Let's make a deal

When Cliff and I were in Morocco last year, we bought a gorgeous rug for our foyer. Because that’s what you do in Morocco. I had read up on all the places we were going, and everything I read about Morocco talked about the shopping — more to the point, the bargaining process. The price they give you is not the real price, it’s all about negotiation. I was not happy to hear that. I am not much of a bargainer. I once bought a (lovely, kitchy, delightfully tacky!) bust of Elvis from a flea market. I asked the lady the price, it seemed fair enough in comparison to how very much I wanted a bust of Elvis (having been thus far eluded by my Dream Art — an actual black velvet Elvis painting), and I wrote her a check. She about passed out on the spot to have received her first offer. But that, to me, is the way things should work. I have a Thing that I want to sell. I think it is worth X dollars. If you want to buy the Thing and think it is worth X dollars, buy it. If you think it is not worth X dollars, walk away. So nice, so tidy.

In any case, centuries of custom in Africa do not agree, and bargaining is where it’s at. I was lucky to be with Cliff, an avowed bargainer who, as a salesman, really knows the ins and outs and can drive a deal home. Yay. We got a pretty rug, and we paid more than a fair price for it.

I think, though, that now I could have procured an even better deal. If I were in Morocco today, I wager I could bring home an even nicer rug for damn near free of charge. Why my sudden increased confidence in my negotiating abilities?

I have a THREE year old. :|

My life is now nothing but a series of negotiations. He wants 40 colored Goldfishies right before dinner? How about 5? He counters with 30. I offer 10, but in his favorite bowl that I then have to wash, not in a plastic baggie. He proposes 25, and he won’t throw himself on the floor of the kitchen and lay there for a half hour, motionless and silent, in protest against my Goldfish Tyranny. We reach an agreement – a reasonable 15 Goldfishies, in a plastic baggie, with one screeching wail of “Mooooooore Goooldfishieeeeeesssss!!!!”, but no floor collapse.
 
And the deal is done.

Looks like I was right to be concerned

When Drew was first born, I was terribly terribly concerned that he was a boy. I thought “Geez, it’s cute, but what the hell am I supposed to DO with it?” Coming from a family of all girls except for Dad, I felt a little like someone who had grown up with a dog but was suddenly handed a goldfish.
In one particularly distressing moment, I was opening some mail shortly after Drew had arrived. There was a nice greeting card in a blue envelope – a congratulations card! On the front flap of the card was a little sketch of a crib, covered in blankets like a little tent with a hand drawn sign that said “No girlz alowed!”. I think I cried for a half hour. That was my greatest fear – that’s what I was terrified of. Being shut out of some all boys club, only by MY boy. Not scared I wouldn’t love him enough, but that I would love him SO, SO much, but someday he would look at me and see just a girl. Now, of course, I realize how silly that all was, that he will never see me as a girl, I will just always be Mommy. And I can’t imagine my life as anything other than a mom to my rough and tumble boys, full of match box cars and dinosaurs.

But I was in the bookstore yesterday (Ahhh………the pleasant oasis of a half hour at the bookstore!) and I stopped by the parenting section, just to browse. I noticed a large segment of books dedicated to raising boys. Bringing Up Boys. The Wonder of Boys. Raising Boys. Raising Boys To Be Like Jesus. (!?!?!?!) Raising Cain (What is with the religious theme?) Don’t Screw This Up Or He’ll Be A Serial Killer.

Ok. I made the last one up. But here I had spent the first three months of Drew’s life convincing myself that all my concerns about him being a boy and my implied culpability at being to blame if he grew up to be a crazyperson were all just silly worried rantings of a post partum mind! The parenting section of the local Barnes and Noble seems to have a differing opinion. The authors of these books seem, based on breezy glances at the back covers, to believe that it IS something different to raise a boy, and that it WILL be my fault when, as a teen, he is either so absurdly hyper masculine that he joins a high school biker gang and holds up local liquor stores or conversely demands tickets to every traveling musical production that hits town and refuses to leave the house without his Little Orphan Annie wig and patent leather Mary Janes. Either way, IT’S ALL MY FAULT.

Meh. As I turned to leave, the weight of my two precious boys future perched squarely on my shoulders, I noticed they also had a similar section for girls. Relief! If I was struggling to find balance between motorcycles and Playbills, then my girl mom friends had to worry about Heidi Fleiss versus Heidi Klum. And I stopped being worried. I don’t really suppose there IS much difference, not really. I don’t need to know how to raise Boys. I need to know how to raise Drew and Zachary. And as it happens, the only experts on that are them.