupid crap I did to my parents, I mean I really should not get away with some of it.  I too must continue to add to my gray hair collection as my parents did before me or should I say because of me.  But this is not about an addition to the on going melodrama I lovingly titled “Hormones Effin’ Suck” (the musical.)  This is actually a happy little moment that I shall cherish til death.

Now mind you once my bouncing baby boy grew to a 6′2″, 200+ lb gorilla for whom I have to take out small loans to feed, I thought the cuteness of his younger days was long gone.  But I found out that this is not the case at all.  My boy, now 16, was going after his first official job.  He was vying for a highly coveted position at Subway as a Sandwich Artist.  Now he had a lot going for him from the beginning, he knew several of the employees and the managers and they all like the kid, what’s not to like he takes after his wonderful, nurturing, hysterically funny mother….oh wait….that’s me…. hmmmm, they liked him despite the fact that I am his Mother and promised to never hold that against him.

Though the managers were ready to hire him, he had to pass an interview with the owner.  So there was an interview set, and then it was “LET THE CUTENESS….BEGIN!”  First he makes himself all clean shaven, removes his piercings (gauged ears and pierced septum.)  Then he informs me that I am taking him to get a new “nice” shirt to wear for the interview.  We picked out this black little number and he was set.  The best part was that he basically hand wrote a resume of sorts that he restarted 5 times until it was “perfect” and to his liking.  The kid called me later that afternoon super excited and spilling out the events of the interview as though it was necessary that he not draw another breath until I had the blow by blow.

He started the next day, and suddenly I had a hankerin’ for a  Subway sandwich and made my way there for lunch.  My sandwich was perfect, though without oregano, which he later told me he put on half the sandwiches he made before he realized it was NOT the pepper.  I could see he was happy, and yes I cried, just like I did the first day of kindergarten.  I am so proud of the man of my house.  Now all I need is a bumper sticker that says “My Son is a Sandwich Artist”  to proudly display on my car.

Sandwich Art