I shouldn't watch South Park, but I do. One of my favorite episodes was a take-off of the dance movie, You've Been Served. Basically, roving dance gangs have dance-offs. The less-awesome dancers, when defeated, have thus been "served." And nobody, nobody wants to be served.
Nevertheless, I've been served several times today.
After writing an entry about how my mother never buys me any clothes, because she only buys clothes for the boys, I get a package with three cute blouses in it from (you guessed it) my mom. There's no way that she did a rush shopping job in response to the blog---it was in the mail when I wrote it. Yes, I've been served. By my mom.
Since it's been awhile since I've discussed Owen's excrement, here's his newest. After doing his business, he looked down at the finished product and declared, "That's the chicken I ate." Chicken, consider yourself served.
I was trying to teach Owen to recognize the letters of his name (which he does). We then worked on Joel, Mommy and Daddy, to less success. For fun, I asked Owen to tell me his middle name (he had just told me that my "real name" is Nancy and Daddy's "real name" is Paul.) He started laughing, and said, "Mommy, middle names are not for sharing."
We gave him the middle name of Kenneth, which is perfectly respectful--he's named after his great-grandfather. I do, however, understand that some middle names are perhaps not for sharing. I'm recall our confirmation in 8th grade. We're all standing in front of the church, getting a blessing, and the pastor says, "Ryan Leroy H--" (protecting the innocent). Never, ever would we have suspected that we had a Leroy in our midst. The solemn moment of blessing was sullied by the titters and outright guffaws of snotty adolescents. Poor Ryan Leroy.
Middle names--you've been served by a two year old. Middle names are not for sharing.
I was reading that the film Slumdog Millionare has been nominated for Best Picture. I haven't seen it yet, but I understand that it talks about the harsh poverty and circumstances in the slums of India. Despite the dreary location, it's supposed to be a good, entertaining film. I'm looking forward to seeing it. So Bollywood films and Bangalore call centers---I hope that this movie is a success, and India is served. Perhaps, something will be done to improve the miserable existences of the lower/working classes in India. Of course, if I am talking out of ignorance, I hope that I am served by another's thoughtful perspective.
I stumble up the stairs at six am to get Joel. When he sees me, his face erupts into a beatific smile and his whole body thrashes with joy--arms flapping, legs kicking. Mommy has arrived. Exhaustion, you've been served. It's worth getting out of bed for this.
We're eating breakfast, and I find myself asking Owen, "Do you think Mommy's pretty?" Needy much?
Later on, we're driving home from the playground, and Owen says, "Mommy, talk about how I'm a good other brother." Needy? Perhaps. Is this a bad thing? Maybe not. We all have the need to hear good things, to feel validated and loved. I'm grateful that I can lean on Owen when I'm feeling ugly, and he has a mother that will tell him he's a good older brother--again.
Game face? You've been served. When you love somebody, you let them need you.