What I Said/What He Heard: Church Edition

What I said: Have fun at Sunday School, Punkin! Be a good boy for your teacher. We'll see you in just a little bit.

What he heard: Good luck in the Southern Baptist concentration camp! Don't choke on the stale goldfish crackers and watered-down apple juice. See you...never! We're going to leave you here for good. When you get out, er, that is, IF you make it out, you're on your own. It's rough out there, but please don't become a drug-addicted hobo. Have a nice life! And by the way, we love your brother more than you!

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Luke never did calm down after that. They tried as many tricks as they could to calm him down, but finally had to page me after the worship service, and about halfway through Sunday School. When I picked him up, he was being carried around the lobby with a pout on his face. The teacher explained to me that he couldn't calm down and he wouldn't stop telling her that he was too old to be in there.

"I'm too old to go in there!" he added for emphasis.

I gave him the option of going back to play with all the toys, or sitting in Cookie and Pops boring class with old people and not talking. He chose boring.

Remembering that we had made Neiman Marcus Cake to bring to Sunday School, as we approached the classroom, he demanded to know, "Which room is the cake room?????" Instead of sitting quietly in the back of the room, Little Lord Fauntleroy sat in his grandmother's lap in a small unoccupied room, having his chubby little cheeks stuffed with cake, and coloring on another class's prayer request sheets for the remainder of the hour.

Thinking ahead for next week, I warned him that I was planning on bringing a tuna noodle casserole, so it probably wouldn't be worth making such a fuss, and that he should just go ahead and stay in the two-year-old room.

How did George do in the nursery, you ask? Just fine.

Hidden Booty

The other day, Luke woke up bored. He looked at his toys, and his face read, If I have to play with those legos one more time, I am going to puke.

Luckily, Cookie is prepared for such emergencies. Out came a treasure chest full of treasure. Or, as it looked to the rest of us, a small basket, circa 1988 with country hearts and buttons around the side of it, filled with Mardi Gras beads and coins that came with the King Cakes she had purchased at Fresh Market for Fat Tuesday.

After the initial excitement of showing us his loot wore off, she suggested that she hide the treasure chest and Luke could look for the buried treasure. He didn't quite understand the game, so the rest of us had to join in the fun.

"ARRRRRGH, where's the buried treasure?" Cookie shouted.

"AAAAARRRRRGHH, I'm only after me rum! It's five o'clock somewhere!" I bellowed. (The kids had me up no less than eleven times the night before. I was joking about the rum. Sort of. Later, I found out that Luke is cutting four molars. Did you know there are twenty baby teeth in a full set? I thought there were only sixteen, since he hasn't gotten teeth in fifteen months!) "And if Luke ever wakes me up that many times in one night again, I am going to make him walk the plank. ARRRRRRRRRGH!"

We zeroed in on the booty, which was located in plain sight underneath the dining room table. Luke STILL couldn't put two and two together. "Look!" my mom shouted, pointing at the basket, "Look what I found!"

"A CHAIR!!!!!!!!" Luke shouted excitedly, grabbing onto one of the dining chairs.

I looked at my mom, stonefaced, and said, "I hate to break it to you, but we're not doing an Easter egg hunt this year."

Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

Luke is what we call an "active dreamer". It's never a mystery what he's dreaming about (loudly). Last night his dreams were full of two things he regularly deals with: sweets and injustice.

Last night, he started crying around 11:30. I went in to check on him and he was still asleep. He started shouting, "I want more. I want more. I want more chocolate." I rubbed his back until he calmed down and moved into a different stage of sleep, then went back to bed.

At 4:30, I sprang from my bed in response to some ear-piercing screams coming from his room. Based on the severity of his sceaming, I had expected to find that he had fallen out of bed...onto a pile of glass shards...with mutant bats flying through the window and attacking him.

He was still in bed, screaming intensely, "I WANT MORE. I WANT MORE. GIVE ME MORE. I WANT MORE 'NILLA WAFERS." Oh @#&*, not this again, I thought. The shouting went on for about thirty seconds before I could get a word in edgewise. I jostled him a little bit and started explaining to him that he was having a dream. He woke up and looked at me and demanded that I spit the 'Nilla Wafers out.

"I don't have any. You're having a dream," was what I was trying to say, but he thrust his fist into my mouth at that point. He wiggled his fingers around, sticking them down my throat. His sharp little talons (which I JUST cut to nubbins on Saturday) scratched my throat as I pulled them out. This all happened very quickly. Thankfully, my saintly mother rescued me from the situation and sent me back to bed.

As I woke up this morning (to stickers being put on my face by the same perpetrator), I felt like I had been intubated.

I have no funny punchline about the situation. And really, I'm only recording this story so that someday, when Luke is building me a mother-in-law suite in his pool house, I can have documented reasons why he should stop selling me short on formica countertops. I want the granite countertops, you son of a gun. I DESERVE THE GRANITE.

What Goes Around Comes Around

On Valentine's Day, I had a brilliant idea. "Let's take the kids to Chuck E. Cheese's tonight!" I said to my parents that morning. I had heard friends talking about it when we lived in Little Rock and San Antonio. We had never gone because I didn't think Luke was old enough to play the games. But now he's old enough, and what could be more romantic than a life-sized petri dish full of germs for Valentine's Day? We met my in-laws there at 4:30. My mother sat in our booth and clutched onto her coat the entire time we were there. She kind of had a sad face, too. I don't blame her...not to be snobbish, but the clientele there was a bit seedy. Not at all like I remember Chuck E. Cheese's growing up. I mean, you didn't have to be dripping in diamonds to go there, but when I was a kid, not everybody looked like they had just come from the free clinic down the street, either.

Tick tock tick tock...

Thirty-six hours passed. Tuesday morning, Luke started throwing up.

When Luke was a baby, he came by his nickname "Pukey Lukey" quite honestly. The boy had some reflux going on. If there was an Olympics category for projectile spitting up, he would have had the gold medal bagged up for sure. But after he turned one, it mostly went away, and I waited with dread until the day he THREW UP threw up. And the day came, just thirty-six hours after we went to Chuck E. Cheese.

I hate to boast, but I handled it beautifully. But that's only because he had spent the night at my in-laws' house and I was ten miles away. I jumped in my car as fast as I could and went to pick him up. We headed home and as I carried Luke up the stairs, he planted a kiss full on my lips that said to me, "Thank you for taking me to Chuck E. Cheese's. The box of mini-crayons I purchased with my winnings was worth all this agony."

It was the morning of my mother's Republican Women's Club meeting and she was hosting. The meeting started at ten. Luke made it no secret that he did NOT want to stay upstairs. He said approximately forty-seven times, "Hmmm, I have an idea. Let's go downstairs." I went down around 11:00 "to get Luke a glass of 'gingerbraille'"--you know, what blind gingerbread boys read--and mostly so I could see if the meeting was wrapping up any time soon. They were discussing what would be on the menu at the next lunch meeting (Chicken Amandine). I went down at 11:45 "to get some baby food". The president was explaining that you don't have to order the lunch in order to come to the meeting. I went down at 1:30 "to get George some clean pajamas from the laundry room". Glory halleluia, the last two guests were leaving, but not without a discussion about the private room at the restaurant where I waited tables in college, and whether it would be a good place to have meetings in the future.

By the end of the day, Luke was feeling more like his old self.

Tick tock tick tock...

Wednesday morning, sixty hours from when we arrived at Chuck E. Cheese's, I felt like I was dying. Right on schedule! Every time I've gotten sick since having children, I have fantasized about getting sick and having my mother there to take care of me and the kids, because usually my husband is out of the country when I have to take care of a child with strep throat while I have strep throat and I'm pregnant with morning sickness. Oh, and the dog develops some sort of stomach ailment, necessitating trips outside every two hours through the night. (Can I get a "Holla" from all my military wife friends?) Let me tell you, it was not as great of a vacation as it sounded. Next time, I'll have to fake it and stash a box of Little Debbies and magazines under my bed to make it really fun.

After one gruelling "session of congress" on my knees in the bathroom, Luke said to me, "Mommy, can you be sick downstairs?" I figured they missed me, and so my mother made me a bed on the couch. My heart skipped a beat when Luke cupped my chin in his hands and said to me, "I will take good care of you today." I started having visions of my little boy bringing me trays laden with saltines, jello, gingerale, and a bud vase with a single flower he'd picked from the yard. And his hands were clean and his hair combed. Like a bubble popping, my dream vanished abruptly as he started climbing on me, stepped on my stomach, poked me in the eyes, piled throw pillows on top of me, banged me in my already-throbbing forehead with my temporal thermometer, and told me I looked "dirty dirty".

Tick tock tick tock...

By about midnight I was feeling much better. Right in time for my mom to start yacking her guts up...for SIXTEEN HOURS AND COUNTING. I hate to cut this short, but popsicle duty beckons. And then I've got to disinfect door handles, burn sheets, sacrifice a lamb, etc. If my mother ever forgives me for the Chuck E. Cheese's debacle, it will be the miracle of unconditional love.

One of the joys of pregnancy is that people speak to you in cliches. Second only to the comment "Your life is really going to change" is the promise that "Now you'll understand unconditional love." And as much as I hate being spoken to in cliches, I must admit it's true that children teach you a thing or two about unconditional love.

Take this morning. 4:30 am, to be exact. I was summoned to Luke's bedroom by ear-piercing screams. He's having a nightmare! I thought to myself. I sprung out of bed and booked it to his room. I found my precious toddler in his bed, wide awake, drinking water. The reason I'd been called? He wanted to accuse me of spilling water in his bed. Approximately three drops, as a matter of fact. I totally empathized with him, because if there's anything I can't imagine working around as a 32-pound human being in a double bed, it's three drops of water. Faced with the same circumstances, I would want a scapegoat, too. I assured him I didn't commit such a vile offense, and I tucked him back in. "I love you," I said, and then I made my way out the door. "I don't love you anymore," he called after me. "I'm sorry you feel that way," I said, "I will always love you no matter what. I know you're angry because you have water in your bed. Just try to go back to sleep now."

I shook it off and went back to bed.

At 5:00, more screaming ensued. I headed to his room, a little slower this time, and asked what was the matter. "YOU SPILLED WATER IN MY BED!!!" he screamed. Hell hath no fury like a woman who hasn't had proper beauty rest in over three years. "Shut your mouth and go to sleep," I warned him, "I don't want to hear from you again until the sun comes up. You will not watch any cartoons tomorrow, nor will you get to have Froot Loops for breakfast." He whined, "I can't shut my mouth! I can't shut my mouth!" and then hung his mouth open to further illustrate his point. I gave him my meanest warning look and then stormed off and went back to bed.

As I laid there, heart pounding, I fantasized about all the things I could buy myself by blowing his college fund.

I thought about this:

And these:

And some of this:

And going here:

Somewhere between imagining myself recovering from my abdominoplasty and shopping for rugs in Turkey, I fell asleep. When we woke up for the day, we resumed normal activities--smiling, kissing, hugging, laughing. I was truly over my anger, and I fell in love with my little boy all over again. Thoughts of throwing around his college money went into the black hole in my brain. Love truly is unconditional.

We went downstairs, and while Luke watched, I gave George a big handful of Froot Loops (the breakfast of baby champions). Love may be unconditional, but breakfast is an absolute rat race.

Quiz

Which of the following do you think my two-year-old has done in the past 48 hours? Circle all that apply:

A. Dared his grandmother to touch his Lego man's bottom.

B. Passed gas at the dinner table, and then went around the table telling each person individually, "Shoooey, you stink!"

C. Wet on my mother's off white club chair, and then sassed her as she cleaned it up.

D. Wet on my mother's off white carpet, and then sassed me as I cleaned it up.

E. Penned a new song that went, "The mommy cleans the rug, the mommy cleans the rug, high ho the derry-o, the mommy cleans the rug."

F. Rubbed my bare legs, and after feeling the stubble, took a closer look and pointed out that I have sprinkles on my legs. It's winter, people. Don't judge.

Answer: It's all of them. I can't wait to see what tomorrow holds!

To Infinity and Beyond

Luke's uncle gave him a copy of Curious George and the Rocket the other day. We've been reading it a dozen times a day, and it's got Luke thinking about his future.

"I'm going to go in a space ship," he told me confidently, "I will be brave."

"Really?" I asked slowly, trying to buy time while I scrambled to come up with a more assurant response. The list of things Luke can't bring himself to be brave about flashed through my mind. This list includes, but is not limited to: hayrides, merry-go-rounds, Sunday School, the shopping cart with the firetrucks and police cars attached to the front for toddlers' amusement, showers, and the evil vaccuum cleaner.

"Yeah," I said, "You're just like Buzz Aldrin!"

Hear That?

It's the sound of my heart shattering into a million pieces and falling onto my mother's floor that is so clean, you could eat off of it (take it from George). Why is my heart breaking, you ask? Because my little boy doesn't love me anymore. Why does Luke not love me anymore, you ask? Because my mother, Cookie, is a man-stealer.

Cookie is more fun than me. She never skips pages in books at bedtime. Cookie never says things like, "It's just a head wound! Shake it off, you're fine!" She never saves plates of food that he's turned into piles that look less appealing than some of the roadkill I've seen along highways in rural Mississippi to serve him later when he says he's still hungry as he's being tucked into bed. And I'm pretty sure that if Cookie had been offered a peanut butter and jelly crust that had been licked and squeezed into a ball at lunch, she never would have turned it down, hurting Luke's bizarre two-year-old feelings. Then again, Cookie isn't a dud like me.

Cookie has digital cable, so there are cartoons available at the snap of his fingers (if he could snap his fingers, that is); whereas I've just made the poor boy go four months without television while we were in Texas. Cookie springs out of bed and makes him french toast. She would NEVER cut a piece of toast into a circle, drizzle syrup on it, and try to convince him it's a pancake. No, not in a million years. But that's because Cookie is fun.

I had a feeling I was turning into chopped liver when Luke started preferring Cookie to take him to the bathroom. I felt a little bit jealous when he wanted Cookie to make his snacks and get him dressed. I knew my days as top dog were over when he needed someone's hand to hold going down the stairs, and as I stood right there with my hand outstretched, he looked at me as though I was trying to hand him a fistful of maggots, crying that he wanted Cookie to stop what she was doing downstairs and come help him instead of me. But Wednesday night, he told me in no uncertain terms that I should just give up.

Wednesday night, Cookie came downstairs after getting ready for church in a bright, sparkly Chico's jacket that would make Suze Orman insane with jealousy. She shook out her freshly styled hair and asked Luke, "Do I look ravishing????" Luke replied, "Cookie, you're a dish!" (Don't get too excited--I taught him that.) As she and Pops walked out the door, I licked my lips, ran my fingers through my hair, and straightened my exercise shirt. "What about me?" I asked, raising an eyebrow, "Am I a dish?" His response? "Mommy, would you pwease weave?" The most demoralizing part of this exchange was that I had to put a sticker on his chart for remembering to say "please" on his own.

I can't imagine that anything could be more heartbreaking. At this point, I won't bat an eyelash if he drops out of high school to pursue a record deal with his garage band, or lobbies for gun control or the single payer system. He'll probably get an unlisted phone number and only give it to Cookie, provided that she never gives it to me.

Hey, then again, with the monkey off my back, I could probably slip out of the house and go to Starbucks to sip on coffee in peace and quiet. It's probably worth a little heartbreak. Cookie, keep up the good work! It's exhausting at the top! Now hightail it to the kitchen and make the boy some pancakes!

Portrait of a Supermom

If you are a mother, chances are, you've had run-ins with a Supermom. The single most distinguishing feature of a Supermom is this: she's better than you. But if you're not a very discerning person, I can give you a few more ways to identify her.

A definite red flag would be the way she dresses. Supermoms take the adage "It's better to be overdressed than underdressed" to the nth degree. I try to look cute and polished on a daily basis, but I would never be mistaken for a Supermom because I don't show up for play dates wearing lined wool dress slacks and cashmere sweater sets. Supermoms' appearances always fulfill the purpose of making you look like a ridiculous slob.

You might be dealing with a Supermom if she enormously exaggerates her e-nun-ci-a-tion. She might even shout her perfectly pronounced words when she's dealing with children, and she definitely speaks sing-songy. She makes huge gestures with her arms and face. And speaking of her communication, for the most part, she keeps her conversation to three subjects: her children, her children's activities, and her children's diet. There is nary a mention of any hobbies she might have, or her husband (although she's more than willing to give you unsolicited relationship advice, whether or not you need it).

Her pecking order among her peers is a dead giveaway. She is the group moderator. She leads all discussion, interrupting and changing the subject when necessary. You get the impression that when you are talking, she's not hearing a word you say.

The day before we left San Antonio, my mom and I took the kids to an indoor play place called Dynamoze. Dynamoze is a kid's fantasy land, full of bouncy castles and tricycle tracks, and every kind of toy he could dream of that his mother won't buy him.

Naturally, Dynamoze attracts herds of stay-at-home moms and their young. We had the nauseating pleasure of observing a group that did indeed have a Supermom in full effect. She matched the above description to a T. My mom overheard her telling her minions that she was thinking about giving her kid's teacher some advice about how she does such and such. I'll bet that teacher will be thrilled to get her advice! I overheard her giving another mom suggestions about how she should remodel her new house.

A while later, I was carrying George from point A to point B, when I stepped in a wet spot on the carpet. I should mention that Dynamoze has a no shoes policy. As I felt the sogginess spread throughout the fibers of my socks, I remembered, just moments earlier, seeing Supermom usher her way-too-old-for-accidents daughter away from that very spot. Her daughter was pulling at her pants and it was obvious she had wet herself. Supermom was F-L-U-S-T-E-R-E-D.

Although I was thoroughly disgusted at the realization of what I had just stepped in, for a moment, just a moment, I was very smugly satisfied.