I also wanted to grow up and be a Playboy Bunny

On October 29, 2012 by Eden M. Kennedy

Sunday morning I was lollygagging in bed with a small but persistent headache and occasional nose bleed, probably due to the fact that I wasn’t quite ready to enjoy normal dinner-with-friends wine drinking quite so close to the finale of my very important head cold. It occurred to me that nose bleeds can be symptomatic of all sorts of fun, including (1) change of seasons/dry weather, (2) brain hemorrhage, (3) getting punched in the face, or (4) over-blowing due to frantic amounts of congestion. But these days I’m also having hourly hot flashes and I haven’t had my period for a couple of months, and so for a moment I was actually addled enough to think, Is that a menopause thing? You start bleeding out of your nose? My mother never warned me about anything like that. We had a warm but shame-based relationship, though, so who knows? My organs could be migrating all over the place but I wouldn’t recognize the symptoms were because there wasn’t a Modess pamphlet about placental nose bleeds for my mom to leave on my bed.

Anyway. Sunday morning I’m lying in bed trying to will myself into the shower, wondering whether I’d be better off with two Advil or a Heineken, when Jackson comes flying in with his blanket over him like a cape. I love my son with all my heart, but not so much when he’s JUMPing UP and DOWN on the BED and then trying to suffocate me. With his love. And his blanket.

I managed to elbow him off me in the most passive, loving, sick-lady way possible, which he adores. We have the world’s laziest wrestling matches. We’ll be lying there watching TV and slowly trying to push each other onto the floor. So there I was with my headache and my bloody nose (and a very attractive dry cough that makes me sound like Lauren Bacall) trying to stiff-arm 100 pounds of boy, who then reared up with his blanket all dramatically and said, “DAMMINT, PAMELA!” and then covered my head like he was actually trying to suffocate me.

I was trapped under the blanket trying fruitlessly to elbow him in the groin in a way that wouldn’t ruin his life, so all he could hear was my muffled, “Oh my God, who is Pamela?”

“I don’t know!” he giggled, trying to sit on my head, “She’s your alter ego! And she’s blonde! . . . And she has a DRINKING PROBLEM!”

I managed to push him off, where he collapsed into a pile of his own hilarity, and I thought, Things are so much more well-defined for Pamela. I’m graying and have a cold-medicine dependency, but she gets to be blonde and call two bottles of champagne a good start.

But also, what in hell does he know to throw around the phrase “drinking problem”? Is he secretly watching Celebrity Rehab? Did I watch Lost Weekend when I was pregnant and Ray Milland crossed the placenta? It’s a shock to hear grown-up phrases come out of your child’s mouth like they know what they’re saying. I mean, kids pick stuff up all over the place, and I know Jackson’s fascinated with what it means to be an adult. When I was his age I was sitting in my bedroom memorizing Cheech and Chong routines and pretending to be Liza Minnelli in Cabaret and my parents didn’t have a clue.



14 Responses to “I also wanted to grow up and be a Playboy Bunny”

  • I’m still trying to figure out where my son learned all his letters. Wasn’t me that taught him. Now I can’t spell in front of him anymore.

    • You know, that thing where you spell so they don’t know what you’re talking about… just in case that wasn’t clear. It’s not like I have a spelling problem that I’m ashamed of or anything.

    • I actually LOLed at this.

  • Lollygagging is a word you just don’t hear often enough.

  • I love all your references (Modess??? I last heard that some 40-odd years ago)! And I love your relationship with your son!

  • I meant to comment on your last post that I’m sorry you’ve been sick. OOPS. I was even more impressed by him using the term alter ego than drinking problem. That Jackson, he’s a keeper.

  • May I call you “Pamela” from now on?

  • OMG. When my mom gave me The Talk, she pulled out a Modess box full of menstruation paraphernalia and pamphlets. I got to keep the box of stuff (belts?? c’mon!), and I promptly wrote “PRIVATE” all over it with a Sharpie and stuck it under my bed forever. Memories…

  • Wait wait wait wait. So you also had a “warm but shame-based relationship” with your mother? So how is it that you are able to write like a motherfucker? I mean, that is, write openly about shameful things like having a body and stuff? Please, tell me your secrets.

    I kind of mean that jokingly, kind of seriously. I relate. That’s mostly what I wanted to say but now I’m turning it into an advice column. Shame sucks.

  • Strange coincidence: Lollygagging suddenly has made its way into my daughter’s vocabulary this month.

    What Jackson said was so brilliant. He’s a 100 lb. Sam Shepherd. Although who knows–maybe Sam Shepherd only weighs 100 lbs. He must be at least 130 though, right? He looks so slim.

    Where do these kids get their full on independent consciousness from? It comes up all of the sudden and apparently once it gets going, it’s too late to stop it. My daughter loves big words and fake sophistication but actively resists anything that smacks of adulthood (she’s stops at tween) but I know even that can’t last.

  • It’s so strange, how kids say words that they don’t actually mean (since they don’t know what they actually mean), my mom kept a video of me when I was 5, it shows how I diagnosed that my cat had psychological problems, I simply said : “That cat has a weird psychology!!”…

  • “DAMNIT PAMELA”?! I’m going to be chuckling over that all day. Is there anything more awesome than watching your kid turn into a real human being, with a wild sense of humor?