Can You Tell Luke How to Get to Sesame Street?

Like everybody else, we try to do enriching things with our family time. Living in San Antonio, there are so many opportunities for some interesting experiences. One family member, though, is always left feeling a little high and dry.

I'm talking about Luke, of course. Two weeks ago, we made it out to the Alamo, a must on every San Antonio visitor's to-do list. We strolled around reading about David Crockett and the role of the missions, and looking at interesting artifacts. With a hint of disappointment in his voice, Luke asked so innocently, "When are we going to see the Elmo?" It seems we had a slight miscommunication. He continued to ask the same question, slightly more indignant each time, for the rest of the day.

Yesterday, we headed to the San Antonio Zoo. Now, if you haven't ever been to the San Antonio Zoo, I must say, it is a very nice zoo. It took us about five hours to see all that we wanted to see, and we didn't get to every exhibit. And amid all of the exotic animals from far off places, there was only one that Luke insisted on seeing: Cookie Monster. Our conversations went like this throughout the day:

Joe: Wow, look at that addox's stripes. They keep him hidden so he doesn't get eaten!
Luke: I want to go see Cookie Monster.
Laura: Wow, the giraffe's heart weighs twenty pounds. That's more than George!
Luke: Can we go see Cookie Monster?

At one point, I actually laughed out loud while pushing the stroller along, trying to imagine Cookie Monster's habitat among the giraffes and the elephants. He'd stand out with his electric blue fur, for sure. Maybe he would have one of those gumball machine-like dispensers that you could put a quarter into, and instead of the pellets they give you to feed the goats in the petting zoo, there would be Cookie Crisp to throw in his grotto. And then I remembered that Joe and Luke were off looking at an exhibit that wasn't stroller-friendly and I looked like a crazy person laughing out loud to myself, so I cut that business out immediately.

Ironically enough, we went to SeaWorld a while back, and we got to go to the Sesame Street Live show. When the characters came out, Luke screamed a shrill scream of terror and cried long enough that we considered leaving.

I guess the saying, "You can't please everybody" applies to our weekend activities.


I don't want a pet parrot.



I'm Mary Poppins.


Luke vows to do something about the kangaroos' plumbing.


Can you tell they're brothers?

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. I trust all three of my readers had a fantastic holiday! We certainly did in our family.

My husband suggested a few days ago that we run a 5K on Thanksgiving morning. Not an organized one--he wanted to go out and run the distance as a family. Because he's here on TDY (temporary duty), we live in a small apartment with a cramped kitchen, and most of our belongings are in storage, awaiting our arrival in Mississippi come March. To me, this meant I wasn't cooking Thanksgiving dinner. Since I had no excuse, like, I don't know, having to spend the morning with my hand shoved inside a dead turkey, I ran a 5K with my husband, boys in tow in the double stroller. I don't know if I've ever run that far in my life. Seriously! And as soon as my hips recover, I'm sure I'd like to try it again.

We had a fantastic dinner at the Officers Club this afternoon. Now, the Officers Club was a big part of my growing up. Every base my dad was ever stationed at had a top notch club. My siblings and I spent countless Sunday afternoons making lunch out of the toppings on the Belgian waffle bar at the O-Club while our parents and their friends lingered over conversation and coffee for hours after church. This was back in the day before people dressed for church like they dress to go to the mall. It was a classy affair.

Ever since I've been married, we've been stationed at bases with disappointing clubs. Well, except for our short tenure in Mississippi a few years back. The bases have succumbed to this disturbing trend of building a generic chain of restaurants called "J.R. Rockers", which is basically a poor man's version of Fuddruckers, and they try to pass it off as a club. I say keep your greasy chicken fingers and red pleather and give me fussy wallpaper and crystal and eggs benedict.

But this base has an old school, old Air Force Officers Club. The kind where you walk in and feel like the character Rhoda Henry from Herman Wouk's novels The Winds of War and War and Remembrance. Okay, fine, I've never read them--I've only seen the miniseries on DVD. Totally worth watching if you haven't seen it. I digress. Rhoda is a veritable 1940s military wife socialite. She wears hats and gloves and red lipstick. She's a lady who lunches and she frequents the club. When we walked in and I saw a champagne fountain next to the hostess stand, I knew we were in for a great experience. We weren't disappointed. There were huge fresh floral arrangements everywhere, musicians playing American jazz standards, and a gorgeous buffet. The waitress kept the champagne flowing, and everything tasted delicious.

Because Luke has been known to embarrass us from time to time, we warned him in the car that he was to use his best manners, not to cry or scream, and to use his fork. I must say, he sure did listen, because he was a delightful boy, even if he did eat strawberries and nothing else for his Thanksgiving dinner. He was really thoughtful the whole time, wanting to make it a great dining experience for everyone. For example, he rested his spoon on a piece of bread that Joe had buttered for him, then picked it up and asked so pleasantly, "Would you wike to wick the butter off my spoon?" When Joe said no thanks, Luke thought even harder about how he could enhance his pleasure. Picking up a packet of sugar, he asked, "Would you wike some sugar on your gween beans?" He was also very concerned about those around us. When the couple at the table next to us got up, he asked (very loudly), "Where are they going, Mommy? Are they going potty?" At one point, he even told me that I'm handsome. Um, thanks?...

As we made our way to the car, the retired colonel for whom the club is named and his wife were getting into their car, and gave our boys some generous compliments. I was very proud, and then she gave me a blessing, of sorts. Okay, not a blessing, but, well, I don't know what to call it. She said, "The happiest days of your life are the day you give birth to them and the day they move out." Well, I don't know about the latter part. I don't want these boys to grow up and leave me. All-day kindergarten sounds kind of neat, though!

Anyway, it was a beautiful holiday to reflect on what we are thankful for. Happy Thanksgiving, and may the "White Christmas" and "It's a Wonderful Life" season commence!

Mother Goose

We read a lot of Mother Goose in this house, or as I call her, The Whore of Babylon. (Wow, I used the word "whore" twice this week. I hope my dad doesn't wash my mouth out with soap.) Luke begs for TWOB alternately with Richard Scarry's Busytown when naptime or bedtime rolls around. I think both of these choices offer him exactly what he's looking for, which is an effective way to delay the inevitable. "What's wrong with Mother Goose? They're innocent little rhymes about tarts and boys named Jack that children have been enjoying for centuries," you wonder. I'll tell you what's wrong with Mother Goose--everything besides the tarts and boys named Jack.

First of all, these satanic little poems are quite violent. So violent, in fact, that my own mother censored and edited many of them. Take the old woman who lived in a shoe, who frankly resembles Octomom now that I think of it. I was in my late teens before I realized that she had given her children broth without any bread; and then whipped them all soundly and sent them to bed. I recall the words spoken from my mother's lips were about giving children broth and giving them bread, then kissing them sweetly and sending them to bed. I always imagined she sang them songs and rubbed their backs until they were in REM sleep. Not so! I simply cannot get on board with the child abuse propagated by the old woman who lived in a shoe.

And how about the maid in the garden? She was doing her job, hanging out clothes, and along came a blackbird and snapped off her nose. I don't want my impressionable children to think that anything so gruesome is a consequence of pitching in with the laundry.

Some of the nursery rhymes just plain give me the creeps. Take the three men in the tub--this one reads straight out of a public kindergarten sex education manual. Why are three men in a tub together? We all know about their vocations--a butcher, a baker, and a candlestick maker. I don't see what these have to do with one another, and what do they have to do with being in a tub? Perhaps they have synergy (especially the butcher and the baker) and they're in a business leads group together, but bathing together? And before anybody accuses me of hate speech, be assured that I don't care what these three men do behind closed doors. I just don't want to read to my children about it!

What about Wee Willie Winkie, running all over town in his pajamas, no wait, his nightgown, banging on everybody's door to ask if their children are in bed? This behavior makes my mother dander stand up. Why does he need to know? Is he a predator, trying to figure out which children are still running around the neighborhood playing tag so that he can lure them into a conversion van full of candy bars and X-box games? Mr. Winkie, if that's your real name, stay away from my children, and don't be surprised if Chris Hansen answers the next door you bang on.

At the risk of sounding like a helicopter parent, it seems to me like there's a lot of inadequate parental supervision in Mother Goose. I, for one, would never tie George's cradle in the treetop. I wouldn't let Luke climb a steep, jagged hill to fetch a pail of water. Kids shouldn't be playing around wells, anyway. Remember this girl?



I rest my case. Her mother probably read her too much Mother Goose. I wish Mother Goose would get off her very fine gander and stop writing poetry. Get some therapy and a new career track.

Tune in next week to find out how my oldest puts Mother Goose to work for him.

A Little Relationship Advice

I'm not one to dispense a bunch of unsolicited advice, but I do have one shiny nugget for you this morning. I think all the ladies out there would be wise to enshroud themselves in a cloud of mystery. Not a puffy cumulus cloud--who are you trying to fool? Maybe just a wispy cirrus cloud. Keep a few secrets to share at a later date. I don't mean secrets like, I am a convicted felon, or anything of that nature. Just the kind that keep your husband guessing.

Take Joe and me--a few days ago, I shared a secret with him that made his jaw drop to the floor. I revealed that I do not like the smell of melon. I don't remember how it came up. I just know that I thought to myself, "We've been an item for 9 1/2 years now--go ahead and drop that bombshell." His reaction was one of great surprise, but satisfaction in cracking one more code; scraping away one more layer to solve the enigma that is his wife. It went like this: "Really?"

A couple days later, I was really glad I had gotten that off my chest. I had been to the grocery store and, unbeknownst to me, a cantaloupe had rolled out of a bag and under a seat in my beloved minivan. It had baked in the oppressive San Antonio heat for about 48 hours before we opened up the car door and the smell nearly knocked me off my feet. And because of my revelation, he knew what he had to do. He had to be my knight in shining armor.

Can you imagine what might have happened if I had given that away on our first date? Mostly likely, he wouldn't have remembered!

If, after reading this, you're frustrated because you and your husband or boyfriend haven't gotten to that all-too-critical do-you-like-the-smell-of-melon point in your relationship, just have patience. You'll get there. Just remember to keep a little mystery about you.

I am My Kid's Girlfriend

Between the hours of 2:00 and 5:00, I'm usually listening to the Dr. Laura show, thanks to the magic of satellite radio. I adore her wisdom and her morals. Also, I get a sense of satisfaction hearing about other people's problems.

It was during her broadcast yesterday that Luke looked up at me and said, "My Mommy is my girlfriend." My heart melted, of course. After a minute of congratulating myself for being so divine that my son would say that about me, I started to wonder if he should even know that word yet. Then it dawned on me, he probably heard it on the radio. Dr. Laura's listeners often start their calls by saying, "I am my kids' mom" or "I am my husband's girlfriend."

We've been working with him lately on recognizing who is a girl and who is a boy. The main reason for this is that he keeps calling everybody "he" when we're out in public, and he talks about people as if they can't hear them, even though they can. So he's got it down pat that he and George and Daddy are boys and Mommy is a girl.

He also knows what a friend is. Usually, he tells me that his best friend is Dolley, our basset hound. Apparently, Luke thinks that someone who habitually steals your breakfast constitutes a best friend.

So there I am, my son calling me his girlfriend, and all the other words and phrases that are frequently used on the Dr. Laura show hit me like a ton of bricks. "Unpaid whore," "crap," "bitchy." Dr. Laura doesn't say these phrases for the sake of using expletives, but uses them to really illustrate her callers' behavior. She's blunt.

I thought for a moment that maybe Luke is so impressionable now that I can no longer listen to this program. But the temptation to keep listening is overwhelming me because maybe, if he listens long enough, he'll start to call me his "Shack-up honey." And who wouldn't love that?

What Goes Around Comes Around

August 17, 1991: My family is on a Scandinavian cruise with some family friends. It's my mother's birthday. At dinner that night, the waiter doesn't give me a menu. I ask my brother for his after he's finished looking. He won't give it to me. I repeat myself over and over, progressively louder and louder. I'm escorted back to our cabin and left there to think about what I did while the rest of the family continues the celebrating and merriment, and, it could probably go without mentioning, the eating of dinner. Whoopsies, looks like I ruined Mom's birthday!

December 25, 1999: I'm a freshman in college and I decide to tell my parents during a delicious beef tenderloin Christmas dinner that I've taken to drinking and that I'm a party star. To take the attention off of myself, I throw my sister under the bus. "She likes to party, too--she corrupted me." (We went to college together). What kind of a sick, sick individual ruins Jesus's birthday celebration? What is my problem?

August 17, 2006: My husband and I have flown home to celebrate my mom's birthday. It's a big one. That morning, I am taken to the ER in an ambulance and that evening, I have surgery. Mom spends the big five-oh by my side. Ruth's Chris reservations: cancelled. Oopsie-daisies, I've done it again!

July 6, 2007: I'm at my parents' home on an extended visit, as my husband is in Iraq, I'm 7 months pregnant, and I had quit my job. It's my dad's birthday. After dinner and before cake and presents, my mom and I decide to take my dog on a walk. I want to walk through the neighborhood. Mom wants to walk on the golf course behind their house. We discuss back and forth, Mom wins, and we walk on the golf course. It's evening--there probably aren't any golfers. Oh, hold the phone, there are golfers! One of them tees off and the ball hits me right in the middle of my back. OW! I turn around, shock on my face. I imagine the guy that hit the ball is going to get a lot of ribbing from his friend later about hitting a very pregnant woman with his ball, but I'm not ready to laugh. In fact, I begin sobbing. I run back to the house as fast as my cankles will carry me and I spend the rest of the evening sobbing in my childhood bedroom, big crocodile tears streaming down my swollen cheeks. What is my problem? The hormones, maybe? Anyway, looks like I've done it again. Sorry, Dad!

November 13, 2009: Payback time. Luke got me good!

What a Madcap Mom Wants for her Birthday

Today I turn 29. One year closer to 30, which I'm really excited about. Here are some things I routinely fantasize about:

* Liposuction

* A two-week cruise through the Mediterranean on a luxury liner

* 48 hours of uninterrupted sleep

* To blow-dry my clean hair and not have anybody spit up in it, or run peanut butter hands through it for a whole day...or even an hour

* To be 19 years old again and enjoy a weekend as a freshman at JMU. Such freedom. Such little responsibility.

Since none of these things are possible, I will just be content spending a day with a loving and supportive husband and two adorable kids. There really isn't a better, and more fleeting gift than snuggling my children while they are little. Running my hands through George's baby mohawk, fuzzy as a baby duckling, and playing "This Little Piggy" with Luke's tiny toes won't last forever. Today, it's my gift.

And besides, I know that in twenty-five years or so, I'll wake up from my long night of uninterrupted sleep, head to the plastic surgeon for my lipo procedure, scheduled so I can fit into my glam swimsuit on my posh Mediterranean cruise, and think, "Well, this is nice, but what I really want is for my kids to be so tiny, I could scoop them up in my arms again. I want Luke's chubby cheeks and George's gummy smile back." Okay, probably not the lipo part, but the rest of that scenario, for sure.

EDIT: Someday when I'm longing for my kids to be small again, I'll remind myself of my 29th birthday, when one of my children, who will remain nameless, turned the phone on and left it that way so that his aunt couldn't get through from Germany, peed on every object that didn't move, took the Lysol that his mother used to clean up his messes and sprayed his whole face and his mother's brand new leather purse that her mother had bought her in Italy for her birthday, and screamed so loud during the eyewash session that ensued that his brother woke up from his much-needed nap.

One of These Days, He's Going to Get Beaten Up

And it's going to be because he has no social graces. Here is a list of people Luke has called "Little Guy" in the past week, in the third person, but to their face:

* A college soccer team, getting off of a bus at the outlet mall. "Are those little guys going shopping?"

* Two really big guys at a Greek restaurant. They looked like they could bench press my husband. "Are those little guys eating dinner?"

* Two men in a public restroom, who were occupying the stalls Joe and Luke were waiting to use. "Are the little guys going potty?" Making Joe feel equally awkward were Luke's praises after he used the potty like a big boy. "Good job, Daddy!"

* The pediatrician the other day, as he was putting data into the computer. "Is the little guy on the computer?" He's in the military and he knows how to kill you with his bare hands. And besides, everybody should be walking on eggshells around military doctors these days--we all know the "stress" makes them want to kill people, so ixnay on the "little guy".

* An illustration of Jesus in Luke's book about the loaves and fishes. "Is the little guy talking about God?" I don't think you should call a man big enough to save your soul "little guy".

Here is a list of whom Luke has called "Big Guy" in the last week:

* George, his five-month-old brother.

For-giveness

To say that we like sweets in our family is an understatement. Every one of us is plagued with a sweet tooth so strong and mighty, it's what I imagine a meth addiction to be like. I would tell you that I try to keep my own consumption limited to when Luke is in bed because I care about his weight, his teeth, and his overall health, but that's sort of a lie. I mean, I do care about those things, and I do mostly indulge my sweet tooth in the barren stillness of the night. But the main reason is because then, there's more for me. Sharing with him is such a bugger!

In a never-ending battle to make our kids somewhat civilized, we have taught Luke to say "please". Recently, we've added, "May I please have..." to his little bag of tricks. He's somehow deducted that by using basic manners, he's got the verbal equivalent of a Golden Ticket to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. If he says, "Please, may I have a treat?" then badabing, badaboom, a tower of sugary delights shall be delivered to him by a troupe of smug, singing little people. It never works that way, and lately all he gets, if anything at all, is a gingersnap cookie. The really thin kind from World Market. Tough breaks when you're two!

Nonetheless, his wheels are always turning, trying to figure out how he's going to get his next fix. It didn't surprise me to hear about the following conversation he and his dad had earlier this week:

(Luke bashes his forehead into Joe's nose)
Joe: Ow, that really hurt!
Luke: I sorry, Daddy.
Joe: It's okay, Luke. I forgive you.
Luke: (thinks a minute) Could you please for-give me some Halloween candy?

The One Contact Sport I Play

Well, it's Well Baby week around here, bless our souls. George had his exam this morning, and checked out fine and dandy. That was the easy part.

As many of my friends know, Luke can be a bit, shall we say, difficult for the pediatrician. In fact, this summer, when George was a mere six days old, we had to take Luke in for an extremely high fever. After several rounds of acetaminophen, his temperature was 104 degrees, and he still managed to give Dr. Humphreys a darn good fight.

The great thing about moving is that you get to start over fresh with a new pediatrician, and for one inaugural visit, you get to walk in there with your head up high, full of dignity. And the great thing about our pediatrician, who looks and talks like Kenneth from "30 Rock" by the way, is that he has a terrible memory. He has no recollection of seeing us two weeks ago, and Luke pulled out all the stops that day. Imagine four grown women trying to get a little boy's vitals.

I did warn the doctor this morning that he'd be seeing me again tomorrow, and that it would be a very special part of his day. Sensing my sarcasm, he gave a knowing chuckle. It came up again and I told him, "No, really, you might want to warn your wife tonight that when you come home tomorrow, you're going to need her to be extra nice to you."

Well, I'd better hit the sack. I need to get a full night's sleep, wake up early to have extra prayer time, eat a protein-rich breakfast, do some stretches, apply deodorant from head to toe, and remove any and all jewelry. Taking Luke to the doctor is my contact sport, and I need to be in prime condition.

Just Curious

Hypothetical question for you. Not asking for any reason in particular. Say there's a family of four. Maybe they have two kids. Boys. And let's say this hypothetical family is shopping in San Marcos at the amazing outlet mall (who knew Ferragamo had an outlet? And I got so excited in the Williams Sonoma/Pottery Barn outlet, I almost wet my pants! Er, I mean, this pretend mom did).

Anyway, the family takes a break from finding name brands at outlet prices to have some lunch. As lunch is coming to an end, clear across the food court, the mom sees some great pals they used to go to church with when they were stationed at Corpus Christi, five years ago. Corpus Christi is three hours from San Marcos. How serendipitous! One of these pals they had the pleasure of dining with just a few weeks ago, and the others they hadn't seen since they moved away from there four and a half years ago.

And let's just pretend that the mom, who is nursing her baby at the time, can't contain her excitement any longer (and it kind of looks like the friends are all getting ready to leave anyway), and just gets up, walks across the food court, and starts the round of hugs, baby still nursing (under the nursing cover).

Okay, here's the question I need you to answer: Is this woman a total fruitcake for walking across the food court and catching up with the girls while still nursing? (Please say no, please say no). Do her old church pals think she is weird? (Please say no, please say no). I felt--I mean, this mom, who is a complete figment of my imagination, felt kind of like a goober for the rest of the day, but was so stoked to get to see all of them. It reminded this mom of a really neat time in her life. It's amazing how brothers and sisters in Christ have such a bond that they can pick right back up after such an absence.

Not asking for any particular reason, why?

Yesterday in Haikus

You're lucky I know
How to get rid of ink stains:
Rubbing alcohol.

Please make up your mind.
I'm not a short order cook.
Fine, you can just starve.

It's only shampoo.
Stop being such a baby.
Don't convulse so much.

Go to bed! Right now!
Do you want me to get Dad?
Then get in your bed.

I need some merlot.
And a plate of oreos.
I'll be in the tub.

What I Said/What He Heard

What I said: Keep your hands in the shopping cart, sweetie pea.

What he heard: Please use your lightning-fast hands to grab the cashier's stamp when we get to the cash register. Before I can get it out of your hands, stamp your face with it. Then, when I'm putting my pin number for my debit card in the machine, please grab the loaf of Wonder Bread that another kind commissary patron has already paid for from the conveyor belt on the line next to us. After you've secured said loaf of bread, squeeze the dickens out of it! Mommy will have had it at this point and will pretend not to see what's happened as the bagger takes it out of your chubby little busy hands and bags it up for the poor, unsuspecting, complex carb-craving soul. Mommy knows this is wrong and will confess her sins later.

What I said: Do you need to go potty? No? Well, just remember, you're a big boy now and big boys put their tinkles in the potty. Let me know if you have to go and I'll help you.

What he heard: Using the toilet is just a suggestion. Sit and watch these classic Sesame Street clips on youtube while I unload these groceries, and if at any point you have to go, just go! No need to get up. And, by all means, if you have an accident, no need to tell me where you did it. See, after I'm done with the groceries, you're going to go to bed, and it will be time for George to wake up and eat. I'm going to sit in that very chair to feed him, and nothing makes Mommy's heart happier than cold, wet surprises.

What I said: Sleep tight. I love you. Have sweet dreams. Take a nice, long nap.

What he heard: Naptime isn't really for sleeping. Please--in your solitude, rip off your diaper and shred a box of wipes all over the floor. Celebrate the freedom of a big boy bed! Tear up your library book, while you're at it. I was looking for a new reason to have to swallow my pride the next time we go to the library.

Making Friends Where'er I Go

We've lived in San Antonio for a month now. I'd have more friends by now, but most of the women in my path are complete loons.

My neighbor has a daughter slightly younger than my 2-year-old. She has a charming Scottish accent, and she's a stay-at-home mom. Sounds like the perfect setup for a coffee-swilling pal in the mornings, after breakfast and before the round of naps start, right? The only problem is that she keeps having "parties." You know, the kind where you're supposed to buy something. I hate those parties with the burning passion of a thousand suns. Nonetheless, I went to one, where she was the consultant selling children's toys. If going to a sales party will save me from throwing elbows in a crowd of moms at Toys-R-Us over the holidays, by golly, I'm going to the party. I went, dropped a few Benjamins, and got my kids and my nephew squared away for Christmas. Before I even got my goods from her "party," I ran into her on a walk and received a flyer for another "party" she'll be throwing in the next week. What a party ANIMAL! This time, it's jewelry she's hocking. Sweet neighbor, I cannot afford your friendship and I will be avoiding you like the plague.

One day last week, I was in the mommy room at the gym doing time on the treadmill, and my afforementioned 2-year-old, Luke, was in the play area. I had the pleasure of sharing the mommy room that day with an older woman sporting bobbed helmet hair and a huge rock on her hand--the kind of thin slip of a woman who "mists" and then dab-dab-dabs herself delicately while uttering a breathy, "Whew!" Anyway, Luke had a rough start--I had to interrupt my warmup three times to go into the play area to calm him down and tell him no, I can't hold you, and yes, you will play with these toys quietly, and no, you won't take toys away from other children. After my third trip, Mrs. Encouragement told me that her son always wanted to be right next to Mommy, too, but that her "DAUGHTERS have been a REAL BLESSING!" A REAL blessing! I really wanted to ask her, "Don't you have a bake sale to coordinate or something?" Instead, I gave her a tight smile, because, let's face it, her husband is probably my husband's boss. In the end, I was just relieved that she was gone when I left. My pseudo-blessing threw a massive tantrum, and I didn't want any more pearls of wisdom from Mrs. Encouragement.

The next day, we headed to the base library for story hour. It was really well-done--stories, costumes, and an activity. I made small talk with another woman, we'll call her Mrs. Master-Gardener (she hyphenated when she married), who is also here on a temporary basis while her husband trains for one month. We were having a nice chat. I was about to extend to her the ultimate stay-at-home-mom gesture of friendship--an invitation to eat lunch with us at Chick-Fil-A. The idea of having someone to sit with and sip on diet lemonades while children push each other down and refuse to share the slide on the playground was so enchanting! I realize that's moving awfully fast, but we military wives are a fast bunch when it comes to friendship.

Anyway. What happened next made me scrap the idea. Our activity for the day, being the week of Halloween, was to plant a pumpkin seed in a dixie cup. The librarian came around with supplies, and offered us mulch to fill the cup with. Being that I'm constantly a day late and a dollar short, I recognized that she was improvising. Who cares? It's a kids' activity--it's going to end up in the trash within 15 minutes. Luke and I planted his seed in the mulch, and he proceeded to take it out, put it in his mouth, plant it again, take it out, put it in his mouth again...I said to him, "Luke, you need to leave it in the dirt if you want a pumpkin to grow." Mrs. Master-Gardener says to me, "Actually, it won't really grow a pumpkin. This is mulch. Things don't grow in mulch." I ignored her comment, but a few minutes later, it came up again. "Actually, a pumpkin won't really grow in this. It's mulch. Things don't grow in mulch. I know--I used to be a kindergarten teacher." OoooOOoohhh--this time she gave me the credentials. She taught kindergarten, making her a veritable expert of all things grown in dixie cups. I muttered, "Yeah, but it doesn't hurt to pretend for the kids."

It's too bad Mrs. Master-Gardener will already be gone before this month's story hour. With the holidays coming up, I might need somebody to remind me that the turkey we make by tracing our hands isn't actually anatomically correct, or that the cinnamon ornament we make for the Christmas tree isn't actually a cookie, so I shouldn't eat it.