Awkward Mom vs. Transportation

All the great superheroes have great transportation. The Batmobile. The USS Enterprise. The Millenium Falcon. Guess Iron Man counts as transportation in and of himself. The Blackbird. Spiderman had a Spider-Dune-Buggy until he crashed it, which is just as well. Web-shooters, organic or man-made, are a way cooler way to get around New York. Do I even need to mention teleporters? Time machines; both Delorean-housed and the more straightforward H.G. Wells construction. Oh course, some people like their time machines in the shape of police boxes. Jets are popular; the Avengers use one of Tony Stark's, Wonder Woman has her invisible one, and Green Lantern just makes one with his magic ring. Oh, hold on, Readers. What's that, Awkward Dad? Oh, really? OK, correction: Green Lantern uses his "power ring," which is sustained solely with his imagination and willpower, to create virtual shape-shifting by generating a hard-light holographic disguise, to create a personal force field, or to merely fly himself. Well, here at Awkward Manor we don't have magical rings that do everything, but we do have a beige 2005 Toyota Sienna. The Awkward Mobile!

 

Which currently smells like onion rings. OK, well, see what happens is that I have to make a quick trip to Target and Super Toddler isn't having it. At all. He is currently clinging to the underside of the cart and screaming "No, no! Stop stealing me, strange lady!" So, I do what any other mom does when pushed to the wall; I tell him that if he stops pretending to be kidnapped, he can have 1 thing from the $1 section of Target. Anything he wants. Have you not met the $1 section of Target, Readers? Oh, you poor things. It is glorious; about 3 short aisles of brightly colored junk that will keep your children occupied forever. Enough glow bracelets to throw a rave! Cheap toy cars probably laden with lead paint! Wrapping paper! Greeting cards! Seasonal stamps! Baskets! Shower poofs! Stickers by the millions! St. Patrick's Day crap, dripping with glitter! Grow your own Basil kits, complete with dirt! Slinkys! All for you and all right there in the doorway of Target, no need to make a separate trip to the $1 store. So, I pry him out from under the cart and let him loose. I smugly smile to myself, as I meander over to pick out some greeting cards (I am not immune to the lure of the $1 section); he'll return with a slinky or toy car, per usual, and we will be on our way.

 

But my smug smile turns sour when he comes bounding back to our cart with a bag of onion rings. Oh nuts, I seem to have forgotten that there is a food section of the $1 section, the dark underbelly of this product playground. Target's food $1 section is like the $1 section's shameful cousin that you really hope won't make it to the wedding. Or under the boardwalk at Coney Island; oh sure the song is catchy and all, but you wanna know what is really under the boardwalk at Coney Island? No, neither do I. Probably graffiti and condom wrappers, just to start with. The $1 food section is awash with stale cotton candy, gummy ropes, and, apparently, bags of onions rings. Who buys a bag of onion rings? A bag? Onion rings belong in their natural habitat; a greasy paper cup at the State Fair. Perhaps on the side of your Cheeseburger at the diner. Or maybe in a tower at Red Robin; even then, you are pushing it. But they, unequivocally, do not belong in a bag, at Target, in my cart, next to discounted shaving cream and cat litter. And they certainly do not belong in the Awkward Mobile, but sadly, that is where they end up. And, even more sadly, that is where they are opened.

 

See that shiny picture up there? Yeah, that was taken the day we bought the Awkward Mobile. These days she is covered in snow, which is hardly anyone's fault, expect maybe Michigan's. But she is also covered in Cheerios, Goldfish, and that dirt cloud that used to follow Pig Pen around on the Peanuts, and I lay the blame for that squarely on three little shoulders. I think you might know them. Let's take a tour!

 

OK, let's start in the front seat, which usually looks like this:

Super Toddler loves many things, but there are three things that rank above all others:

Monster Trucks, Transformers, and Pretending to Drive the Van.

Or really any car, he isn't too picky.

 

And since Super Toddler just figured out how to undo his own seat belt, the front seat looks more and more like this. Other than random toddlers, it also contains; 3 books we need to return to the library, an assortment of change, 1 button, Duct Tape, a package of diaper wipes, some gum, a garage door opener to our old house in Illinois, a air freshener that was fresh 6 months ago, a pretty consistent film of gray snow, a broken glove box that is taped shut with Duct Tape, and a Birthday Card for Awkward Mom that Awkward Dad forgot to sign or bring in the house.   

 

The middle seat contains 2 car seats, a cup holder full of Good n' Plenty's, 3 empty baby food pouches, a 2007 Atlas, Super Baby, 2 winter hats, an empty bottle of apple juice, 1 glove, a empty bag of onion rings, whichever Super Boy won today's Toddler-Shotgun, an Advent Wreath that Super Preschooler made, and acres and acres of Cheerios. There is also part of a pickle stuck to the passenger side sliding door window that Super Preschooler threw there on our last road trip to see the Awkward Grandparents.

 

The back seat is where toys go to die. There are 25 of them currently in the car, 5 of which are from McDonald's. 8 are toy dinosaurs in various sizes. There are also transformers, wands, books, crayons, an etch-a-sketch, travel bingo, numerous toy cars, the table to Super Preschooler's toy castle, a water gun, and 1 dress-up shoe. The back seat has 2 car seats; booster and regular. There is a microscopic space next to these where Awkward Mom is expected to sit anytime we travel with an extra adult. Currently an old diaper box sits there to collect the car toys. It is empty. There are 4 cup holders back there, they are all sticky and one of them might have something growing in it. I don't know, I am too afraid to look closely. The floor has the aforementioned Cheerios and Goldfish, plus 2 granola bars wrappers, a Cracker Jack bag, a leathery cheese stick, and banana peel. The ceiling is peppered with brown dots from that time Awkward Dad thought it wise to give Super Toddler a lidless chocolate shake.

 

The truck is the cleanest place in the van, with 1 blue tub, a bottle of water, a car scraper, this chair cover that I have to return to Ikea, a backpack with extra clothes for the children, and 2 sand toys. And yes, it is possible for a grown adult to fit comfortably back there, just ask Awkward Uncle.

 

So, she isn't invisible, able to time travel, or made out of a magic ring powered with willpower, but she is ours. (Completely ours; we got her in one of our better car deals ever.) The Awkward Mobile joined us right before Super Baby did, as I did not fancy stuffing three children into the back of a Toyota Corolla, which can be done, by the way:

 

Surprise, surprise, we decided to get the Awkward Mobile instead, and there hasn't been one day that I have regretted that decision. She is a mini-van worthy of a Superhero Family much less awkward then ours, but I am glad she sticks around with us anyway.

 

Messy, fragrant with onion rings and a diaper that can wait until we get home, we adore our Awkward Mobile. She is roomy and reliable and ready to road-trip at a moment's notice. But of all of us, I think Super Toddler might love her the best.

Awkward Mom vs. Chinese food

Before we begin, we just want to let you all know how Awkward Mom's presentation went in writing class last night; relatively well. The Supers were a hit, especially Super Baby, as Awkward Mom decided on Awkward Mom vs. First Birthday (sans cake, that is). Most liked it, but there was this one lady who found it boring. However, that is just fine because it lights a fire under Awkward Mom and gears her up for her next presentation in March. We'll be seeking your advice on what piece to bring to really wow her, and the rest of the class. We are confident in Awkward Mom's ability to win her over. Parenting is many things, awkward as all get out for example, but it is never boring. Speaking of never boring....

OK, so what happens is this: about 10 months ago, Awkward Dad gets barred from his favorite Chinese take-out. That really is overstating it; it is really more of a self-imposed exile. He gets into a ridiculous phone fight with the proprietress about what constitutes a dinner size vs. a lunch size. Here is something you should know about Awkward Dad. He has the patience of a saint; how else do you expect him to put up with the antics of a young superhero family, medical residency, and living in a state where winter is about half the year? He does it beautifully, with limited complaining and hardly any binge drinking. But, as with any saint, all that holiness is bound to spill over once in awhile in some honest to goodness get-behind-me-Satan moments. When Awkward Dad blows his top, it is truly volcanic. And not like some volcano in the middle of the ocean that is always blowing its lid, making new islands like so many old hats. No. Awkward Dad is like Pompeii-level, both in unexpectedness and damage. And like Pompeii, it is usually brought on by exhaustion and hunger. (I have no historical evidence to support that, but I like to think that Mount Vesuvius was just looking for a little snack.)

Anywho, Awkward Dad is shouting on the phone with China King's owner over what amounts to $7. (Names have totally been changed, mostly so Awkward Dad doesn't truly get banned this time.). The owner says he is crazy, he says she is cheating him. He says she didn't take the order correctly, she says he didn't give it correctly. It goes on and on, but the end result is him announcing that he is never ordering from them again, her saying good, and him trying to slam down a cell phone. It is less than effective, but I do notice a stronger than usual poke at the end call button. OK, all well and good. I couldn't care less, as I don't particularly like Chinese food unless I am pregnant and craving the entire world's great bounty of food choices. We eat out too much anyway, this could be a good thing for us.

Fast forward to yesterday: Awkward Dad is tired, way behind on his work, frazzled, and rumbling like it is 79 AD. Uh oh. I have been at writing class, leaving him alone with all three Supers at the end of a significantly rough day on all counts, so by the time I walk in the door, his ears look like they are smoking slightly. You see, I was nervous about presenting at class and didn't exactly make any dinner before I left. I may have pointed to some carrots and chicken nuggets on my way out the door. Suffice to say, things have reached a critical window by the time I return and lava is imminent. I manage to get the Supers in bed in under 15 minutes, which is no mean feat by the way, and then this happens:

Me: Pizza?

Awkward Dad: (Giant sigh) If you want.

Me: Subs?

Awkward Dad: (Even bigger sigh) I suppose.

Me: Chinese?

Awkward Dad: Why do you hate me?

Me: Aren't there any other Chinese restaurants you like?

Awkward Dad: We have been through this a million times. General Tso's chicken needs a precise balance of spicy and sweet; one does not just slap that together. It is an art, not a syrup concoction, like at Emperor China. Ugh. Or that horrible neon sauce from China Prince. Don't even get me started on China Baron....(Long and unnecessary shudder)

Me: Honey, maybe it is time to just call China King again. I mean, we have moved since then, maybe they won't know it is us....

Awkward Dad: It is the principle of the thing. I said I would never go back. I am a man of my word.

Me: Right....like when you told Super Preschooler that you took your iPad to work but you really hid it in the kitchen cabinet?

Awkward Dad: That was for his own good and not the same thing.

Me: Or that time you told him that dragons lived under the bed so that he would leave and you didn't have to share your chocolate?

Awkward Dad: Again, that was for his own good and totally not the same thing.

Me: Or how about the time you threatened to cancel Super Toddler's birthday party if he didn't get in the car in 5 minutes?

Awkward Dad: That was you! And you didn't follow through at all!

Me: My point exactly! Sometimes you need to know when to back down, not all battles are ones that you need to win.

Awkward Dad: This battle is over. We are in cold war territory now.

Me: Well, Mr. Gorbachev, it is time to tear down this wall!

Awkward Dad: You might be right, where is the phone?

Me: Here.

Awkward Dad: That's your Reagan? It sounds more like a psychotic Dirty Harry.

Me: Shut up. Don't you need to look up the number?

Awkward Dad: No, I still have it memorized.

Me: Oh, but I'm psychotic?

Awkward Dad: OK, wait. What voice should I use?

Me: Huh?

Awkward Dad: Which voice? I have to change my voice, I can't let them know it is me. How about British? My good man, might I trouble you for a spot of Crab Rangoon? Pip, pip!

Me: You are not serious.

Awkward Dad: OK, how about like an angry biker dude voice?

Me: Ummm, first of all, your lack of tattoos makes that impossible, I think it is an auditory fact. And secondly, the goal is to clandestinely get food, not really get banned from China King.

Awkward Dad: What about; "Euh, dzees General Zao's, how you say?"

Me: Le no.

Awkward Dad: How about this, "I say, I say, how about some white rice with a number 12, my good man?"

Me: You know that is Foghorn Leghorn, right?

Awkward Dad: (Mumbles incoherently)

Me: What was that?

Awkward Dad: My Bob Dylan.

Me: OK, well, try that one and be surprised with what they bring you then.

Awkward Dad: How about you order for me?

Me: Oh no, nuh uh. You got yourself into this, you get yourself out.

Awkward Dad: OK, OK, here goes. (Sudden, strangely over-enunciated voice) "Um, hi? Is this China King? I ask because I have never ordered from here before. Oh, great. Yes, got your name out of the phone book at random. Well, let's see. What do you have over there? Chinese food? Imagine that! Ah, yes, I see. Well, I say, I say, how about a number 12 with a side of white rice and a spring roll, the dinner size, please. Merci!" Well, how was that?

Me: Unbelievable.

Awkward Dad: You are going to answer the door though, right? Because if you aren't, I am gonna need a mask of some sort....

We repeat, never boring around here.

Super Preschooler's birthday party had the more fun type of volcanoes. That post is on its way and will prove to be epic. Of course, it really can't help itself with a inspiration like this:

Yes, that is Super Preschooler's secret identity emblazoned on that festive fairy cake. When one's first name is number 3 on the list of the most popular boys' names, one's mother can afford to be a slightly lax with online security. 

Awkward Mom vs. Choices

Now that you have all finished tabulating your Oscar pools, we have one other item for you to vote on. Awkward Mom is workshopping in writing class tomorrow and she has narrowed it down to 3 selections. All potential posts have been edited for time and length and, mostly, striped of pictures and pithy pre- and post- narration. We don't want to hit our fellow writers with the full force of Awkward Mom's arsenal of awkwardness at once. Let's ease in, shall we? Help us pick the one to completely and utterly wow them. Well, OK, that might be aiming a bit high. Help us pick the least embarrassing one. The nominees are:

Awkward Mom vs. the Doctor Visit

(which is combined into 1 and rant-free for class purposes)

 

Awkward Mom vs. Zoo Lights

(which still relies on that adorable W.C. Fields picture of Super Baby to end strong)

 

Awkward Mom vs. First Birthdays

(which is cake and picture free for class purposes, don't want anyone getting hungry mid-read)

Don't like to rush you guys, but class is tomorrow at 6:30. Which one shall we pick to avoid this reaction:

Awkward Mom vs. Fairy Cakes

Not these. Those Awkward Mom would assuredly beat.

Super Preschooler's birthday party is on Saturday. 15 little boys and girls are going to meet us at the local children's museum to celebrate Super Preschooler, make volcanoes, and basically run amok. Oh, and eat cake. Duh. Can't forget the cake for an Awkward party. So, naturally, we have to go order a cake. Make it? Oh, that's cute. Are you new here? You might be looking for Perfect Mom's blog. I am not sure about the link, as she won't give it to me, but you could always start here.

So, we head over to Meijer to pick out a cake. No judging; they are cheap and they have never done me wrong yet. Super Toddler's Transformers cake was the thing legends are made of. We sidle up the cake case and all the Supers are suddenly quiet. They know hallowed ground when they are near it. We are standing in a tidy silent row before all those delicious choices, when an impossibly young man pops his head over the case; could this child actually be the high priest of this scrumptious shrine?

Cake youth: Can I help you?

Me: hmmmm.... (I am still trying to figure out if Meijer is violating some child labor law.)

Super Toddler: Cake!

Cake youth: Hey, would you guys like some cookies?

Super Preschooler shoots him a dubious look; is that a question that even needs to be asked? Super Baby opens up her arms and reaches toward him, like she is coming home at last, and Super Toddler just says, "Yep." The dessert genie suddenly disappears and then, just as quickly, pops back up with 3 sugar cookies, nestled in a shiny piece of wax paper. He hands them to me and waits patiently while I am mobbed by my children. When I am finally able to come up for air, we start again.

Cake youth: So, what can I help you with?

Me: I need a birthday cake. (I have now pegged his age at somewhere between 16 and 25; the combo acne/goatee-attempt is jamming my age radar.)

Super Preschooler: Forty.

Me: Who's forty?

Super Preschooler: Forty! (This is accompanied by a slight crumb-spewing laugh.)

Cake youth: I think he might be saying "for me." Are you the birthday boy?

Super Preschooler nods and continues to rain cookie crumbs down on the pristine glass case.

Cake youth: Well, what kind of cake would you like? Sports? Spiderman? We have an awesome Transformers cake!

Super Preschooler pauses and takes a huge swallow; he must be gearing up for something big. And he is. "I want a Fairy Cake!"

Now, here's a little back story you might need: Super Preschooler was originally going to have a Space Birthday to ring in year 5. However, when I called the Natural History Museum to schedule it, they told me that they would be happy to, but that their planetarium would not be available that day for a star show. I still am not entirely sure what a space party is without a planetarium show, but, needless to say, I politely declined. I asked Super Preschooler for his backup plan and he announced that he wanted a Fairy party and he wanted to troop around downtown Ann Arbor looking for fairy doors. What are fairy doors? Oh, read here. Basically, Super Preschooler wanted to lead a fairy scavenger hunt, which is adorable and all that, if one's birthday isn't in a Michigan February. When faced with the reality of the weather, Super Preschooler settled for the Children's Museum and Volcanoes, but it appears that he never quite let go of the fairies.

I am never sure how people are going to take Super Preschooler's enthusiastic and absolute disregard for traditional gender stipulations. Children his age typically don't notice. Older children might laugh or ask him why he is doing "unboy" things. Either way, they deal directly with Super Preschooler and he, being his little self-confident self, wins them over and has cast them in some play of his before I have time to worry. Adults are another matter altogether. Adults typically vacillate between slight horror and overcompensating attempts to be cool with it. "Oh, gosh, I would never let my son wear a dress, how are you coping with it?" to "How brave and accepting are you; what a wonderful way to demonstrate tolerance!" I hate both. Here's why:

1. My son isn't wearing a dress. My son is wearing a dress-up Cinderella mock tulle and faux lace A-line ballgown with an asymmetrically draped bodice. Let's be accurate here, people.

2. The fact that he is wearing said dress to play pretend in a play sanctioned location with other children who are playing pretend doesn't seem to demonstrate any particularly rebellious behaviors on his part that I need to be worried about or cope with.

3. Yes, there are occasions when Super Preschooler accessorizes in public with a necklace (or 20), a couple hats, 12 scarves, and more bracelets than an 80s Madonna video. He looks no more bizarre than any frat boy on South Beach come Spring Break, and if accessories are the sole property of the female gender, someone really ought to tell the Catholic Church, Steven Tyler, and the entire male population of New Jersey.

4. He is 4 years old. OK, OK, he is 1 week away from being 5 years old. (Don't rush me; it goes too fast as it is!) He is in no more danger of running off and joining a cross dressing burlesque show than I am. Mostly because I can't walk in those heels. Seriously, have you seen those things? Super Preschooler says it best; "I am not pretending to be a girl. I am pretending to be a princess. Now, out of my way, I have a village to save from a dragon and a ball to plan."

5. Stick around and watch. Within the same play period, he is going to be an astronaut, a tree, an ogre, a really bossy director, and Iron Man. If I believed that everything he plays and is interested in right now is somehow reflective of what he is going to do as an adult, I would spend my life in a constant state of worry and constantly on the phone with NASA, finding out exactly how safe those suits really are.

6. Furthermore, we all know that he is going to surpass any and all fantasies that I have for him anyway, so it is pointless to try and figure out what and who he will be someday. He will be amazing, that much is sure.

7. I am not being particularly tolerant because there is nothing to be tolerant of. He is playing a game. He isn't making a political statement. He isn't coming out. He isn't identifying a sexual orientation. He is playing a game. Because he is 4 years old. OK, 5 years old.

8. If and when he decides to do any of the things in point 7, I will still have no need to be tolerant because there will still be nothing for me to be tolerant of. Tolerate means to accept or endure something that you don't particularly like. Now, there are plenty of things to endure about raising children. Like when I ask him to get me something and he rolls his eyes and says "yes, your Highness." Or he won't brush his teeth. Or when he yells at me or fights with his brother and sister. Or when he is sassy or crabby or won't eat or says he hates me. There will be plenty of things to endure when he grows up. Like when he breaks curfew the first time. Or dates someone I don't like. Or crashes his car. Or goes to college 8 states away. Or doesn't call me often enough. Or isn't there next to me by the Meijer cake case, being almost 5, eating a sugar cookie and getting crumbs everywhere, wearing 8 Mardi Gras necklaces and a Cubs hat, while smiling up at me and announcing that he wants a fairy cake. He is my son and I love him completely and unconditionally; dresses never even come into it.

So, completely fiery and intense tangent that totally happened in my head behind us, I hold my breath and look up at this cake youth to see what kind of reaction he will have to Super Preschooler's request. 16-25 isn't quite child and it isn't quite adult, so all bets are off here. He pauses and thinks for a minute before disappearing again behind his magical cake case. He emerges laden with an immense book that looks like it ought to be chained to a table somewhere in a Medieval monastery. He beams as he holds it out to Super Preschooler.

Cake youth:  Here, check these out. We have 4 different fairy cakes; this one has Tinkerbell coming out of an actual plastic flower. Awesome, huh?

Super Preschooler: Yes, awesome!

Totally awesome.

Except it wasn't awesome. The Tinkerbell flower one. It looked like some obscene Disney-fied Birth of Venus. Luckily, Super Preschooler agreed with me and picked one where Tinkerbell and 2 fairy buddies are hanging out in the middle of the cake in frosting. Much less creepy. Super Preschooler's birthday is going to be volcanic fairy magic. 

And you, cookie dispensing cake youth. You are officially going on my list of fairy godpeople. Love you. And as I love you, let me tell you the truth; that goatee is not working, my friend. Not in the slightest. 

I didn't think we were going to beat last year's cake, but Super Preschooler and the Cake Youth might have done it.

What's that? Yes, you in the back. No, I didn't make this one either. Why are you still here? I thought I sent you to Perfect Mom's ages ago! 

Awkward Mom vs. Movies -rematch

IMDB. We'll say it again. IMDB. OK, OK, be lazy. Here it is.

Nearly 5 years ago and I am watching the 80th Oscars and calling my mother at every commercial, per usual. (She has particularly awesome things to say about Tilda Swinton's speech and dress; someday I am gonna write a book of my mother's Oscar witticisms. Or her witticisms in general. The woman is a modern day Dorothy Parker, but, you know, less drunk.) It is the "dark Oscars," the year of murderous oilmen and the scariest pageboy in creation. When the funnest thing in your arsenal is teen pregnancy, Hollywood, let's put down the cocaine and relax a little, eh? Totally kidding, Hollywood! Snort away because it is a great year for movies; the year my mother falls in love with Javier (despite his hair), Jon Stewart is really funny, and the writer's strike has just ended. Hope reigns supreme and I am riveted to the screen. Well, to be honest, I am actually watching it out of the corner of my eye because I am pacing the room and debating drinking Tabasco, while I frantically try to induce labor. Super Preschooler is 10 days late and I feel like an Iceberg floating toward an unsuspecting Titanic. (Oh, I haven't even begun, Readers. Fasten your seatbelt, it is gonna be a bumpy post. Whee, another one!)

Now, a word about Super Preschooler as Super Fetus. The child is still pretty sloth-like, but in utero, if he moved once a day, I was lucky. I treasured those rare kicks and burned with envy at my fellow gestaters who rhapsodized about midnight gymnastics and playing little games of tag with their fetuses (feti?). Nope, Super Preschooler rationed out his movements and I hadn't had one all day. I was starting to think that I was losing my mind (one of the best ways to win an Oscar, incidentally; play crazy) and having an hysterical pregnancy. Anyone who has seen me eat can easily figure out where the weight gain came from. So, I am whirling around the room in flannel pjs that won't fully close, mumbling about Castor oil and dragging a throw blanket behind me like a crazy queen, and that is when an actual queen stalks onto the Oscar stage. OK, so it is really Helen Mirren to present the Best Actor award, but come on, she is totally regal. I finally sit down on the coffee table to watch her announce Daniel Day-Lewis as Best Actor, and Super Preschooler goes insane. Now, I mean insane for him, which is maybe 3 kicks and a poke to the ribs, but it feels wonderful and I take it as a sign that he is finally coming to meet us. I am about 2 days, 16 hours of active labor, and an emergency C-section off, but I am right that it is a sign. It is a sign that our Best Actor in a Leading Role has arrived and would like to thank the Academy.

In 84 Academy Awards, there have been 85 best actor awards given to 76 different men. I am pretty sure that Super Preschooler could out-act all of them if it meant that he could get out of going to bed. No one needs that many drinks of water.... While Super Toddler is a born character actor and Super Baby just wants to direct, Super Preschooler is the star of the show. That the show is something that he and Awesome Preschooler threw together with some glitter and 3 my Little Ponies, and then presented from the top of the stairs with an audience of me, Awesome Mom, 5 stuffed animals, and a sleeping Super Toddler takes nothing away from it. Super Preschooler's shows are epics to rival Lawrence of Arabia. (Now, you can't really say that Peter O'Toole was robbed in 1962 considering that he lost out of Gregory Peck, playing Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. Don't really get more best than that.)

Of course, if you were going to get more best (simmer down, Grammar police) than that, it might look like this:

This is how Super Preschooler looks most of the time, and yes, that includes the frosting goatee. Want a more recent picture? Here ya go:

I took this one last week. To truly understand the leading man power and ego of Super Preschooler, let me flesh out this photo a little for you. According to him, he is dressed as "Rosetta, Fairy Warrior" and he is wielding a "magical rose that has to power to turn all to stone." We are hosting a playdate with a boy that has clashed with Super Preschooler before on dress-up issues. Said boy informs Super Preschooler than he should not be wearing a dress, as he is a boy. Super Preschooler fixes him with a gaze that is equal parts contempt and pity and way older than his nearly 5 years, and then he calmly states that "I can pretend to be anything. Poof, you are stone now!"

Emil Jannings won the first Oscar for a Lead Actor, and, since stuff was totally done differently in the 1920s, he won his award for 2 different roles, a bank clerk and a grand duke. Over his brief film catalog (the advent of sound and his thick German accent killed his career), one finds Henry VIII, some czars, Othello, numerous professors, and, naturally, the Devil. Not many could go toe-to-toe with Emil in versatility, but I bet you that Super P. could. Whose middle name is, incidentally, Emil. Super Preschooler's recent show (and I mean, he is doing it right now in the living room while I type this) involves Iron Man rescuing some fairies from an evil plot that an octopus and Darth Vadar have hatched from their lair, the train table. He appears to be letting his brother play Darth Vadar, but all other roles are his to emote with. And emote he does; Emil would be proud.

The 1930s bring us a treasure trove of leading men; Lionel Barrymore plays an alcoholic lawyer, Clark Cable single-handedly ruins the undershirt industry, Paul Muni revitalizes medicine, and Spencer Tracy wins both his Oscars, though he will go on to be nominated 7 more times. Frederic March and Wallace Beery tie in 1932, the only time that this will ever happen in the history of the Oscars. A word about Frederic March; he is my favorite actor of all time. This post is already long and supposed to be about Super Preschooler. Call me if you want to know more; he is an under-appreciated gem. Super P. would have been all over this decade; monsters, screwball comedies, biopics, and Ronald Donat acting so hard that it actually made British people cry.

Yes, she is doing every decade. Take breaks and stay hydrated, it's the only way to complete an Awkward Mom movie marathon alive and sane. 

The 1940s include such cinematic luminaries as James Stewart, Gary Cooper, James Cagney, Bing Crosby, and Laurence Oliver. Fredric March wins again, this time for The Best Years of Our Lives, which may be the best movie about war veterans every made. Or I might be slightly biased. Who cares; you just need to check him out! The leading men of the 40s are honored for their ability to portray alcoholics, soldiers, artists, journalists, and politicians; roles that we, with our modern arrogance, often glance at with misguided sophistication and pronounce quaint. They aren't; they are unflinchingly honest and complex portrayals that colorfully defy their black and white film reels. They are no more quaint that Super Preschooler and his surprisingly astute tales of warrior princesses and sympathetic dragons.

We shift to the 1950s and immediately enjoy Jose Ferrer as Cyrano, Humphrey Bogart as Charlie Allnut, and Gary Cooper in High Noon. Holy Cats, is there no end to this magnificent movie mastery? Nope, because here comes William Holden. And then we have Marlen Brando in On the Waterfront and Earnest Borgnine in Marty, which are two of my favorite movies of all time. Yul Brynner dances with Deborah Kerr, Alec Guinness blows up a bridge, and David Niven sits at Separate Tables, but basically plays himself. Ah, David Niven; wit, charm, and a natty dresser. (Did you know that Ian Flemming had him in mind to play James Bond?) Super Preschooler is well on his way to David Niven territory, pity that we couldn't give him a British edge, but he'll get here. Super Preschooler can pull off a successful David Niven, given (tee-hee) that he got Awkward Grandma's wit and a style that no one in our family tree can claim. Seriously. He is currently wearing a dinosaur shirt, jeans, 8 bracelets, a cape, and devil horns, while telling me that he is desperate need of some more rings. The 1950s end with a win for Charlton Heston, proving that even the Oscar voters are human and vulnerable to err on occasion.

Go get a snack, Readers, we are heading into the 1960s! Burt Lancaster hosts a revival, there are Nazis, Rex Harrison deals with the rain in Spain, and Lee Marvin plays 2 characters in the same movie, each funnier than the next. Gregory Peck makes life harder for men in general as he sets the bar ridiculously high and Sidney Poitier breaks down boundaries beautifully. But I want to talk about Paul Scofield in A Man for all Seasons. When don't I want to talk about A Man for all Seasons is the real question. This stunningly tender portrayal of Sir Thomas Moore is probably in the top 10 reasons why I have any faith at all. More like top 5. It is a life-changing film to watch and it reminds me of Super Preschooler. Not that he is in danger of dying because Henry the VIII is shooting blanks and needs a new wife. No, but Super Preschooler is incredibly principled and faithful. Rules are rules, games are to be fair, and God help you if you told him 5 minutes when you really meant I'm-gonna-say-in-5-minutes-so-he-will-go-away-and-let-me-surf-Facebook-in-peace. Super Preschooler will call you on it. Not in a mean way, mind. But in a Paul-Scofield-gently-disappointed way that will haunt you far longer than any fit.

George C. Scoot marches us into the 1970s and Dustin Hoffman divorces us at the end. (See what I did there? Oh, clever Awkward Mom!) In between, Gene Hackman drives all crazy, Richard Dreyfuss has art imitate life, and Jack Lemmon is quite depressing. Like really depressing; be careful with this one and have some chocolate on hand. Peter Finch and Jack Nicholson both win for playing crazy (told you), and Marlon Brando declines to accept his award for the Godfather for political reasons. George C. Scott actually does the same thing because it is the 70s, Readers. Peace, pot, and protest central. I often think that little flower child Super Preschooler would have fit in quite nicely in the 70s. He just floated in here and told me a story that involved some misunderstood ogres. "Mom, they aren't really mean. I am pretty sure they are actually hungry." Speaking of, be right back!

Man, I love cake. What? Oh, hi there. OK, where was I? Ah, the 1980s. Wow, OK. Robert De Niro beats people up, Henry Fonda becomes the oldest Lead Actor winner ever, and Ben Kingsley plays Gandhi, although I doubt there was much playing involved. Looked pretty hard actually; I have never wanted to feed another human being more. Micheal Douglas teaches us that greed is good, and Dustin Hoffman wins again, this time for counting cards and dancing with Tom Cruise. I would give him an award for dancing with Tom Cruise alone. Robert Duvall, F. Murray Abraham, William Hurt, Paul Newman; my goodness. And yet, I see Super Preschooler all over the place here. Big meaty roles with more than a little scenery chewing. It's OK guys; after all, it was the 80s.

Here's the thing: Super Preschooler is very small for his age and I worry about him constantly; the world is full of big bullies. However, I must remind myself that his little body contains one of the biggest personalities ever housed. For when I worry, stuff like this happens:

Random girl at a church play group: Hey, you can't wear a princess dress! You are so weird.
Super Preschooler: Nope, I am Cinderella, wanna come to my ball? I've got lots of necklaces over here.
Random Girl: hmmmm....OK. Cool, a purple one!

Super Preschooler has got the confidence to be a leading man in any era, even the 80s, which is closed out by a tour de force performance by an up and coming actor named Daniel Day-Lewis. Wonder what ever happened to him?

Ah, the 1990s. Where did I put those Doc Martens and that floral dress? Must be with my flannel shirts and mix tapes. Jeremy Irons and Anthony Hopkins freak us all out, Nicholas Cage and Kevin Spacey depress us all, and Geoffrey Rush shines. (Man, I love wordplay.) Tom Hanks wins back to back Oscars, an honor he shares with Spencer Tracy; they also won both when they were exactly the same age. I smell the Illuminati at work here... Roberto Benigni wins, walks on top of Stephen Spielberg's chair, and gives a speech about making love to the audience. My mother has a field day with that Oscars; it is epic. Just because, here is a picture of my mom and Super Preschooler doing what they do best: hanging window clings and being fabulous:

This was after they hung a light up ghost in window, rags from the curtains, and strategically placed no less than 3 glitter pumpkins all over the house. They share a brain; why do when you can overdo?

The aughts begin with Russell gladiating (what? It can be a verb.), Denzel training, and Adrien playing the piano and kissing Halle Berry. He won the award for the piano playing, but he easily could have won for that kiss. Wow. Jamie Foxx, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Forrest Whitaker, and Sean Penn win for playing real people. Harvey Milk, Truman Capote, Ray Charles, and Idi Amen. Who can match them up? Do it right and I will give you some of this cake I have been eating while writing this. You might want to hurry though.... Daniel Day-Lewis wins his second of three Oscars (if my mother has anything to do with it), Jeff Bridges has a Crazy Heart, and Sean Penn gives another annoyingly political acceptance speech. Sean buddy, run for office already or get off the stage, I am trying to figure out Tilda Swinton's dress and you are blocking my eye line. The aughts are an award-winning decade in the Awkward household too, as they bring us Super Preschooler and the long awaited graduation of Dr. Awkward Dad. Where is my Oscar? I have some folks I would like to thank.

The 2010 Oscars gave Colin Firth the lead actor award for stuttering, and the 2011 Oscars gave Jean Dujardin the lead actor award for not talking at all. 2010 gave Super Preschooler a brother, 2011 gave him a sister, our move to Ann Arbor gave him some good friends willing to act in his opuses (opi?), and now he is ready for his close-ups, Mr. DeMille. There is no other leading actor that I want to share my stage/screen/home with. Super Preschooler is the best kind of lead actor; generous, vivacious, brimming with energy and creativity. Playing with him only enhances your own abilities, only serves to make you a better actor/person/mother. Is he a bit of a drama king with a tendency to chew the scenery and poof you with stone roses? Yes, but so is Al Pacino. Go watch Scent of a Woman and try to refute me. You'll have to trust me on the stone roses. Nothing wrong with a little drama, and Super Preschooler adds plenty to our life here at Awkward Manor. He also adds more than his share of glitter, sequins, and accessories, but there is nothing wrong with a little fabulous overdoing either. And know this, whenever Super Preschooler wins his award (and he will win one, that is totally a foregone conclusion), I will be proudly beaming and probably crying when he thanks me. Oh, he'll thank me. They always thank the mother.

Trust her on that one too, the woman watches enough award shows to know the script. Also, much love and thanks to Awesome Mom, who has arranged it so that Awkward Mom and Awkward Grandma will be watching the 85th Academy Awards in the same room. This hasn't happened in over 10 years and shall be amazingly snarky and delicious on so many levels. Clam dip level, for starters. Fasten your seatbelts, Readers. Oh, you know the rest....

How Awkward Mom usually looks Oscar night; dolled up and on the phone with her mom. This year, we are considering a Lincoln theme, complete with hoop skirts and stovetop hats, or we might just raid Super P.'s jewelry box instead. We'll let ya know after Sunday!

Awkward Mom vs. Writing Class Assignment 1

Well, this week's assignment was to write a "I am from" poem, and you know what that means. Yes indeedy, Awkward Mom is gonna make you read it. How long is this class again....

I am from a snow so powerful that it actually shut down Lake Shore Drive, but a labor long enough for my father to go watch basketball with the doctor.

I am from construction paper and sticker books. The Muppets and riding bikes without helmets. Scratchy couches, cushions perfect only to throw on the floor for games of lava.

I am from too many books, as if that was actually possible. And endless afternoons when my mom made spaghetti and danced barefoot in the kitchen, while the Clancy Brothers sang songs I didn’t understand.

I am from composition notebooks and number 2 pencils. Agate collecting summers and lake effect snow days.

I am from plaid skirts we inched higher with scotch tape and secrets we were afraid the priests would not understand.

I am from midnight philosophy lectures and set construction and joining the socialists just to impress a boy. Impossibly earnest autumn walks, when the poetry was as abundant as the wind.

I am from decidedly not Sex in the City. Rather one amazing blind date. Wedding snow and living on love behind the Kraft plant, by the tracks.

I am from student loans, so many movies, and playing house, which is much harder to win then Scrabble or Solitaire.

I am from a late February sleet, an early January fog, and a bitterly cold mid-November rain. But what can you expect from the children of a blizzard baby?

Now, I am from endless afternoons when I make spaghetti and dance barefoot in the kitchen, while Pandora streams Disney, Sesame Street, and, on occasion, the Clancy Brothers.  

 

It wasn't the best poem in the class by a long shot. Second half of writing class is workshop time and Awkward Mom's turn is next week. She is thinking of bringing an Awkward Mom post, probably one of the less nerdy ones with no Wikipedia links and limited pictures. Any suggestions which one she should take?

 

 

Well Mom, it is no "I Can Read About DC Super Heroes" but it wasn't bad.

Awkward Mom vs. Strep Throat

So, we are all battling strep throat here at Awkward Manor. The past couple days are a blur of hoarse whispers and strawberry flavored antibiotics. All activities are cancelled until future notice. It is too soon to truly document this battle and Awkward Mom just coughed all over the keyboard, which is extra gross, so here are a bunch of Super pictures from Fat Tuesday. We like beads.

 

As soon as we finish our battle with Strep, and it has potential to be epic on the stir-crazy front alone, we shall return to regale you with our adventures once more!
See ya on the flip side!

By the way, Super Baby knows how you got those beads.
She does not approve.
Not one bit.