Lessons Laura's Learned Lately

(Alliteration is so hot right now.)

I'm not the wisest 30-year-old you'll ever encounter, but I do have a few nuggets of sage advice to share. If you're as obtuse as me, I hope you heed my advise, lest you should learn these the hard way.

• When it is dark outside and you are pulling a wagon full of children, and walking your dog and a friend's dog, be sure to check your friend's dog's pooper scooper bags before you scoop to make sure it's not the kind of bag that you have to tie a knot in the bottom first.
• When a child requests a candy cane, if said child is bouncing up and down at the time of his request, the answer should be no. Always no.
• When you go shopping for the perfect New Year's Eve dress, wear the most boring pair of underwear you own. That way, when your three-year-old tells you very loudly in the dressing room that he thinks "those undies look nice on you," and then goes on to describe them in detail, there will be significantly less snickering in the dressing room. Or, perhaps if they're indeed boring, he won't be compelled to mention them in the first place...Better yet, wear your exciting underwear and leave the kids at home.
  
• Slight fever, diarrhea, poor sleep, and extreme crankiness are all signs that point to teething in a young toddler. He needs some Tylenol, teething tablets, gum massage, cold things to chew on, and to be held a lot. If these things all fail, you should refocus your attention toward his scalp region. This child is not teething; rather, he is cutting his devil horns. I hear it's a painful process, but what do I know? I only cut a halo.
• The stamps you buy for your Christmas cards should be kept under lock and key if you have a sticker-crazy child. You should under no circumstances leave your stamps on the counter, unless you wanted to pay $8.80 for your kid's next art project, which frankly wasn't even refrigerator door-worthy.

That's all I've got.

Yesterday morning, I received the joyous news that the baby my sister, Meredith, is expecting in April is a girl. We love our boys in this family, but with my two sons and my sister's one, we are all excited for a change of color pace.

"Luke, you're going to have a cousin who's a girl!" I excitedly told Luke.

"Oh," he replied, "Is Jackson going to become a girl?"

I have got to put a filter on our cable box.

Being of the crafty persuasion, my mind wandered immediately toward making hair bows. Not knowing exactly how to make hair bows, I did a quick Google search, and I forever lost my innocence about the seedy underbelly of motherhood. Apparently, it manifests itself in the hair bow subculture.

Any mother who has spent five minutes at the playground has been exposed to the vicious cat fighting surrounding the formula vs breastfeeding argument. You know how uncomfortable that "You shouldn't have had that epidural" talk can be. I don't have to explain to you how violent those stay-at-home mom vs working mom debates can be.

That's nothing.

If you really want to see the gloves come off, go online and read about what happened when TwoPeasInAPodBowtique* plagiarized MaddiesMommy's* instructions on making korker bows. The virtual hair-pulling that resulted from SassyDiva's* stealing HugsNHissyfit's* pictures for her Etsy shop is downright unspeakable. And even the "nice" hairbow mom has to beat you over the head to let you know how generous she's being sharing her instructions on her website.

All the drama has led the hair bow moms to become a secretive bunch. They make Skull and Bones look like a straight up cattle call. You'd have an easier time gaining access to the Colonel's secret blend of eleven herbs and spices before you'll get step by step instructions for BlingBlingBow's* felted beadazzled owl adjustable headband. You can see why they have to be this way--they do have so much to lose.

Whenever girl moms say pitiful things to me regarding the absence of Disney princesses and tutus in my daily life, I used to come back with a standard response: "Yes, it's sad, but at least none of my kids can get pregnant in high school." I think my official standard response has changed to, "Yes, it's sad, but at least I don't have to navigate the murky waters of the hair bow Internet community."

* Names have been changed to protect the innocent/guilty.

A Recipe for Disaster

There are plenty of lifestyle bloggers out there who are so good at teaching their audience how to entertain, or cook, or make crafts. Since my blog has given you little more than dead brain cells, I thought I'd share my own how-to with you today.

How To Prove Your Ignorance:

First, load up your children and head to Walmart on a Saturday afternoon during the Christmas season. To add a little flair, plan for your outing to take place when it's too early to serve lunch, but by the time you're about halfway through your list, the kids are riddled with hunger pangs.

Second, be sure your list includes items from just about every single department. This will ensure that you will get a chance to walk down every aisle.

Next, put your one-year-old, of whom you are becoming exponentially more and more terrified with each day that passes as he slips into the blazing inferno of terrible two-hood, into the shopping cart. When he demands "KEYS!" open up your purse and give him your keys as you walk into the store. What's the worst that could happen?

*Tip--if you really want to hit this one out of the ballpark, go through each of these steps on a weekend when your husband is out of town, and your cell phone has been dead at the bottom of your purse for over a week.

And finally, the pièce de résistance, as the shopping trip draws to a close, foolishly, yet seriously, ask your tiny toddler where the keys are, and feel the blood drain from your head as he just blinks at you in return.

The Adoption Option

"I'm thinking of getting rid of my facebook account," I told my mom the other day over the phone, "I feel the need to streamline my life, and I waste so much time reading useless facts about people's lives."

"That makes sense," she replied, "But you're going to keep up with your blog, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I love writing little stories about the kids, but I just don't come up with much material these days," I told her.

She questioned me, "You just witnessed the birth of a Cabbage Patch doll and you can't come up with anything to write about?"

Fair enough.

Last weekend we were in the beautiful mountains of Georgia, having a mini family reunion with Joe's immediate family. One of the nearby attractions was Babyland General Hospital, an impressive birthing facility with a zero percent fatality rate. It also happens to be where Cabbage Patch Kids are born.

We pulled up to a picturesque white mansion with stately columns. As we approached the huge wraparound porch, it really did have the feel of an old-timey hospital. "Why are we here? Did George hurt himself?" Luke asked innocently in that chipmunk voice that I want to bottle up and dab behind my ears every day for the rest of my life.

We signed in at the admissions desk--I'm not kidding--with an old woman in a tidy white nurse's uniform and cap. We entered the hospital and toured nurseries full of Cabbage Patch dolls, each one uniquely dressed and named. We looked at original dolls and special dolls that had been re-adopted for thousands and thousands of dollars. There were observation windows that looked into newborn nurseries, full of bassinets occupied by newborn-sized dolls.

A crowd began to gather around a platform, so we followed suit, not wanting to miss anything. The front of the platform was covered in artificial boulders, which were dotted with large fake cabbages, a doll's head in the middle of each one. There was some buzz about a new doll being born any minute. I was expecting someone to come out holding a swaddled up doll. It turns out I'm somewhat limited in the creativity department.

A fifty-something "doctor" and her pimple-faced teenage assistant, both wearing white coats and stethoscopes, came out. The woman welcomed everybody and introduced the adoptive mother, Savannah, aged 13, standing front and center. Then she got right to work.

First, she put her stethoscope up to a swollen cabbage and announced that the baby had a good heart rate. Then she pulled out a large syringe and gave "Mother Cabbage" a dose of "Imagicillin". She revealed that Mother Cabbage was dilated, but she was going to have to perform an "easyotomy". As we heard snipping sounds, my poor husband turned white as a ghost and I began to wonder if they couldn't leave more to the children's imaginations.

"This was a Planned Parenthood," the doctor went on. I found the self control deep within my reserves to keep from shouting out, "Stop bombarding my children with your agenda!" I was irritated at that point, as I've never come across an adopted child who was very planned at conception. I've been told I can take these things a little too seriously, though.

The baby started to come out head first, which the doctor explained was good news, as they didn't want to have to perform a c-section, or "cabbage section". The baby was completely pulled out, and pink lights started flashing. "It's a girl!" the doctor exclaimed as she hung her by her feet and slapped her bottom. Everybody oohed and ahhed over the baby's outtie belly button and Xavier Roberts birth mark.

"Savannah, what will your baby's name be?" asked the doctor.

"Mackenzie Delaney!" Savannah shouted as she signed the birth certificate. Baby Mackenzie was swaddled up in a pink blanket and handed to the little mommy.

"I think I've seen enough," I said to Joe, who frankly should have been breathing in and out of a paper bag at this point. We exited, naturally, through a gift shop, and we had a time explaining to Luke that he was not going to adopt a Cabbage Patch Kid wearing a NASCAR jacket.

"But I want it for George," he wailed.

Nice try, but adoption can be so cost-prohibitive. There are some reputable adoption agencies that prorate fees based on your income. Babyland General is not one of them. Maybe he can do what some of my friends in similar predicaments have done--sell T-shirts, hold yard sales and fundraiser dinners, etc. All I know is that I'm not paying $200 for a doll.

Do bedtime prayers in your house ever sound like this?

Child: Dear God. Dear God. Thank you for Jesus. Thank you for Mommy and Daddy and Luke and George...Hey Mommy, why do some little girls wear bows in their hair and--

Mom: Keep saying your prayers.

Child: Dear God. Thank you for Mommy and Daddy and Luke and George. (Opens eyes and looks around the room) Thank you for lamps. Thank you for trucks and baskets and doorknobs. Thank you for rugs.

Mom: How about our house and good food to eat and clothes to wear?

Child: Yeah. Thank you for books and socks and diapers...and...dressers.

Mom: How about asking for help listening and obeying.

Child: Thank you for lamps.

Mom: Listening and obeying.

Child: Dear God. Thank you for listening and obeying.

Mom: No, no. You're asking for help listening and obeying.

Child: Oh. Um. Please help me listening and obeying. (Inserts finger in nose) Thank you for my nose. Thank you for my fingers. Thank you for my eyes. Mommy, you're supposed to have your eyes closed.

Mom: Amen.

Child: BUT I DIDN'T GET TO SAY THANK YOU FOR LIGHTBULBS!!! WAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!

As my friend Beth used to say when we co-taught middle school girls' Sunday School, "I don't think that one got past the ceiling."

The Symphony Through a Mom's Eyes

The Kyiv Symphony Orchestra and Chorus performed at the local women's college tonight. Joe and I decided to trade our usual nightly symphony of whining, arguing, gnashing of teeth, and bedtime protesting for one with violins and cellos.

Is that really a fair thing to say when I wrote about going to New York City without the kids in my last post? Probably not, but trust me, we rarely get out alone. This month is grossly atypical.

The symphony began with a gentleman, I'm assuming the president of the university, standing up and announcing that someone attending the concert had been seen hitting two other cars while parking his or her car, and then walking off without leaving notes. He then described the car and read aloud the license plate number. He described the cars that were hit, and then the man invited everyone involved to go to the lobby and speak with security immediately.

Right after the announcement, the show began. This group has an amazing story. They formed in the nineties, after the Iron Curtain fell, and they began introducing sacred masterpieces, starting with Handel's Messiah, to the Ukrainian people. Since religious music wasn't permitted under communism, these pieces had never been heard before in Eastern Bloc countries. The message of the music resonated, and people were coming to know the Lord through it. They've operated for seventeen years now, focusing on evangelism and humanitarian outreach. It was amazing to watch them, knowing that they use their craft to touch lives so significantly.

Equally stunning was their performance. The musicians were brilliant, and the choir sang beautifully. I was impressed by my recognition of the music and the composers. I'm not exactly a music person. I enjoy it, but I don't know it, sadly. I was feeling slightly cocky about my recall abilities until I realized that I mostly know the music because of Little Einsteins.

The conductor introduced Igor Stravinsky's Firebird, and I instantly thought of the Little Einsteins episode, "Build it Rocket". It's the episode where Rocket is helping the Three Little Pigs build their house so the Big Bad Wolf won't get them. And the entire time the orchestra was playing so beautifully, I had the adorable character Annie's voice ringing through my head. "Build it Rocket, build it Rocket, build that house out of bricks," I serenaded Joe quietly.

They played a few Christmas selections, and then the conductor's wife came onto the stage to show some of the things they were selling in the lobby. Then she awkwardly handed her husband a note and whispered something in his ear. He read the note and then announced, "No kidding, if you are the driver of the Honda with the license plate number ___-___, you really need to go speak with security right now if you want to avoid two hit and run charges...(pregnant pause)...Now back to Christmas!"

In our section, a woman stood up, and all eyes were on her. She walked up the aisle under a cloud of suspicion, but because she had two little boys with her, I immediately recognized that she wasn't a hit and run suspect--one of her children had a bladder with the worst possible timing. I knew this because one of my children has a bladder with the worst possible timing. At first I felt really sorry for her because she probably felt so timid getting up at that point. But then I decided she probably never heard the announcement in the first place. She was probably having an "I have to go potty" discussion right through it, and she really had no idea what kinds of implications were being made about her. My suspicions were confirmed when she and her kids returned to their seats two minutes later.

Either way, I was happy that my kids were experiencing Stravinsky in the privacy of our home through Little Einsteins in the company of a babysitter tonight, while I enjoyed his music live.

Cookie Time

Three days ago, I awoke from a night filled with dreams about vacuuming. In my dream, I vacuumed behind my sofa. I vacuumed behind my dresser. I vacuumed behind my washer and dryer. I guess you could call it a fantasy, really. As I dragged myself out of bed to attend to the child who was calling out to me, beckoning for a wipe, I thought to myself, "This New York trip can't come fast enough."

On Tuesday, Joe and I are headed to New York City. Alone. For a week. I don't know how I'm going to be able to make it a week without seeing my babies, because the couple of times I've been away from them for one night have seemed like an eternity, but it will be so much fun to have my husband all to myself for a week.

In preparation for our trip, my mother flew here this morning so she could learn the routine, then take care of our boys for the week. This morning, we finished cleaning the house, dressed the boys, spit-shined their faces, and piled them in the car for the hour and twenty minute drive to the Tupelo airport. We got there, got the kids out of the car, and excitedly told them that they were about to see Cookie. As we entered the empty one-room terminal, we started to get suspicious. A quick check on the arrivals board and a phone call to my mother confirmed our suspicions. Wrong airport.

I'd tell you how it this mix-up happened, but you'd die of boredom, and then you wouldn't be able to read my weblog anymore. Suffice it to say, we had another hour and ten minutes to travel, ironically, to the airport in the town where we actually live.

As soon as we were reunited and we fed our hungry faces, we began a delightful afternoon together. There was exchanging of gifts, playing with toys, napping, cider-sipping, and story-reading. One of the fun things Cookie brought was a book from my childhood, Curious George Visits the Zoo. Here's the cover:


And here's a picture of George and The Man With the Yellow Hat walking around the zoo:


And here's a picture of some people having a picnic on the grass at the zoo:


Wait a minute, having a picnic AND SMOKING A CIGARETTE:


Who backed this book? Phillip Morris? I'm no Pollyanna, but I really don't want to know what's in Leroy's blue solo cup. Or why he has bare feet. Or if he's friends with Charles Manson.

Anyway, off we go to the Big Apple, and I'm sure Cookie will have some stories to share when we get back. Let's all hope they don't tie her up and burn her at the stake.

Curious George Eats a Nickel

This morning, things had gotten far too dull for my liking by 7:55. So while I got ready to go to the gym, I set up a little play time for my boys on the floor in my bedroom. I surrounded them with a box of matches, an open bottle of bleach, a hair dryer plugged into the wall next to a bucket of water, an assault rifle, and two nickels and a penny, encircled by a ring of thumb tacks, pointy side up.* What's George going to do, eat the coins? I asked myself.

Sure enough, George started playing with those coins, and by golly, what do you think I heard? Gagging and coughing, that's what. I ran to him in a panic, looked in his mouth, and saw a silvery glint for a split second before it went down his tiny gullet.

He started fussing, and given the fact that I couldn't get it out at this point, I gave him a sippy cup of milk to help him wash it down while I called Poison Control. Christy at Poison Control was very helpful and asked me a bunch of questions. After she was sure he wasn't in need of an ambulance, she asked me The Question.

The Question is the part of the Poison Control experience I hate the most. You know, besides the fact that one of my children has ingested something that is potentially harmful. To me, The Question a huge test of character, and I'm tempted to lie through my teeth every time. The Question is: "What is your name and phone number?" "Laura *********, 597-****," I told her, reluctantly. But really, I wanted to give her the name of someone else. Someone I'm not crazy about.

At the end of our phone call, after she told me to go have his abdomen x-rayed, she warned me, "I'm going to call this afternoon and follow up to see how George is doing. Your number IS 597-****, correct?" There was a slight accusatory hint in her voice. Perhaps I'm not the only one who's ever been tempted to respond to The Question with a lie. I was so happy to have done the right thing by telling her the truth. I really nailed it this time!

Since George seemed okay for the moment, I made a little time for some hygiene. Remember, I was dressed for the gym, and since the ER is usually full of scuzzy types, I try to look my best when we go, if possible. So while the kids played with their flame thrower*, I had a good soak in the tub, groomed my eyebrows, played around with some microdermabrasion, gave myself a mani/pedi, did a little spray tan, and away we went.**

The minute I stepped into the ER, I instantly felt at home. I've become fully aquainted with all of the staff there since we moved here in March. I think I could have breezed past the front desk, poured myself a cup of coffee at the nurses' station, sat down with my feet propped up on the table, and nobody would have batted an eyelash. They simply would have said, "Hey Laura! Is it Luke or George this time?" But instead, I just signed in like a normal person. When in Rome.

We were seen relatively quickly. George laid down for his x-ray without a fight, with this "Who, me? I didn't eat money!" look on his face. The doctor came in a few minutes later and showed me the x-ray, with a bold white circle right in the middle of his belly. That was a relief to see. The doctor said it could cause problems if it had gotten stuck in his esophagus, or in either of his lungs. Whew! He gave me some symptoms to look out for in the coming days that would indicate an intestinal blockage, but said that a blockage is unlikely.

"Yes, I think he should be making change within a week or so," he said. Emergency room doctor humor--it's a gas! I bet he has a mental list of those canned jokes for every emergency room scenario.

I can't wait to see the look on the babysitter's face Saturday night when I tell her to scan his diapers for buried treasure. And looking on the bright side of things, whenever we find that nickel, it will give me a pressing reason to finally pull out his baby book and make an entry a deposit. Get it! A deposit!

I think now would be a good time to stop writing.

* I didn't really set all those things up. I was using hyperbole. You know, the literary convention. I was using it to exaggerate my parental negligence. Really, I was letting my kids play in my room, and I noticed that there was 11 cents on the floor, but I didn't think George would eat it. But saying it that way isn't very interesting, now is it?

** I just quickly applied some makeup and put on a dress. And deodorant. Again with the hyperbole.

Bravery, Schmavery

Friday night, Joe opened the Luke's dresser drawer where the Pull-Ups are kept. Alas, it was empty.

"Do we have any more Pull-Ups?" he called down the hall to me.

"No," I answered from George's room, where I was dressing the baby in his pajamas.

"Well, what should I put him in for bed?" Joe asked.

"Just put him in underwear," I replied, "he's been waking up dry most nights for weeks now."

"I just let him have three glasses of iced tea!" Joe said.

Don't worry, folks, we drink decaf iced tea. But seriously--whaaaa?....

"Ummmm, just put him in one of George's diapers, I guess," I told Joe.

Joe attempted to put Luke in George's size four diaper, but Luke put up a fight. "I'm SCARED of diapers," he wailed, with the saddest look ever on his face.

After we went round and round discussing in vain how silly it is to be scared of diapers, we put the boy in underwear and prepared for a flood. Around 8:30 that evening, my brother, Matt, drove in from out of town for a weekend visit, right as Luke was getting out of bed for the umpteenth time.

Let me back up and describe the uncle that Matt is. Matt met Luke when he was ten days old and having some tummy problems. He was sick and cranky and that very day had gone on some prescription formula for a few days while I rid my system of dairy. Matt had never held a baby before, but he came into our home, scooped Luke up, and fed him a bottle. He was as nurturing as a twenty-four-year-old man could possibly be to a newborn baby, and Luke really took to him. Ever since, they've had a great relationship. They've enjoyed many phone conversations, and Matt has given him some of his favorite presents. He even made him a three-dimensional birthday cake in the shape of a schoolbus when he turned two. A while back, while we were on a walk, Luke burst into giggles completely out of the blue and shouted, "That Uncle Matt is so silly!" So, when Matt said to me, "Let me go up and put him back to bed," it sounded great to me.

If you heard a primal scream coming from the direction of Mississippi on Friday night around 8:30, it was Luke, petrified of his uncle. I picked Luke up, or maybe he scrambled up my body, I can't remember which, but he screamed and cried, "Uncle Matt is SCARY! I'm SCARED of Uncle Matt!" After a minute or two, Matt gave up and went downstairs, defeated.

Imagine my surprise on Sunday, when Luke emerged from his Sunday School classroom with the following arts and crafts project hanging from his neck:



I was really excited to see if this medal was going to give him some supernatural strength of biblical proportions, à la Sampson's hair. Maybe Luke was a changed boy. Maybe he didn't have to be scared of diapers and funny uncles anymore.

Last night I got my answer. I served the kids red beans and rice for dinner. You guessed it. Luke was SCARED of it.

This morning, I opened my pantry door. A few tumbleweeds blew out. Other than those, it was pretty barren. I rounded up my hungry, growing cherubs and headed to the Commissary.

Confession--it didn't quite happen like that. I gave them breakfast. And then a snack. We had some food. Just not everybody's favesies. And no milk. Or bananas. Or flour. Or....

We got to the grocery, and I asked Luke if he had to use the restroom. He insisted he didn't. We looked for the kind of shopping cart with a firetruck on the front, where the boys could sit and steer. Usually, this kind of cart causes problems, because the seat belts are all broken and George doesn't sit like he's supposed to. So after I tell him ten times to sit on his bottom and he obeys for three seconds before standing up again, he has to sit at the top, facing me. And oh, the wailing and gnashing of teeth (mostly gums, actually). The reaching out to strangers, begging for compassion, all red-faced and slobbery. The judgment on the old ladies' faces. It's too much to bear! But today I came prepared with a belt that I could slip through the seat belt holes and secure my little Georgie Porgie with. Alas, no firetruck cart. Bummer.

George sat facing me, and Luke sat in the main basket. All was well until we got to the cantaloupe display. As luck would have it, the cantaloupe display is the very first display you come to. George wanted the cantaloupe up front with him. I set it next to him, and Luke snatched it away. They continued this way with every single produce item I put in the cart. I felt like a divorce court mediator, divvying up the goods. "No, Luke, you just got to hold the onions. Let George have the zucchini and you will get the squash in a minute."

By the time we got on the first aisle, the anger was palpable. Luke snatched the bag of miniature marshmallows away from George, and I wouldn't have been surprised if George had pulled a switchblade out of his little fisherman sandals.

On aisle three, Luke urgently declared his need to use the restroom. We ditched our cart in favor of the two-year-old's delicate bathroom habits, and I prayed the whole time that my groceries would still be in tact when we were finished. They were. However, they had all spilled over to cover the bottom of the cart so that I couldn't put Luke back in. He'd have to walk.

A whole new world was opened up to him. He inquired about Pop Tarts, Count Chocula, some new Cinnabon product in the granola bar section, and a bazillion other things he doesn't need to know about. He pawed at hot dogs, Cool Whip, and chocolate milk. Funny how things like oat bran and rice, also on his eye level, don't pique his curiosity.

While Luke was living in a junk food fantasy land, George was busy snacking on graham crackers, and then grabbing at my shirt with his gummy hands. I was left with a conspicuous graham cracker crumb hand print on my chest. He had a major ax to grind, due to the fact that I had forgotten his sippy cup, and he was being taunted by the jugs of milk in our cart. He screamed in thirsty agony during the last fifteen minutes of our shopping trip.

Slightly worse for the wear, we checked out. Fortunately, I caught Luke just in time as he was attempting to shoplift a tube of Aim toothpaste.

I opened the back door of my minivan and shuffled my gear around: a double stroller, a single stroller, a booster seat and a potty chair. As I made room for the groceries, my bagger, a good-looking teenaged boy with Zac Effron hair, said to me, "Wow, your minivan and all your stuff make me never want to have children!"

I flashed him a dead-behind-the-eyes smile, took away a dollar from the cash I had in my hand, and then handed him the remainder of his tip.

The end.

This One Goes Out to the Musical Nerds

This morning, I asked Luke what kind of yogurt he would like. All of a sudden, he turned into Carol Channing in "Thoroughly Modern Millie". He sounded just like this:



I can't wait till dessert tonight. "Luke, what kind of pudding do you want?" I'm hoping my dining room turns into my favorite scene from the same musical, minus the roofies, of course.



Darn that Mrs. Meers, with her secret roofie ring and her fun-killer whistle!

One-upmanship

A few weeks ago, my parents bought a grand piano. This was a very curious purchase, considering neither of them actually play the piano. I thought it was mostly an accessory for their home, but my mom proved me wrong and hired a piano teacher to come and teach the both of them.

Having had her first lesson Tuesday night, Mom called me yesterday and played "Jingle Bells". I was pretty impressed. I mean, she was using both hands. To my knowledge, she couldn't even read music before her lesson.

I just knew Luke would be excited to hear Cookie play a song on her piano, especially considering he loves anything having to do with Christmas. I put the phone on speaker and we listened to her play the song again. After she finished, she said, "What do you think, Luke?"

Luke quickly grabbed his LeapFrog Baby Counting Pal, put it next to the phone, pushed a button, and music started playing. And then he said, "You hear that, Cookie? That's Mozart."

Cookie, we refuse to be impressed by your little "Jingle Bells" song, or whatever it is. Call us back when you can play Mozart.

Tameka-me-crazy

Saturday morning, I broached the subject of purchasing a new mattress to my husband. I felt really guilty about it, because the mattress we bought as newlyweds is still in great condition. It's just that every time my husband's big toe twitches, I bounce up and down at least three times. If he moves his whole foot, the aftershocks can be felt for two minutes and fifty-six seconds. He moves an arm, and I'm catapulted into the master bath. Bouncy: a great trait for a baby boy, but not so great in a mattress you share with someone else. I don't know how it is that I haven't snapped yet, but I came really close on Saturday morning.

Feeling bad, I started crunching numbers and justifying my desires, like I usually do with any big ticket purchase. The money I saved by nursing my children until they were a year old, and the fact that I don't get my nails done, have both already bought me something sizeable. I can't start using things more than once, or else I can't expect to be taken seriously. Wracking my brain for other expenses I don't have, I thought about my hair. I have never dyed it. I crunched the numbers: if I had dyed my hair every eight weeks at a rate of $X per treatment (I pulled a number out of thin air--like I know how much a dye job costs), that would have added up to $X over the last seven years that we've been married.

"We have a budget for our new mattress," I announced, and then explained how it's practically going to pay for itself since I only go to the salon for trims. Perfectly sound housewife logic, if you ask me.

We set out on Saturday night to test them out. The idea of laying on something in public that other people have laid on really gives me the willies. Putting my shoes on furniture makes me feel nervous, like my dad is going to walk in and I'll be busted...and then he'll open the freezer door and ask "Am I the only one around here who knows the recipe for ice cubes?!" We grew up without an ice maker. (Pitiful pregnant pause)

Also, dealing with hovering salespeople drives me nuts. Enter Tameka, stage left.

Tameka was dressed more like a pool party attendee than a furniture saleswoman. Other than that, I had no major problems with her at first. She left us alone for a bit and didn't hover while we tried out mattresses. But then she started brown nosing my kids, talking baby talk to them and whatnot.

Then she asked me, "How old is the baby?"

"Almost thirteen months," I told her.

"Does he walk yet?"

"No."

"What a lazy baby!"

Now, I don't think I'm overly-sensitive about my children, but there was something about the way she said it that rubbed me the wrong way. Perhaps because she doesn't know me? I just don't think it's right to make jokes about a stranger's baby's development. Especially if you're trying to sell them something.

Tameka excused herself while Joe and I continued to take turns tossing and turning on the floor models. We settled on one that we liked, and Tameka came back into the picture, just as Luke started digging for gold.

"Luke," I said quietly, giving him the look. He withdrew his finger from his nose.

"Ewwwww! Don't pick your nose in front of girrrrls!!!" Tameka teased.

We told her that we were going to spend some time thinking about the bed. We wrapped things up and started to head out. Tameka bent down over George's stroller and said, "Good night, handsome!"

"Good night!" Luke replied, not even noticing that she hadn't been talking to him.

"Wow," said Tameka, "someone sure is overly confident!"

Tameka didn't get the sale. We ordered directly from the mattress company over the phone.

The timing of this whole ordeal was impeccable--I found four gray hairs this morning.

Stick This

Things Luke has emblazoned with stickers today:

• His underwear
• Some area rugs
• The toilet seat
• His toys
• Some crystal candlesticks from Tiffany's, which he keeps referring to as trophies
• His brother
• The dog
• The kitchen floor
• George's high chair
• His lunch plate
• The coffee table
• The storm door

Things Luke has vehemently refused to put stickers on today:

• The craft we made today--a rain stick, which I expressly instructed him to decorate with stickers

Le sigh.

This weekend, we did something we hadn't done as a family since our oldest child was born--visit friends and stay in their home. We packed up our minivan and headed to Arkansas, or as I've dubbed it, New Jersey of the South. I just lost half of my readers. Whatever, just don't be all, "YOU live in MISSISSIPPI! THAT'S the New Jersey of the South!" Because Mississippi is really just the Mississippi of the South. You know?

We stayed with Elle, who is one of my best friends in the universe. That kind of makes it sound like I have extra-terrestrial friends. Actually, I sort of do. I met them one night during that crazy season when I was taking Ambien to help me sleep, when my husband was in Iraq and I had just lost a baby. They came to a cocktail party at my home, where everyone was standing upside-down on my ceiling.

Right now, my mother is dialing my number to ask me if I could please hold my cards a little closer to my chest. Joe is searching our cabinets to see if there are any prescription meds he should be flushing down the toilet. Nothing to worry about, folks. I'm getting all the help I need these days from calcium and magnesium supplements.

Anyway, we went to go see Elle, whose husband, Ted, is deployed right now. Elle is nothing if not practical and straightforward. Ted has told me that at any point if I don't want to be her friend anymore, I should just triple talaq her and make a clean break. He's been gone for five months, and we've made numerous plans to get together, but every time, I have canceled at the last second due to a feverish baby or a throwing-up husband. Elle was starting to question my honesty and wondering if I was trying to break up with her, but couldn't bring myself to say, "I divorce thee, I divorce thee, I divorce thee." Fortunately, nobody got sick this time and we made it up to her house, Elle's security in our friendship in tact.

The thing about being in such close quarters with your peers is that your kids spend most of the time embarrassing the cooties out of you. For example, Luke initiated a game wherein he and Elle's oldest son, Max, sang the theme song to "Bob the Builder" THE ENTIRE WEEKEND. But instead of the word "builder", they came up with alternative words. Racy words!

"Bob the DIAPER, yes we can!" "Bob the STINKPOT, yes we can!" The second I heard the first round, I knew it was the brainchild of my offspring. This isn't the first time he's Mad Libbed a song with potty talk. There was intense giggling and subsequent hiccupping that went along with this game.

There was the time Luke kicked his shorts off to go to the bathroom, and they flew high into the air and landed in the toilet. There were the kazillion times George threw his sippy cup on the floor with all his might, leaving tiny droplets of milk all over the rugs Elle bought when she lived in Turkey, and on her walls and cabinets.

Having planned this last-minute trip for a holiday weekend, we were unable to get a kennel reservation for our dog. Even she tried to do me in. She chewed up one of Elle's younger son's dirty diapers. And then, as the neighbors were attempting to set Elle's bushes on fire setting off fireworks, Dolley became frightened and piddled on the kitchen floor.

Monday morning, as I walked in on Luke pulling scabs off of his arm and artfully arranging them very close to the spot where Dolley defiled the floor, I was a bit relieved that we had arrived at the end of our visit. Don't get me wrong--we had a wonderful time in Arkansas attending the famous Wagnon Fourth of July Party, sitting and gabbing for hours with Elle and another dear friend, Brooke, and holding my friend Shannon's eleven-day-old baby. But it's true what Benjamin Franklin said, that fish and visitors smell after three days. If there's anybody who I'm not afraid to show my family's true colors to, it's Elle. But I'm afraid my family was stinking to high heaven.

I'm sure we'll plan some more trips to a city near you sometime. Don't screen your phone calls yet--we'll travel again as soon as we're empty nesters.

The Entertainer

I like to think of myself as a performer. I never did any serious performing, unless you consider my role as Chacha Digregorio in Grafton High School's spring production of "Grease" serious...I do like to think I brought the house down that weekend...

What were we talking about? Oh, right. I like to think that I'm kind of a star that got away from the industry. Or maybe a talent that hasn't yet been discovered, in a Lucy Ricardo sort of way. I like to sing and dance, and I have a ready made audience of two at my disposal all the time. Unfortunately for me, one of them is a real critic.

This morning, we were making our way down the stairs, a bleary-eyed trio, and Luke noticed that it was storming outside.

"That's right," I said, and then I belted out, "It's a rainy day, it's a rainy day. We can't go out. We can't go out and play. Why does it have to rain anyway?"

"Mommy, your singing makes me chilly," he said.

Hm. "Well then, we'll just have to warm up," I said. I love a good play on words.

A few minutes later as we were playing with toys, Luke started to hum a song. "What song am I singing?" he asked. He really enjoys a good round of Name That Tune.

"Are you singing this one? Ri-ise, and shi-ine, and give God the glory glory..." I sang it out.

Luke twisted his face into a nasty grimace and shuddered. "I DON'T WIKE YOUR SINGING!" he shouted. I gave him a little space for a while. Some people just need to ease into the day.

We started to talk about breakfast. He told me he would like some apple slices, no, a banana, no, apple slices, no...I thought about the song "I Like to Eat Apples and Bananas", but then thought again. Too obvious. Too Barney. Not mature enough. And most importantly, not enough razzle dazzle.

I did a quick browse of my mental catalogue and came up with a little ragtime. Luke likes a jazzy tune, and I might even get a clap out of George if I can add a Charleston kick or two. "Yes, we have no bananas. We have no bananas today," I sang. And Charleston kick I did! I felt radiant.

Luke folded his arms and put his head, face down, on the table.

Some people just don't recognize talent when they see it. Nevertheless, I'll be rehearsing during nap time. I want to nail my new theme song, "You Can't Always Get What You Want" by The Rolling Stones.

Checking In

Well, I've been on a two-week insomnia bender, rendering me thoughtless and mostly speechless. The humor of my son staring at the plumber who came by to fix our toilet and saying to him, "I don't want to talk to you" passed me by completely. You'd think I'd be able to come up with a good story after, an hour later, two painters came by to do some caulking and painting, and Luke screamed the entire time they were there, "They're scary! Mommy, don't make me go near them," all the while climbing up my legs and pulling my skirt down. Talk about humiliating. My writing thrives on humiliation! But no, I haven't the energy.

Boy, am I tired of being an insomniac.

GET IT? TIRED!...Insomniac humor. Ha ha. Ha ha. Ha...

Anyway, I've worked really hard to get all nine of you, including both of my grandmothers, who get a hard copy in the mail, to read my beloved weblog, and I don't want to lose you, so how's about reading something I wrote five months ago and never published? A delicious tale that is sure to make you cringe at my lack of parenting skills. It's all about bribery. Here you go:

Well, I've opened one of the Pandora's Boxes of parenthood, and that is bribery. Specifically, I have been bribing Luke with treats. I had honestly never even thought to bribe him until his two-year well baby exam. His doctor gave me a suggestion to help Luke sleep through the night without his usual wee-small-hours-of-the-morning tantrums. He said that I should make a reward chart, and after two nights of no interruptions, Luke could have something special, not food-related, but something that Luke would want to work toward. But not food-related.

We went home and made a chart. Luke filled it up with smiley faces, and enjoyed watching YouTube videos as rewards for two cumulative nights of sleep. It worked so well at first, I decided to use the tactic to slay another dragon of Luke's--the Sunday School tantrums. Luke would go in every Sunday, and as he approached his room, would start crying. As he was peeled off of our legs by evil Sunday School volunteers and pulled through the door, he would throw himself on the floor, scream, convulse, kick the door, throw punches, and do anything in his power to let everybody know that he did not intend to sit in this Baptist Concentration Camp and eat goldfish and make crafts for the next hour.

We had a little meeting of minds one afternoon and I proposed that on Sundays, if he could walk in without a tantrum, he could watch TWO FULL-LENGTH MOVIES on Sunday afternoons. He sat and thought about it, the wheels in his head turning, and then that little son of a gun pushed the envelope back. No deal.

I thought about what else we could do. A trip to the park? The library? But the weather and baby brother might not always cooperate. And, those things should be a regular adventure at any opportunity, so I nixed that idea. "Candy it is," I told him.

We held up a packet of "Spiderman Treats" (fruit snacks) every Sunday morning as we left for church. We explained the operation to him repeatedly as we drove, and then walked into the building. When he behaved, he got the treat. When he didn't, we ate it in front of him on the way home and talked about how good it tasted while Luke scowled in his car seat. Was that a little bit cruel? Perhaps. Effective? You betcha.

Ever since, I've been bribing that kid with treats left and right. "If you get through the tour of the football stadium without talking, we'll buy you an ice cream at the end." Consider it done. Last night, I told Luke that if he would sing fussy George songs to keep him happy while I cooked dinner, I'd pay him one Skittle per song. That boy sang like a canary until dinner was on the table. This food-related bribery thing works like a charm.

This morning, I took the boys out so George could get his shots. Luke munched on more Skittles while we sat in the waiting room, a reward for sitting on his bottom. After the shots, we made our way back to the car, and Luke was informed that the only way he was going to get more Skittles was if he held my hand the entire way through the parking lot. Am I a Patsy, or what? Skeptical of my steadfastness, Luke ceased and desisted with the hand-holding in favor of jumping in some puddles.

When we got back to the car, he demanded his treat. "I'm sorry," I explained, "you didn't hold my hand like I told you." He argued with me, begging for more Skittles. He must not have understood me. Chock it up to the fact that when I told him no, I sounded like I had a mouth full of marbles. In truth, I had a mouth full of Skittles. "I want some Skittles!" he kept shouting as I drove. "I'm so sorry," I repeated, popping more candy in my mouth the entire way back home, "but if you stop fussing about the Skittles, I'll let you have a hot dog for lunch." Talk about a huge dangling carrot.

This bribery thing makes me feel like we're on a runaway train, headed for disaster. This is not good parenting. I've got to stop, I told myself as I pulled into our apartments. And at that point, I decided that if I can go a whole week without bribing Luke, I can buy a cute new outfit. Two weeks, and I can buy some new impractical shoes to go with the outfit. Three weeks calls for a purse...

Tales of Brotherly Jealousy

Once upon a time, there were twin brothers, Esau and Jacob, whose parents were Jacob and Rebekah. The twins had spent their entire lives, including the time in Rebekah's womb, fighting. Esau was burly and kind of dumb, while Jacob was clever and kind of wimpy.

One night, Esau came home from a long day of hunting. He was completely famished. Jacob, who had been cooking dinner, offered him some stew in exchange for Esau's birthright. Esau went for it.

Years later, as Isaac laid on his deathbed, he called for Esau so he could give him his blessing. With Rebekah's help, Jacob used goat skins to disguise himself as Esau (Esau was one hairy son-of-a-gun) and received his blessing. Esau became so jealous, his shouting shook the walls of their tent. Rebekah sent Jacob to spend time with her family so Esau could cool down. It took twenty years.

Similarly, there were two brothers named Luke and George. George's first birthday was approaching, and some presents arrived in the mail. "Can I open that present?" asked Luke. "No," his mother, Laura, told him, "Those are George's birthday presents."

"But can I open them?" he persisted. "NO," said Laura, "They belong to George. He will open them on his birthday."

"Can I open them on his birthday?" he asked. "Fine," Laura replied, "You can open George's presents on his birthday, and he will open your presents on your birthday."

Luke thought for a moment and replied, "George will open his presents on his birthday."

A few days later, Laura overheard Luke telling his father, Joe, "Me and George are having a birthday soon and we're both going to open some presents." Laura found the closest wall and started beating her head against it repeatedly.

Laura thought to herself that if her parents weren't travelling to Mississippi for the blessed occasion of George's birthday, she would probably send Luke to their house as a preventive measure. But she resolved that if Luke showed up to George's party wearing goat skins, she would at least send him to a neighbor's house for a couple of hours.

Mahmee Brane

The first time I heard about Mommy Brain, I was pregnant for the first time. I knew it was a real phenomenon, because a friend and I were on a driving historical architectural tour through an old Little Rock neighborhood, and as she was reading the guide, she asked me what a dormer was. I drew a complete blank. AT THE TIME, I WAS AN INTERIOR DESIGNER WHO ASPIRED TO BE AN ARCHITECT.

I was a pretty decent student back in the day. Though my dating life precluded me from making a 4.0, I was always at least on the honor roll, and I took my fair share of AP classes (and bombed the AP tests, but that's okay because my parents picked up the tab on my higher education). But now, you'd think I'd dropped out of school in seventh grade, not only because I smiled at and said hello to a cardboard cutout of a person at the commissary the other day, but also because of the skills I have lost.

I took home economics in grade school. Having always liked cooking and sewing, I was a class star. When Joe and I got married, it was not uncommon for me to make tortellini from scratch, and pursue other more advanced culinary endeavors. But some days now, I get overwhelmed by the idea of making a frozen pizza. To top it off, when I'm done, I've somehow dirtied every bowl, rolling pin, and cutting board I own.

I made an A in Global Politics back in college. I remember enough to tell you that some of the negotiations I enter with my children make the six-month Paris Peace Conference look like a leisurely stroll down the Seine. But you would think I'd never studied any instance of diplomacy, judging from some of the showdowns we've had around here lately. I've affectionately nicknamed Luke and George "Mahmoud Ahmadinejad" and "Kim Jong Il". I'll let you guess who's who, but here's a hint--George is the short one. I would say for certain that diplomacy is failing with little Kim Jong Il as he enters the rough waters of toddlerhood, especially when I try to change his dirty diapers (or "nukes"), and I'm really hoping we don't have to enter a full-blown war.

I don't think anyone would say I aced Calculus, but hey, I took advanced math and mastered most of the principles. Today, I asked Luke how many strawberries he wanted with his lunch. "Too many pwus eweven," he answered. I stood there frozen for a few minutes, thinking to myself Carry the one, multiply the tangent of Pi, and I should be able to come up with the derivative of the number he's after. In the end, I sliced up five strawberries and told him that a train leaving Boston at 5:35 going 35 miles per hour crashed with The Little Engine That Could, coming from New York, going 42 miles per hour and carrying strawberries, and the contents of his plate was the aftermath from that wreck.

I'd come up with a clever ending, but I don't remember enough from my writing classes.

The Proprietorship

Grab your wallets, ladies of Columbus! A new store is open for business! If you live around here, I have surely piqued your interest, as retail isn't exactly the bread and butter of this area. You are probably dreaming of a place to buy really cute clothes, and I'm sorry to kill your buzz, but this store only sells one thing--hangers.

Exposing his entrepreneurial side, Luke has decided to go into business for himself. His hanger store is open during very limited hours--when I'm doing laundry. The proprietor goes to somewhat unethical means to build his inventory, i.e. snatching the pile of hangers that I was using to hang up my clothes. He then goes about displaying them from my headboard.



At first, you think the customer service is going to be spot-on. He seems like a really attentive sales associate. "Hello, welcome to my hanger store," he chirps, "Would you like to buy a hanger?"

Don't be fooled. The service is lousy. Just when I get in the mood for an impulse buy, I ask, "May I have a green hanger?" and he goes and hands me a wire one. Like, the kind the dry cleaner sends back with the good-for-nothing cardboard tube. He's known his colors for a year now. This is no honest mistake. It's a control game, and I'm thinking about calling the Better Business Bureau if it doesn't stop.

"What is this," I ask, "Communist Cuba? I said I want the green one. Give me the one I want." Luke stares at me and blinks a couple times. It doesn't faze him, though, he goes right back to removing hangers from clothes that I was about to put away in my closet and hanging them on my headboard.

This is a welcome change from the last game that kept me from getting my laundry done. The one wherein Luke takes my laundry baskets, or "nets", and we spend the next three hours pretending he is a seahorse, sea turtle, goldfish, dolphin, crab, octopus, Loch Ness Monster, or whatever other water creature he can think of. I throw the "net" over him, he laughs hysterically, and I long to make a necklace very similar to those candy necklaces we used to wear in grade school, but instead of candy, it has Valium on it. (Honest--the only medication I take is over-the-counter Claritin a couple times a week.)

Anyway, I digress. Luke is serious about his business. On Friday night, it was nearly bedtime. I announced that it was time for two little boys to take a bath, and do you know what he said? He said verbatim, "Sorry, I can't make it. I have a meeting."

"A meeting? What kind of a meeting?"

"A store meeting," he said, and then he disappeared into George's closet, or as it's known around here, "Luke's elevator". The door slid shut, and I'll be darned if I didn't hear him say something about last quarter's profits.

A meeting on a Friday night! Is he a workaholic, or just chasing the American Dream? Either way, I think he's loving his work, because last night, he announced at dinner that he was going to start selling hot dogs at his store. "Product diversification--not a bad idea," I told him.

At this rate, I will get to have 24 karat gold faucets in the pool house he builds me on his property in my silver years. I could get really passionate about hangers (and hot dogs).

Ma Hayer

That's Mississippi speak for "my hair". Yes, I'm writing about my hair again. Partly so that any of you whom I may run into at the store will know that very soon, I am going to have this shaggy mess taken care of. It's looking less Audrey Hepburn and more frat boy these days. But I'm mostly writing about my hair because I'm really self-absorbed.

Anyway, one of the really neat things about moving to this small town in Mississippi for the second time around is that I didn't have to wonder who would do my hair. That has to be one of the most stressful things about getting to a new town. You get there, you have boxes, you have to set up utilities, your family is staring at you because they haven't given up on wanting to eat dinners just because you don't know where your skillet or recipe box is located. You're so busy, but the clock is ticking, no, POUNDING IN YOUR HEAD, like The Telltale Heart, because time is running out on the haircut you had on the absolute latest date you could manage in your last town. You'd ask somebody where to go if you knew anybody, but you don't, so you are stuck tracking cute women at Walmart and talking to complete strangers about it. And then, when you finally find a stylist to try, you have to wait three weeks to be seen.

But not this time. I just called the salon I went to before and scheduled an appointment with Zack, who cut my hair six years ago.

Selah.

Zack is such a mystery to me, and probably to the rest of his clientele. He is happily married. In fact, he and his wife are probably one of the most striking couples I've ever seen. He does all the manly activities that most men around here do. He hunts. He fishes. And then he spends his days doing women's hair and talking girl talk.

"Who are you going to use for an OBGYN while you're here?" he asked the last time I went in. He and his wife are expecting their second child, and we're in the young family stage as well, so I guess OBGYN talk is common ground for us, bizarre as it is.

"Get off my back, Zack, I've only figured out my hair so far! I'll pick a doctor and a dentist when I get around to it," I replied.

"Well, we really like ours, so let me know if you need a recommendation."

When I think about that salon, I can't help but think back to the first time I ever went there. Picture a younger, skinnier, newlywed me. I had no snot trails on my dress, nor did I have any goldfish crackers on my breath. I must say, though, I had really pushed the limit on my haircut that time. I was sitting in the lobby, waiting for my appointment, and leisurely flipping through a hair magazine.

There are a couple things you need to know about this town to get an accurate depiction of this story. First of all, this is basically the same town as in the movie "Steel Magnolias". Second of all, when it rains here, it is purely theatrical--it pours and the sky gets really dark. And it was raining like that on this particular day.

While I was waiting, a woman in her late fifties or early sixties came in, sopping wet. She made a real entrance. Heads turned to look at the drenched woman shaking off her umbrella.

The receptionist's eyes got big. "Oh, Mrs. So-and-So! Didn't you get my message? I called to let you know that your stylist was having some pregnancy complications and had to leave to go to her doctor."

The woman's face and shoulders dropped in defeat. "Are you kidding me?" she asked rhetorically, "I walked here! I totaled my car yesterday and I had to walk here!"

Silence.

Then she walked to the receptionist's desk, bursting into tears on the way. She just stood there for a moment crying, and as if trying to explain, asked the receptionist, "Did you hear that my daughter died last week?"

"Yes, ma'am, I did. I was so sorry to hear that." The receptionist sat there for a moment not knowing what to say, and the woman just kept sobbing.

Could this exchange get any worse? I felt compelled to do something to break up the gridlock, so I walked up to the desk and said, "Excuse me. I'd be happy to give you my appointment with Zack. I know it's not who you normally go to, but if you'd like it, you can have it."

"Really?" she asked, sniffling.

"Sure," I said, "I'd be happy for you to have it. Go ahead."

She stood there for a moment staring at me in silence. "Well, honey," she said, "to be honest, you need it more than I do."

I hope that when I get to the salon, it's not raining, and that nobody has lost a child, and that nobody has pregnancy complications, and that I don't somehow try to save the day. My self esteem just can't take the rejection.

Kids Say the Darndest Things

My siblings and I were so cute growing up. We said and did some of the most adorable things. We went through this phase where, whenever our mom refused to give in to something that we wanted that wasn't good for us, we'd pick up the phone and threaten to call the child abuse hotline and tell them that she was beating us. I'm having a cute attack just thinking about it!

I was reminded of this precious time in our lives this morning when I saw this on the news:



Is that girl CUTE or what? I'll bet her mom was brought to tears by this sweet exchange.

I have to stop watching it, though. I'm getting a little bit jealous, because while we were really cute in our "I'm Calling the Child Abuse Hotline" stage, we never got to go through an "I'm Tattling On You To the First Lady On National Television For Being an Illegal Alien" stage.

EDIT: My Mom, the adorable "Cookie", as some of us call her, is concerned that I may have inadvertently sullied her pristine reputation, and would like to clarify that she never actually beat us (for those of you who can't read between the lines).

The Phone Consult

A few days ago, by the time evening rolled around, I was more exhausted than usual. I was having trouble remembering my own name. I opened my mouth to speak to my neighbors, and a jumbled mess of consonants without vowels fell out of it. I nearly fell asleep while washing George's hair at bathtime.

I looked at my kids using my Crazy Eyes Face and warned them that they needed to sleep all night without crying for any reason. Did they comply?...Is the Pope Lutheran?

Around 4:00 am, as I was telling Luke once again that, no, I would not "wrap him up like a hot dog", I decided I needed professional intervention. I decided that as soon as standard office hours began, I would call our celebrity pediatrician.

Oh yes, of COURSE we have a celebrity pediatrician. What, you don't? You should get one because ours is FAAAAAAAHHHHbulous! He's a genius in matters of child psychology. I don't have to fight with Luke to get him to cooperate when we're following our celebrity pediatrician's advice--I just say the doctor's name, and Luke does what I say, sort of like a Jonestown member drinking Kool-Aid, but more like a child obeying a loving parent.

The one drawback to using our doctor is that he's not local. Fortunately, he does plenty of phone consults, and we have Vonage, so it's no big deal to call when we're having behavioral problems.

I've probably made you completely curious by now. Oh fine, I'll tell you who he is and where you can find him. His name is Dr. Bones, and he lives in Busytown. He's not the handsomest celebrity doctor I've ever seen--I mean, he is no Dr. Oz--but he's not too terribly hard on the eyes, either:




I sat down in front of Luke and dialed. I explained that I was calling the doctor about his sleeping problems, and that the doctor was going to have some ideas about some changes we'd have to make. A voice sounding very similar to my mother's answered on the other end of the line.

"Is this Dr. Bones?" I asked. "Yes, it is," the voice answered. I proceeded to ask why Luke still can't sleep through the night and what we needed to do to help him. Dr. Bones had very sage advice for me. He said that Luke has been through so many changes in the last year, and to a certain extent, he will grow out of it as he feels more secure, but that maybe taking away all sugar and cutting back on the television might help.

I must admit, I've grown a bit lax in the sugar and television departments lately. But if you had put your house on the market when you were hugely pregnant, given birth to a preemie, shown and sold your house while you had a newborn (and a busy one-year-old), completed two interstate moves, and for a grand finale, had your husband leave for five weeks when you got to your final destination, all in one calendar year, you might have kowtowed to the marshmallow and fruit snack and pink milk shakedown, and let PBS Kids babysit your two-year-old while you unpacked boxes, too.

No matter, we've buckled down in those departments, as well as researched some other common causes of sleep interruption in toddlers, such as too much light in the room, and I think his behavior and sleep are improving. Kudos to Dr. Bones!

And if any of you call on him, please let him know the referral came from me so he'll give me a break on my co-pay. That Dr. Bones charges an arm and a leg.

I is for Inappropriate

While at home, I bought my kids a charming ABC book with a Colonial Williamsburg motif. The letters stand for all things Williamsburg, such as Apothecary shop, Blacksmith, Capitol, Drums, and so forth. It's precious and I've enjoyed looking at it with Luke.

Every page is emblazoned with exquisite watercolor illustrations. It's full of details, which is exciting for me, because my eyes get bored easily. One of the neat things about the illustrations is that on every page, a hotch potch figure is shown contorting his body in the shape of a letter. You know, like this:

So there I was, reading the book with my boy, thinking what a wholesome book it is, and what a keepsake it's going to be. And then we got to Mr. M.


Who illustrated this thing? An ex-Disney animator? I was so confused, too, because in this book, M is for Magazine, Musician, Marbles, and Maze. Nowhere does it say that M is for Manual Examination.

Looks Like I Picked the Wrong Week to Quit Sniffing Glue

Yesterday, I traveled back to Mississippi with the kids. Anticipating a real battle, I was on pins and needles. I needed some levity as we drove up to the airport.

"Hey Luke, can you say, 'Don't call me Shirley?'" I asked.

"Don't caw me Shirwey," he replied.

"Perfect," I said, "If you say that to the pilot today, I'll put an extra $100 in your college savings plan this month."

Aside from Luke telling the TSA agent and me "no" when he was told to get out of the stroller, we had a very smooth start to our trip. As we were boarding, I reminded Luke what he was supposed to say to the pilot and he told me he was too scared.

When we got to Atlanta, it came time to board the plane. Because only three people want to fly into Tupelo, Mississippi on any given day, we flew in a puddle jumper, which means we had to climb down two flights of stairs. I didn't know this until I gave the ticket agent my boarding pass and she told me I'd need to take the kids out of the stroller and collapse it before I went down the stairs.

"No problem," I said, "I'm going to need someone to help me down the stairs, please."

"There isn't anyone. You're just going to have to do it yourself," she said. I'm sensing a pattern here. Delta employees in Atlanta aren't exactly striving for success. Two weeks ago, a ticket agent told me that it was tough luck that Luke and I weren't seated together, and he had a line full of other people to help, so I'd just have to figure the seat thing out on my own.

"That's ridiculous," I said, "I have a two-year-old, a baby, a heavy double stroller, and two bags. Surely someone can help me. You provide assistance to those in wheelchairs, and I can't physically get all of this by myself. Someone needs to help me."

"I can't leave the gate," she said.

"THEN CALL SOMEONE WHO CAN HELP ME," I argued, looking around at a terminal full of airline employees with nothing to do.

A pilot who was standing around heard our exchange, and maybe sensing that I was about to explode, stepped in. "I'll carry your stroller down," he offered cheerfully. He took George while I collapsed the stroller, and we went on our way. Boy, do I love pilots.

Thinking hard about preparing for his future, it was then that Luke looked up and told him, "Don't caw me Shirwey." The reaction was everything you'd imagine it would be. I guess we're out $100 now.

I think the exchange gave Luke a whole new boldness about talking to strangers, because as we were getting ready to deplane, the man in front of us was snorting and sniffing so loud. Luke looked at him and remarked, "You sound like Wilbur." Wilbur, as in, Zuckerman's Famous Pig.

"Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue."

Three Strikes and Counting

Meet my brother-in-law, Chris, and my adorable nephew, Jackson. We're having a great visit with Chris, Jackson, and my sister, Meredith, in Virginia. Chris is a great guy, treats my sister well, is a good dad, is kind to my family...but I've pushed a few of his buttons today.

It all started when my sister's college friend and our sorority sister, Kristie, came over for a visit. Being that Kristie does not have a facebook account, we spent some time letting her facebook-stalk old blasts from the past via Meredith's account.

It was all fun and games until Chris walked in the room and said something to me. I should interject here and state that I do not have any ability whatsoever to talk and read at the same time. And as I answered him, I glanced at the screen and saw a different name, and I called him by it. The unfortunate thing about it is that this name is the same name as my sister's ex-boyfriend. Chris clenched his jaw and Meredith slapped her hand over her open mouth. My eyes bugged out of my head.

Never one to be comfortable with an elephant in a room, I shouted, "THAT'S SO AWKWARD THAT I CALLED YOU THAT BECAUSE THAT'S MEREDITH'S OLD BOYFRIEND'S NAME!" "Yes, I know," he responded.

I would like to point out that it was NOT Meredith's old boyfriend we were stalking on facebook.

Anyway, strike one.

Later, Meredith and I went shopping. I bought some adorable plaid espadrille wedge slingbacks. The thing about Meredith and I is that we like to have matching shoes. We have matching red patent leather ballet flats, floral print ballet flats, some shoes that Chris calls "homely shoes", and probably several more pairs that I can't think of. Blame it on our mother for putting us in matching clothes growing up. It went without saying that Meredith also had to have some adorable plaid espadrille wedge slingbacks.

I came home and modeled my new shoes for everybody. "Great," Chris said, boring holes into my face with his eyes, "if you had to get cute new shoes, that means Meredith had to have cute new shoes."

Strike two.

After dinner, we were eating ice cream sundaes. Meredith and Chris, being first-time parents, are somewhat particular about Jackson's diet. But I'm somewhat particular about Jackson choosing me as his favorite aunt, so I was slipping him bites of chocolate syrup when they weren't looking. And when I say bites, I mean probably a cumulative quarter teaspoon when all was said and done. Feeding a baby ice cream is white trash, I'll give you that. But when I got caught, they both looked at me like, WHY DON'T YOU JUST FEED HIM A FRIED BOLOGNA SANDWICH AND PUT DIET MOUNTAIN DEW IN HIS SIPPY CUP?!?!?! I was busted.

Strike three. Technically, I was out, but I like to go out with a bang, so I kept going.

Chris did the dishes tonight. After I came downstairs from putting my kids to bed, I noticed that he left his wedding ring on the window sill above the kitchen sink. As Chris was out of earshot, I pointed the ring out to Meredith and asked, "Want to play a trick on Chris?" "NO!" she replied, giving me a really annoyed look.

Strike four averted. But, I predict that by the end of the day, I will accidentally walk in on Chris using the "little boys' room". It would be very fitting.

Born to Fly

A few weeks ago, I received the exciting news that my expat sister and her family would be in the states for vacation. This was great news, because she and I had babies eighteen days apart last summer and we still hadn't all met up yet. As I considered all my options for travelling home to Virginia to see them, an ugly reality set in. "You're just going to have to fly with the kids," Joe told me. I promptly asked for a brown paper bag to breathe in. Flying with my oldest child has always been a pride-swallowing experience at best.

When Luke was six months old, our little family of three took a trip together. As we were boarding the plane, I said to Joe, "That mother over there is by herself. See if she needs help folding up her stroller." When he asked her if she needed any help, she looked at him like he had two heads and replied, "No, thanks," and proceeded to fold up her stroller with a quick flick of one wrist. She and her baby sat one row ahead of us. Luke, never one to like sitting still, caused quite the ruckus throughout the entire flight. Her baby fell asleep on takeoff, allowing her to put him down on the empty seat next to her while she read a magazine. The flight attendant kept walking the aisles, saying over and over, "Isn't little Caleb a good baby?" Then she'd give us the evil eye. I really wanted to spill my drink on little Caleb and see just how good a baby he really was.

When Luke was eleven months old, we took a trip immediately following one of Joe's deployments. I was never so elated as when Joe checked us in and said, "Well, it looks like we're not sitting together." We rock-paper-scissored to see who was going to have to sit with Luke. I think I lost, but I reasoned that Joe needed to sit with him anyway and make up for lost time. I smiled the entire duration of the flight, reading my book so peacefully. I did endure some hardship on that flight though--it took all the self control I could muster not to shout, "CAN YOU SHUT THAT BABY UP?" toward the front of the plane where Joe was sitting.

Oh, I have flying stories to last all night. There was the time he tossed his cookies all over me right as we were walking through security. There was the time he dirtied his diaper right as they turned the seatbelt light on for the descent. Oh, actually, that happened every time we flew while he was in diapers.

Of all the travelling horrors I've experienced, it was never worse than when I was four months pregnant with George, and sixteen-month-old Luke and I traveled home for a funeral. Luke slept in his stroller until it was time to board the plane. I must explain, even when he wakes up naturally, according to his own schedule and needs, it is not pretty. When he has to be woken, hold onto your hat. I carried a screaming child onto the plane and tried all my best tricks. "Little Einsteins" on the iPod, bananas, nothing worked. He just screamed. I could hear the heavy sighs of everyone around me. I saw people massaging their temples and rolling their eyes.

"Colic?" an older gentleman asked sympathetically. Anyone who knows anything about babies knows that colic pretty much disappears by age three months. "Yes! That's it!" I replied. "My toddler has colic." I looked around to see if anyone was going to have mercy on me, but nope, still a lot of eye-rolling and groaning.

Luke stopped crying about 45 minutes into the flight. Thankfully, the head flight attendant came by to chat with me. She went on and on about how hard flying is on babies, and how sometimes they're just inconsolable. I thought that maybe her speech was really pointed at everyone around me who had been giving me a hard time. Then she told me that if she were me, she would get off the plane and have a stiff drink. "I wish!" I responded, "But I'm four months pregnant!" The second I said it, I wished I would have kept my big mouth shut. Not ONE person around me congratulated me! And I think I heard someone asking if I could be put on the Do Not Fly list. I wanted to die.

This time around, I lost several nights of sleep due to the anxiety surrounding our trip. I laid in my bed every night and choreographed every step I was going to have to take through security. Take Luke out of the stroller, threaten Luke within an inch of his life if he walks away, remove George's carrier, fold up the stroller, take George out of the carrier...I had mentally packed and repacked my diaper bag a hundred times. I practiced lamaze techniques.

I am pleased to say that the trip went off without a hitch. I beamed as I received compliments from other passengers and flight attendants. My kids behaved beautifully on the flights out to Virginia! Luke even said "please" and "thank you" for his drinks and snacks. This glory is shortlived, though, as I realize that there will be a price to pay on the return trip for getting off so easy this time, and it won't be pretty.

And lest you should think I'm going to turn into some braggy mommy blogger, boring you with stories about how polite my kids are, be assured that this is still the same Luke whom, just the other day, I found dipping underwear from a pile of dirty laundry into the dog's water bowl, and slapping her in the face with it.

Well, I have another literary treat about my adventures in sleeplessness. I realize I'm entirely too focused on this subject. I wonder what Freud would say about my obsession with my exhaustion. I wonder what he would say about the things my child said to me this morning...

Joe is at Squadron Officer School in Montgomery, Alabama for a month. I'm not allowed to feel too sorry for myself, though, because he's coming home this weekend. Oh, and also, because he's not in a war zone right now. Anyway, Joe tells me that during some sort of ice breaker, he shared with his flight that while his kids caught onto sleeping through the night rather quickly, his dog still hadn't mastered it. My initial reaction was, "You have other kids?"

At 3:30 this morning, Luke started his typical screaming. Something about a hot dog or some such nonsense. Enough with the dreams about the food! Anyway, as I was explaining to Luke that, no, I would not snuggle, because 3:30 is a time that Mommy likes to be in REM sleep, I heard George start to scream. It seems a barrier of a bathroom with two fans running, a storage room, and a linen closet couldn't stifle the noise generated by my firstborn's hot dog calamities.

Long, boring story short, I was just drifting back to sleep around 5:30, when I heard the familiar sound of matchbox cars crashing into one another right outside my bedroom door. I talked Luke into leaving the cars behind and snuggling with me in bed. I warned him that he needed to lay down and be quiet like a mouse.

A nonconformist to the core, Luke started off with a clapping session. He just loves an inappropriate round of applause. Or an inappropriate anything, for that matter. I gave him a little reminder speech and then rolled over. He put his head down next to mine, and here's where the story gets a little risqué. He started talking dirty to me.

"I think George has a pooooopy diaperrrrr!" he said, "I think you should go WIPE his BOTTOM!" and then he burst into giggles.

"LUKE!" I growled, shooting him the evil eye, "Would you like to go back to your room and play quietly?" "No, no, no, no, no, no, no," he sang to me to the tune of "Do-Re-Mi". He laid still for a few minutes, but boredom gave way to practicing his kissy sounds. As soon as that got old, he ripped my duvet away from me. As I was rearranging the covers over myself, he asked me between muffled, throaty giggles, "Hey, Mom...what color shirt are you wearing?" He sounded like a prank caller asking a woman what she's wearing.

Just as I was about to head to the shower to scrub off the ick factor, George woke up again and we started our day.

I would like to meet this other family of Joe's. I'd like to talk to the mother of his other children and pick her brain for ideas. Learn a few of her tricks. See what I'm doing wrong. I'll keep you posted...

Blueberry Muffins

Luke and I baked some blueberry muffins together this morning. Letting kids help in the kitchen is a great idea because it's good bonding time, and they develop new motor skills, as well as a sense of accomplishment.

We had such a nice time, that I wanted to pass along the recipe. I altered the directions slightly, in a way that I think would help you mothers who want to get started involving your kids in cooking.

Blueberry Muffins
3/4 cup all purpose flour
3/4 cup whole wheat flour
1/2 cup sugar
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1 egg, lightly beaten
1 tsp vanilla
1 cup blueberries

Put your toddler in a straightjacket and get the damned muffins in the oven as quickly as possible.

They're Coming To Take Me Away

We had "one of those mornings" this morning. Nothing major. Just a rough morning where this child is knocking decorative objects off of surfaces while I'm putting that child into timeout for a tantrum over not getting to help make Daddy's sandwich, after which I start yelling at my coffee pot, which is taking its sweet time dripping my lifeline, like I have all day to wait, "Brew, coffee, BREEEEEWWWWWW!" Then this child starts shoving giant pieces of banana down his throat before I can cut it into tiny pieces while that child tells me that he just decided he doesn't want the toast with jam I put in front of him, he wants toast with honey instead. OR HOW ABOUT CHOCOWATE CHIPS? CHOCOWATE CHIIIIIIIPSSSSS! And then while that child is throwing his routine fit over getting his hair washed, this child stands up for the first time in the tub, but I don't notice because of all the commotion, then he slips and falls.

And Joe has this look on his face while he's pouring his coffee to go, like, "I can't wait to get in my plane and take off!" And I'm looking at him like, "Don't set a foot inside this house tonight without a bottle of wine."

And because I grew up on Casey Kasem, the first thing I think to do is dedicate a song to my loving husband. So I ran to the computer and played this song:



Stay-at-home moms who love their work, but sometimes want to be the one to go and fly a plane all day, may this anthem bring you as much laughter as it did us this morning.

As Joe was leaving, I noticed two piles of dog vomit on our screened-in porch. They're coming to take me away, ha ha, they're coming to take me away...

Twenty-Two Accomplishments

Some people, at the end of their career, are able to say things like, "Look at the bridge I designed," or "Listen to this song I wrote," or "Look at the productive American citizens I taught in school." I don't have anything like that to show from what I do day in and day out. I wish I could show you a clean house, but the second I mop the floor, somebody spills something. I fold the laundry, and more lands in the hamper. I clean the bathroom, and within five minutes, Luke doesn't aim quite right. I feed everybody, and pretty soon, somebody is hungry again. When I boast about what I accomplished as a mother, I think all I will have to do is pry open my children's mouths and show you the teeth they grew, pearly white from being polished to a shine with watermenlon-flavored toothpaste. Yes, getting through the teething process is my personal opus.

I guess whether or not teething is difficult for the mother depends on the child. Some have an easy time with it. I once had a close friend tell me, "I always knew when my kids were teething because they just wanted to sleep all the time! We'd get home from church at lunchtime, and I'd put Max down for a nap. I'd have to wake him up for a bottle at night, and then I wouldn't see him again till morning!" The restraint I showed by not slapping her silly when she told me that falls under the umbrella of my great teething accomplishment.

My kids are quite the opposite. Like many children, teething renders them unable to sleep. They require doses of Motrin and homeopathic teething tablets and want to be cuddled all night long. They're prone to frequent screaming fits around the clock. Through teething, Luke had bleeding diaper rash that made every diaper change an emotional roller coaster. I handled nineteen of his twenty teeth on my own, as Joe and Luke seemingly struck a deal that Joe would be in some far-off country through any dental growth. The week my husband left for his second deployment, Luke started cutting six teeth. It was the same week that I had to rush Luke to Urgent Care twice for mysterious hives, I had to replace an oven that wouldn't turn off in the June heat, I killed a snake, and I had to clean up a bunch of glass shards from a mysterious explosion in my dishwasher. And then a little bit later, he cut eight molars at once. It took a month--it was like four exam weeks in a row.

All of these factors have led me to look at my son's smile and see much more than teeth. I look at his big, cheesy grin and see twenty major accomplishments. I view his teeth very much the same way I viewed my merit badges in Girl Scouts. I worked for them. His mouth is like my green vest.

This week, I'm pulling long hours through the night with George, who is finally going to be able to eat steak, it seems. I was so excited this morning when I put his fork in his mouth and I felt and heard a scraping of teeth. I imagine that this elation I feel is akin to how the Forty-Niners felt when they struck gold in California. Two down, eighteen go to. I look at Luke, smiling at me, and see twenty little promises that I will get through this, and that someday, I'll have forty little merit badges to boast.

Fine Dining

Today at lunch, Luke told me that his lunch was making him feel good, and that it was also making him happy. This was a nice departure from yesterday's lunch, when I made him an adorable ham and cheese plate, with the cheese cubes in a checkerboard pattern, and he told me, "That's cute, but I really wanted cheese triangles." After he polished off a popsicle for dessert, he said, "Momma, tonight you should make the BESSSSSST DINNER EVERRRRRR!" The pressure was on.

Around 5:00, I started gathering the ingredients for meatloaf. As it turned out, I only had about half of what I needed. I don't know about you, but when it comes to ground beef, I don't like to improvise. And since I had been challenged to come up with the "BESSSSSST DINNER EVERRRRRR", I was apprehensive to leave it to chance, so we decided to go out.

Luke made some guidelines before we chose a place. He requested that we eat at a place that had a booster seat for him to sit on and water to drink. It seemed reasonable enough. Joe's request was that we not drive far. This would limit our options, as this is small-town Mississippi, and the base is not exactly located in the heartbeat of the town. You'll see. I looked at the gang and requested that we not go anywhere nice because we were not exactly dressed for success. Joe was wearing a t-shirt boasting his membership in the 200-mile club of Balad, Iraq, which he earned by running 200 miles during one of his deployments. Luke, handicapped by male color-coordination blindness, was wearing a lime green shirt and olive green shorts. Oh heck, since I'm among friends, I don't mind admitting that this shirt is a pajama shirt...and he'd been wearing it since bedtime last night. George was in a white onesie, dingy from a day of scooting around the floor that I have yet to vacuum since moving in last week. Also, he had remnants of lunch on his face. As for me, I had a chip in my toenail polish. What, you think I'm going to really criticize the way I looked?

We drove off base, planning to go to The Little Kitchen, which is right outside the gate. The Little Kitchen is a greasy spoon kind of restaurant. It happens to be located in a doublewide trailer, with a singlewide trailer annexed off the side. They are known for their breakfast platters and for the Chinese food they make later in the day. I know, it doesn't make sense! Sadly, The Little Kitchen closes at 5:00, so it was a no-go.

We passed up on a pizza place located in an ancient gas station to get barbecue at a place a little further down the road. This barbecue place is located in a small clearing in the woods and operates out of a shed. You heard me right, a shed. This shed sits right next to a charred foundation of another shed--the one they used to operate out of until it burned down...when we lived here six years ago.

As we pulled up, I asked Joe if we could just get it to go. They have two picnic tables outside, but I didn't want to eat there. Trust me, I had my reasons, but let's just say that it was because they didn't have Luke's booster seat.

Joe came back out a few minutes later bearing dinner (and Luke's bottle of water), and we headed off to the base park to have a picnic. "Thank you for understanding about my not wanting to eat there," I said. "No problem," he replied. I explained further, "It's just that I think we were overdressed."

The barbecue was delicious.