Maybe I should sleep with one eye open

Ikuni takes movie watching very seriously. She must see everything, opening and ending credits included, she doesn’t like to pause for any reason, and she hates to be interrupted. All of which I respect–usually.

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Like driving into a fog

A few days ago I woke before my alarm clock and couldn‘t go back to sleep. Not necessarily a bad thing, because that meant I had some extra computer time before getting ready for work. So, after my morning blog routine, I surfed the Net.

Ikuni had been dying to see the Malice Mizer music video to the song, Illuminati, so I searched for it on google video. A few choices came up. I clicked on one, turned the sound up as loud as I dared, and watched. It didn’t take long to realize that it was indeed the notorious Illuminati video.

I’d heard rumors about it. But, nothing prepared me for what I saw. The video was filled with images of rape, murder and self-mutilation.

When it was over, I sat in the dark and wondered, do I tell Ikuni about this?

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A morning’s worth of conversations

Ikuni says I simply must see the view from her bedroom. A thick fog shrouds the street that’s perpendicular to her window. Through the haze, we see the outlines of houses, the pale morning sun and one sidewalk lamp burning.

Me: It looks like a foggy London street.

Ikuni: It looks like a vampire flick.

Me: Funny, how we see it so differently.

Ikuni: Actually, no, ‘cause it looks like an English vampire flick.

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Role reversal

While chauffering Gamer to Tae Kwon Do class, and right after he bopped me in the arm and announced, “Punch Buggy, green, no punch back” (a little game someone taught him to do every time he spots a VW), I turned up the radio to better hear a Chili Peppers’ song. Gamer reached to turn it off and said, “How can you listen to that crap?” I moved his hand off the knob and said, “I want to hear it, and it’s not crap.” He paused for a second then said, “Hey, isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? The parent telling the teen his music is crap?”

Raising a teenager is like nailing jello to a tree.

All my children

Ikuni, Gamer, and I were watching TV the other evening. I got up to get a drink from the kitchen, and when I came back I must have sighed. Gamer observed, “Mom, when you sigh, you go ‘huh.’ When Ikuni sighs she goes ‘hee.’” I thought, that’s my boy. In one way or another, my kids have inherited my detail-oriented gene.

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