Madcap Motherhood

2011-04-21T13:02:00.000-07:00

Luke recently acquired a small American flag. This procurement has brought him much joy and amusement...and a new object of blasphemy.

He's done some adorable things with this flag, like when he put it at the top of the tower he built with legos. He's stood on the curb in front of our house, waving it at the cars passing by, claiming that he was helping the cars "win the race".

A couple of times this week, he's propped the stick of the flag over his ear, in the same manner you would store a pencil. "Look, Mommy," he'd say, "I have an American ear!" I'd give him a hearty courtesy laugh, and he'd be on his merry way to snatch whatever toy was making George happy at that moment.

The fact that he was attaching the flag to any part of his body should have made me very nervous. This is, after all, the same child I found a few weeks ago on our back porch, his pants around his ankles, holding the empty wrapping paper tube he had been sword-fighting with, and urinating into it.

This morning, when Luke was finished with his bath, I helped him dry off and told him to go to his room and put his clothes on. I continued to flat-iron my hair, and a few minutes later, my son, naked as a jaybird, burst into my bathroom.

"Luke," I said, "You are supposed to be getting dressed for Mother Goose!"

"Look at me, Mommy!" he shrieked with glee.

"I see you, you're na-" I was cut off by my utter disbelief.

Luke turned around abruptly to reveal the Stars and Stripes, the subject of our national anthem, nestled snugly between his cheeks.

"Mommy, I have an American..."

"DON'T SAY ANOTHER WORD. TAKE THAT FLAG OUT OF THERE AND GO GET DRESSED!" I shouted.

As he ran off, I laughed so hard, I nearly had a stroke.

The End

Mother Goose

2011-03-18T13:19:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Thursday, and Thursday is Mother Goose Story Hour day. One time I mentioned MGSH to someone in a conversation, and he stared back at me, all wide-eyed, and asked "Mother Goose Story Hour? WHAT'S THAT?" If you're not as dumb as him, congratulations. You can skip to the next paragraph. If you are as dumb as him, Mother Goose Story Hour is a program at our library where a woman dressed up as Mother Goose reads stories to children.

Honestly, at our library, it is so much more than that. The children have show and tell, they sing songs with hand movements, there are puppets, stories, and at the end, they have a parade through the book shelves to the music room, where they play little instruments. Our Mother Goose is a radiant senior citizen who dresses up in crinolines and pinafores, and a flowered bonnet, and carries a goose. She has gorgeous silver hair that she wears bobbed, a thick Mississippi accent, and ever-present red lipstick. A veteran kindergarten teacher, she sings most of her words, she loves the kids and focuses a lot on manners. In fact, before the children can go in, the boys have to line up opposite the girls, hold out their hands, and ask, "Ladies, would you like to go in first?" To which the girls are supposed to reply "Yes, thank you," with a curtsy.

On Mother Goose Story Hour days, we focus heavily on having our hands and faces scrubbed clean, our hair combed neatly, teeth brushed to a polish, clothes clean and neat, and above everything else, I insist the boys wear their whitest socks. (They have to take their shoes off to sit on the story rug.) We practice "Yes, ma'am" and "Fine, thank you. How are you?" over and over during our drive into town.

As you can imagine, Luke typically uses story hour to make me look like a deadbeat. He never uses "Yes, ma'am" or "Fine thank you, how are you?" He mumbles during show and tell. One day, he was bent on interrupting Mother Goose every two seconds without raising his hand. The most embarrassing time was when Mother Goose read a poem about gum, and she made it pretty clear that she thought gum was disgusting. She went on and on and on about the noise, the germs, how gross it is to find it on the ground, etc. As soon as she was done, Luke blurted out, "MY MOMMY LIKES TO GIVE ME GUM!" The horror!

Yesterday, I got a break from being humiliated during story hour. I got to sit back in my seat while another mother was sold up the river. After Mother Goose handed out Safety Pops, another staple of Thursday mornings, she warned the kids not to open their "suckahs" in the library. "Did you know that last week, there was a little girl who opened hers in the library and started eating it? Mmm, MMM!" she huffed, "Can you believe that?"

"Yes, I can believe it," the woman she was looking at answered, "It was my child."

Mother Goose, being the perfect southern lady, was horrified that she had made such a gaffe. She turned beet red, and apologized and said she should have made the child in her story a boy. All eyes were on the mother of the greedy little rotten child who dares to open suckers in the library. I sat and smiled in my seat, pleased as punch that I had gotten to fly under the radar for a day.

Next week, Luke will surely think of some way to pay me back for the week that he was an angel. I'm anticipating a pants-wetting episode, or nose picking during show and tell.

So now are you totally jealous that your town doesn't have our Mother Goose? Well, you're in luck, because Mother Goose is on YouTube:

Bedtime Shenanigans

2011-01-12T18:56:00.000-08:00

Tonight, we had leftovers for dinner. The boys had pork chops with Spanish rice (or "Bullfighter Casserole" if you're a toddler in my house), and Chicken Parm for the adults. As I was getting the kids' plates dished up, I asked my husband if he would like me to reheat ours after the children went to bed, affording us a dinner alone--something we've been fantasizing about. He was game for waiting, so that's what we did.

While we were eating, I heard giggling coming from the boys' bedroom. Ignore it, you're having a romantic leftovers dinner alone with your husband, said the little voice in my head. So I ignored it for a while. After a few more minutes, my curiosity overpowered me and I was headed upstairs to check it out.

Standing outside their door, I realized that Luke was not in his bed, but in George's crib. I stood there for a minute listening to them and trying to stifle my own laughter. And then I whipped out my camera phone and started recording (you can't see them, but you can hear them):

And then a minute later, it sounded like this:

If you couldn't understand what you were hearing, Luke was telling George around 12 seconds that we're going to have pancakes in the morning.

Oh fiddlesticks*, I thought, Why did I read Curious George Makes Pancakes to them at bedtime? Now Luke's gone and told George that we're having pancakes in the morning!

You remember when Luke got Curious George Makes Pancakes, right? No? You have your own life? Oh, right.

Anyway, I tiptoed downstairs and finished my dinner while Joe and I laughed over the videos. A few minutes later we heard footsteps upstairs and assumed the fun was over. A few minutes later, while Joe was at the bottom of the stairs getting his coat to take the dog on a walk, he saw Luke standing at the top.

"Can you tell George to quit picking my nose?" he asked with a preemptively grateful smile on his face.

"Can I tell George to quit picking your nose?" Joe repeated.

I butted into the conversation. "George can't pick your nose if you're in YOUR bed," I pointed out.

The smile faded from his face as the wheels started turning and he realized he'd been busted. What did he think, that it was going to go over our heads and we were going to march upstairs and enforce a "No Picking Your Brother's Nose" rule, then go back downstairs and resume picking the bugs out of each other's hair and eating them?

Kids--they're not the brightest.

Well, I hate to cut this short, but it is now two and a half hours after the time I put them to bed, and Luke has just been caught "practicing going up the stairs backwards." Bye.

* Sometimes you have to edit your inner monologue when your mother reads your blog.

Lessons Laura's Learned Lately

2010-12-19T06:28:00.000-08:00

(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.

2010-12-14T14:14:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-04T14:17:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-17T12:52:00.000-08:00

"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.

2010-10-28T18:13:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-21T19:19:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-26T18:42:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-01T12:35:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-24T15:20:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-08-14T19:19:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-22T08:22:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-15T04:43:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-14T06:05:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-12T18:21:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-07-06T14:10:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-25T05:56:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-22T12:56:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-10T11:58:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-28T11:03:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-24T04:09:00.001-07:00

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

2010-05-21T06:07:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-20T07:34:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-13T18:36:00.001-07:00

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

2010-05-11T19:56:00.001-07:00

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

2010-05-06T06:06:00.001-07:00

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

2010-04-29T18:37:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-25T03:53:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-04-14T07:17:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-09T06:40:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-02T09:33:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-31T06:21:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-23T18:18:00.000-07:00

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.

Humble Blueberry Pie

2010-03-19T10:30:00.001-07:00

There was a time in my life that I would have argued that a woman who can get annoyed with her children is the devil incarnate. I had a whole power point presentation and printed pamphlets outlining an argument that if you were lucky enough to have children, you should walk around with a smile on your face and rainbows shooting out of your fingertips all the time, with no exceptions. Baby's eating dog vomit off of the floor? Smile, Momma! Baby just tipped the dog's bowl of water over the the fifth time today, threw your phone in the toilet, and screamed the entire time you were at the grocery store, while every single senior citizen you saw commented, "Little fella's not happy, is he?" Say cheese! You guessed it, this period coincided with the time that I was recovering from losing my first pregnancy.

Since the day he was born and refused to nurse, all the while screaming at me because he was starving, Luke has been destroying all of my preconceived notions about parenting, and humbling me every step of the way. And this morning...good gravy, was he annoying me!

As I sat down to spoon-feed George his delicious Gerber baby food, I gave Luke a bowl of blueberries. Since Luke can put a whole pint away in one sitting, this was no modest portion. And as he ate each berry one at a time, he asked me, "Is this a blueberry?"

I remained cheerful the first few times, answering, "Yes, it's a blueberry," thinking that it would get old after a few bites. But I failed to remember that NOTHING gets old to a two-year-old except putting on his own shoes and being quiet at church.

After about twenty-seven blueberries, I started answering through clenched teeth, if answering at all. And then the little sucker baited me. He started asking me if it was a blueberry with nothing in his hand! What a clever little guy! "Yes, it's a blueberry! OKAY?" I'd say, and then he would show me his empty palm. Talk about egg on my face!

Finally, when he was about two-thirds of the way through, I told him that his question was getting annoying and he needed to stop asking it. "They're all blueberries. Got it?" He pouted and asked me, "Why are you treating me like that?"

I decided that on Monday, the next time we're alone for breakfast, he will get grapes. They're bigger, so fewer fit in a bowl. Also, "grape" isn't nearly as fun to say as "blueberry". We'll just make blueberries a rare treat...like, for when his father is flying solo with the kids.

2010-03-13T08:08:00.000-08:00

Effective communication is important for so many reasons. Throughout history, poor communication has changed the outcome of wars and shaped major policies. I remember a recent piece of Arkansas state legislation being written in a way that allowed babies to enter into marriage. The legislature had to cut into their recess time to fix the blunder. In my personal life, miscommunication has only served to irritate my family members and me.

Yesterday, my baby brother landed his dream job. This means that after many years of living modestly and paying for school, he's going to live a little higher on the hog, and we're all thrilled for him. "I think it's safe to say that Uncle Matt is going to buy you a pony for Christmas," I told my kids excitedly last night. Luke misinterpreted what I said to mean, "Tomorrow is Christmas! Candy and presents await you in the morning! And don't forget to be really difficult at bedtime, it's a Christmas Eve tradition!" Needless to say, Luke woke up asking if Santa Claus had come to see us, and if presents were under the tree. When the bad news that Christmas is still nine and a half months away was broken to him, he had a royal fit, stormed into my parents' room, and tuned out the world around him by watching television. He then started to complain of a headache. I'm not surprised, as this is the way I handle disappointment, too.

My dad came in to watch cartoons with him. After a few minutes, Dad shouted, "OH, it's 'BLUES CLUES'! I thought it was 'BOOZE CRUISE'. Nevermind, I don't want to watch this!"

Later, as we were preparing to make our departure to our new home in Mississippi, Mom and Dad started talking about our bill. Something about how many paper towels we had used, how many hours of babysitting services I had wracked up, water bills, administrative costs, etc. As they were yukking it up and I was losing my innocence about where clean laundry comes from, I realized that we had had a miscommunication about the seven-week vacation I was supposed to have been on. I'm not a totally unreasonable person, though. As long as there's a deep military discount, I'm happy to pay for the story hours and the and the floors they're going to have to replace, the drywall they're going to have to patch, the electricity we used, the daytime excursions we took, the personal days used because if the germs we shared, the stamps I borrowed, internet access...

The Laundry Fairy

2010-03-08T18:21:00.000-08:00

You know, when you go back home, there are some things that never change. I spent my whole childhood and teenage years plagued by a mystery, and now I'm sitting here scratching my head trying to figure it out, just like old times. Who on God's green earth has been doing my laundry?

Obviously, when I'm left to my own devices in my own household, I have to suck it up and do it myself. But growing up, the clothes would just disappear from my bedroom floor while I was at school, and end up washed, dried, and smelling fresh in my closet.

Ever since I've been home this winter, I've been way too busy catching up with old friends, taking naps, holing myself up and sewing, and navelgazing to take care of my and my children's laundry. And just like in the good old days, the problem seemingly takes care of itself.

I have my suspicions. I think the spritely character of lore, The Laundry Fairy, has been washing our clothes. I remember my mom making a sarcastic comment when I was younger, like, "Who do you think does your laundry? The Laundry Fairy?" But I think she was telling one of those white lies of parenting. you know, the ones that are for a child's best interest, so it's not really a lie. Kind of like when Luke asks me about the snack he abandoned three hours earlier, the one that has probably for sure entered my large intestines by the time he's asked me, and I tell him that a bird flew in the window and took it. And although the window is closed and most of the birds have flown south for the winter, he totally buys it and goes back to playing. That kind of white lie. Why would my mother have to tell a white lie about The Laundry Fairy, you wonder? Well, because that was the year that my brother, aged eleven, was finally told the truth about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. He was having some serious denial since he'd spent ELEVEN YEARS getting comfortable with the whole premise, and she probably had to make it sound like there was no Laundry Fairy to really drive her point about Santa Claus home. She really had to play hardball that time.

But anyway, I know there is a Laundry Fairy, because my dirty clothes are disappearing from my floor (yeah, my floor...too busy navelgazing to be bothered with the hamper), and reappearing so delightfully fresh and spanking clean. George's whites are coming back so white, I need my sunglasses to look at them. That is no small task! And whatever fabric softener she uses, I hope she never switches. I wonder if her cousin is The Dirty Diaper Fairy, who has been picking up the rolled-up diapers that I sometimes absentmindedly leave sitting on the floor wherever I happen to change a diaper. (Childless friends, please don't judge. I was always appalled by people who did that, and here I am doing it.)

On Saturday morning, as we're loading up the minivan to head to our new home, if any of my family members see me thrashing around in the laundry room with a butterfly net, be assured I'm not crazy--I'm just trying to catch that slick little fairy so I can take her to Mississippi, where she can keep working her magic for me.

And Laundry Fairy, if you're reading this, it would be really neat if you would strip my sheets and sprinkle your pixie dust over them. I love the smell of fresh sheets, thanks!

Lunch Conversation

2010-03-04T07:23:00.000-08:00

If you were a fly on our wall, here's what you could have heard around our table at lunch:

Luke: Cookie, what's your secret?
Cookie: What's my secret? Wellllll....I eat right, exercise, and get plenty of beauty rest.
Luke: Mommy, what's your secret?
Laura: Sometimes, when George was still in my tummy, I'd be making your lunch, and I'd tell you that your chicken nuggets were poisonous, so I had to throw them away. But really, I'd eaten them right out of the pan, and then you had to have peanut butter and jelly instead.
Luke: What's George's secret?
Cookie: George sometimes keeps secrets deep inside his diapers...Luke, what's your secret?
Luke: I'm eating a sandwich.

Riveting. Simply riveting. Inquiring minds would like to know what other skeletons are hidden in his closet.

What I Said/What He Heard: Church Edition

2010-02-28T13:31:00.000-08:00

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!

***********************************

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

2010-02-25T12:56:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-24T04:50:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-18T12:32:00.001-08:00

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.

2010-02-10T13:11:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-08T14:38:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-06T12:32:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-02-05T07:03:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-02T19:09:00.000-08:00

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.

Things That Keep Me From Blogging

2010-01-29T13:08:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm here at my parents' house, which some (all) of us McRoberts kids have fondly referred to as "Fat Camp" from time to time. Mom is an avid Weight Watchers and Jazzercise participant, and a sassy little slip of a woman to boot, so it goes without saying there are no good snacks here, and everyone eats the proper number of fruit and vegetable servings per day. Mom, I love you.

I'm not going to apologize for not blogging. That would be really arrogant. Especially since there are, like, six of you who read this thing, and I doubt it makes or breaks your day. But since I got called out on facebook for not blogging (Hi, Kelly!), I thought I'd share what's kept me offline:

1. Napping. The kind of nap that you wake up from with drool smeared all over your cheek.

2. Having beautifully-arranged trays of tea with rock candy swizzle sticks, muffins, and catalogs delivered to my door after said naps. My mom has spoiled me with these treats that she prepares while my delightful children gnaw on her ankles and break things. I'm starting to feel like a real diva with this treatment, and I suspect it'll be a mere two weeks before I start throwing cups of tea at her, citing an unsatisfactory temperature or strength of tea.

3. Watching my mom glue things back together. Namely, antique ceramic urns that no doubt bring back precious memories of shopping trips she took with her friends while we lived in Germany.

4. Jazzercise! (Insert jazz hands and top 40 dance music I've never heard before.) I joined. It's actually kind of a hard workout, especially for someone who got salmonella while baking Christmas cookies, and was still riding on that excuse for not exercising...until I got to Fat Camp.

5. Receiving free babysitting from my parents and in-laws. It's fun seeing how the other half lives! I'm so relaxed having had a break, I've practically forgotten about my motherhood responsibilities. My mom called me on my way out of Jazzmatazz this morning to inform me that I needed to stop by the store and get George a new pacifier. And I'm all, "George who? I don't know any George...oh wait, that's right, sure, I'll stop."

6. Doing lunch at the Williamsburg Inn. (Imagine me saying this in my best condescending I-have-to-explain-everything-to-you voice) The Williamsburg Inn...you know...where Queen Elizabeth stays when she comes...Anyway, my mother and I got to go for lunch yesterday while my mother-in-law took the kids. I wore nylons for the first time in ages. A little bubbly with lunch? You bet! Warm chocolate cake with peppermint ice cream delivered to our table with a sterling gravy boat full of hot fudge for dessert? Don't mind if I do! When we go to the Williamsburg Inn, I like to try on different ladies-who-lunch-type statements for size. "Well, he could have at least had the decency to file taxes before he dropped dead on her," may or may not have come out of my mouth. I felt pretty convincing. After lunch, as mom and I were "lipping up" in the ladies' room, I told her, "If I seemed like a space cadet during lunch, it's because I was eavesdropping on the ladies next to us." She replied, "Yeah, that was some divorce!" We're cut from the same cloth, my mom and I.

7. Baking my dad a pumpkin pie. It's his favorite, and I expect that this will help my standing in his will. I should point out (since he reads my blog) that I don't recall either of my siblings ever making him a pumpkin pie. We have a secret family recipe that we don't share. When my best friend from JMU tried it, she asked for the recipe. I told her that it's supposed to stay in the family. In response, she set her sister up with my brother, and I promised to have the recipe card written at the wedding. They had no idea they were pawns in a pumpkin pie scheme. They dated, but didn't make it, so Erin, come on down for some pie after the snow storm!

8. The fact that my dad turns off the computer every time he uses it. His radar for an idle computer is as strong or stronger than his radar for thermostat increases, so after any of the rest of us use it and leave it on, he's right there behind us to turn it off. Since I'm too lazy to boot up, I just stay off the computer for the most part.

So there you have it!

Sending Out an SOS

2010-01-23T14:49:00.000-08:00

I'm posting from the road. I'm on a road trip. A 1600-mile road trip. With my kids and my parents. For the past few weeks, some shady things have been going on in the apartments where we lived, and although I never felt imminently in danger, it gave me the creeps. My parents happened to have a visit scheduled for this week. I asked Joe, whose training is getting harder and more stressful, what he thought about the idea of the kids and I going back home to Virginia until he's done in early March. His face lit up and he started asking me how soon we could leave and how fast could we get our bags packed.

So my top notch parents, who always have been and always will be too good to me, flew out, and here we are driving through an apparent hurricane in Alabama. They're adorable travellers, my parents (Cookie and Pops).

Cookie, always the epitome of class, dresses for car travel in her Talbots outfits and coordinating ballet flats like she's going to one of her Republican Women's Club meetings. She has cheerfully taken on the toughest job--sitting in between the children and keeping them happy. This has included, but has not been limited to, singing countless rounds of "Old McDonald", changing Luke's DVD every five minutes every time he gets a new whim, suffering jabbing kicks in the knee from time to time as she talks over his movie, and watching him like a hawk as he eats a Ring Pop in the event she should need to perform the Heimlich Maneuver.

Pops, as a traveller, gives new meaning to the phrase "Sandwich Generation". He's the lean protein between the bread of old school and new school, having gone to AAA for a Trip Tik, and having brought his new Garmin. I can't tell which one he prefers, but I know this to be true--we will not be getting lost on this trip.

The kids are handling this trip much better than I had expected. George was still smiling after twelve hours on the road yesterday. Although, in the middle of the night, I decided he was probably laughing to himself as he was plotting my destruction. He took one look at the industrial bed provided by the hotel and thought, "I don't think so!" Instead of sleeping in it, he laid in bed next to me, practicing gymnastics.

Luke has been uncharacteristically easygoing, aside from an unfortunate incident this morning. I made a grievous error, kissing him on the cheek. He screamed, "NO!" at me and attempted to brush the kiss off with his hand. Brushing was deemed an ineffective means of removing my kiss, and gave way to slapping. He slapped himself so hard that he started crying, and pitifully asked me if I could kiss it and make it better. Although I was tempted to cross my arms and tell him that maybe I didn't want to give him a kiss, I kissed his cheek and taught him the word of the day: irony.

All in all, we're having a great trip, and aside from wanting a privacy filter on my speedometer (strategically positioning my hands on the steering wheel so my mom can't see is getting tricky, AND making me feel 16 years old again), and missing my husband, I've been very content on our little journey. Virginia or bust!

George and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat

2010-01-20T20:12:00.000-08:00

Here's a little historical snack for you today. Several tales of brotherly love:

Cain and Abel
Cain and Abel were the first and second sons of Adam and Eve. Cain was a farmer and gave the Lord offerings of his land's produce. Abel was a shepherd and gave the Lord offerings of some of the firstborn of his flock. The Lord had regard for Abel and his offering, but not for Cain and his. Although the Lord told Cain to control his anger, Cain lured Abel out into a field and killed him.

Joseph and his Brothers
Joseph was the son of Jacob and his beloved wife, Rachel, and he was favored by his father in a quite obvious way. As he grew older, he became a bit cocky around his ten older brothers, and even revealed to them that he had dreamt that someday, they would bow down to him. Jealous and resentful, his brothers sold him into slavery and told their father that he had been killed. (This is only half of the story.)

Romulus and Remus
According to Roman myth, Vestal Virgin Rhea Silvia was married to the Roman god of War, Mars. They had twin boys, Romulus and Remus. Fearful for their lives, Rhea floated them up a river, where they were found by a she-wolf, who nursed the boys. As adults, R and R rejected their jobs as shepherds--they wanted to found a new city and rule as kings. They couldn't agree on a location, and didn't want to share the crown, so Romulus killed his brother with a rock and named himself king.

Luke and George
Luke and George were the first and second sons of Joe and Laura. Laura took the children to the base hospital one Tuesday morning so that the boys could receive their immunizations. Joe, having had his morning flight canceled due to weather, met his family at the hospital to help with crowd control. They took their number and had a seat in the immunizations clinic waiting area. When their number was called, Laura whispered to Joe to be discreet as he checked in, as Luke had no idea what they were doing there, and Laura wanted to avoid any unnecessary altercations. He nodded in agreement. "We're here to get a flu shot for our son Luke...." his voice boomed throughout the waiting room. Laura shut her eyes and cringed for a moment while Luke put the pieces of the puzzle together. Surprisingly, Luke remained somewhat calm, but stated firmly and loudly several times, "I don't need a flu shot." He repeated this over and over, staring off into space. He paused, and then declared, "George does."

Too Tired to Think of a Clever Title

2010-01-19T10:30:00.000-08:00

I talk a lot about sleep. I know, I know, boring young mom! It is such a dominating struggle in my life, though.

My relationship with sleep became extremely rocky three and a half years ago when I suffered a miscarriage. A few short weeks after that tragedy, my husband left for his first deployment in Iraq. Devastated and anxious, I was left to sleep about an hour, sometimes two, every night.

A year and some change later, a healthy 8 lb 11 oz baby boy was placed in my arms, and that very day, my insomnia was healed instantly. I could fall asleep before my head even hit the pillow! Unfortunately, being a baby, Luke was a sleepless lunatic, and we spent lots of QT together through the nights.

Another pregnancy, more pregsomnia, a toddler who still didn't sleep through the night, another delivery, another baby who refuses to sleep, a crazy dog who gets hunger pangs at 5:30 am, blah blah blah...in the last three and a half years, I think I've had about four episodes of deep sleep. But it's not the time I spend awake at night that bothers me, per se. It's the side effects during the day time that are the worst.

Ask Joe, and he'll tell you that exhaustion makes me mean. He's suffered enough during my last weeks of each pregnancy to write a book. I won't go too far into specifics since his mother reads this blog; but just as an example, one morning when I was a week away from delivering George and hadn't slept even five minutes the night before, he'd upset hormonal, tired me big time. As a means of making me get over it, he told me he'd take Luke to the park to let me get some rest. I responded that he should just leave Luke at home, and then I gave him a recommendation of a different place he could go. I concur, exhaustion makes me mean!

Another irritating side effect is the nonsense that comes out of me in words and actions. Luke will ask me for a story. "Sure," I'll tell him, "but you have to milk the cow this time." Huh? Recently, I was shopping for groceries and I wanted to turn down a new aisle, but I couldn't find the turn signal on my shopping cart. I stood there for a few seconds, becoming increasingly frustrated with each flick of my hand as I subconsciously searched for that blasted turn signal. After about four tries, I blinked my eyes a few times and snapped out of it, hoping nobody had seen my erratic behavior.

Last week, on a typical weekday morning, I was sipping my coffee and Luke was munching on his toast. "Where's Daddy?" he asked. All of a sudden, I was like a contestant on "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?" I know this, I thought, looking like a deer in the headlights. "Ummmmm...," I said a few times, stalling as much as I could in hopes of coming up with the right answer, "ummmmm...." Luke interrupted me. "Is he at work?" he asked. "YES! GOOD!" I responded, "He's at work!" Whew! Then I sipped on some more coffee and stared out the window.

Probably the most irritating thing to me is the amount of things I leave half-finished. For instance, I'll walk around with mascara on one eye but not the other. I'll have clean laundry piled up, half folded, half not. It's like I can never finish anything I've started, and I don't even realize it as I float fuzzily from one thing to the next.

In conclusion,

Luke's Deep Thoughts

2010-01-12T06:36:00.000-08:00

Monday morning, Luke and I were playing with legos in his room. We built a ship. She was quite yar, this ship. Her crew included a couple pirates, a rogue bus driver, and Light Saber Jesus. Meet Light Saber Jesus:

My dear friend, Brooke, gave him and a few other Star Wars action figures to Luke before we made our drive to Texas. Being that my child lives under a rock and doesn't know his true identity (nor does his mother, who's never seen Star Wars, for that matter), Luke took a stab in the dark and started calling him Jesus. I totally picture Jesus's Second Coming involving a light saber, don't you?

If you've read my blog for five minutes and have any deductive reasoning skills whatsoever, you've probably put two and two together from some things that I've said that Joe and I are Christians. Our highest priority in parenting our children is to present them the gospel of Jesus Christ and hope and pray that they accept him as their savior. Therefore, we take them to church regularly, read them stories about Jesus, and teach them to pray.

Luke often has questions about Jesus that relate to his own life. Nothing about His divinity, more about His humanity--the kind of questions that a two-year-old would ask. Does Jesus like spaghetti? Does Jesus play on the slide? That sort of thing. It's really cute, and parenthood has made me curious about many things of Jesus's infancy and childhood. I remember when Luke was a newborn at Christmas, I marveled so much more that year than ever about the miracle of His birth, and what an awesome undertaking it had been for Mary and Joseph. I have other questions lately, like was Jesus still waking his mother up twice every night to gobble up milk when he was nearly seven months old. What do you think, George? (We're having one of those weeks.) And how do you think Jesus slept, Luke? (Yeah, it's been that bad. I often wake up in the middle of the night screaming, wishing I was wearing big boy underwear or playing with the afforementioned legos, too.)

So anyway, there we were playing with our ship, and Luke came up with a new one. He held up Light Saber Jesus and asked me, "Does Jesus poop?" I struggled to come up with the right words, but after stammering for a minute, I told him, "Well, right now Jesus is in Heaven with God the Father, so I'm not really sure, but when he was on earth, I'm sure he did." This seemed to satisfy his curiosity, but it sure did give him a case of the giggles. And for the rest of our playtime, he shouted sporadically, "EWWWWW! P.U., Jesus!"

I was horrified, but I'm sure God is laughing, right?...Right?

Note to self--talk to Joe about staying home with the kids and letting me go out and be the breadwinner. It's really fun, Joe. You just play with legos and talk to the kids all day.

Hypocrisy

2010-01-12T06:33:00.000-08:00

Here are a few things I've said recently that made the earth underneath my feet shake violently:

Eat your peas.
Don't eat the cookie dough! It's got raw egg in it!
If you turn the volume up one more time, it's going in the closet and not coming back out.

It just so happens that the voice inside my head belongs to my mother. My mother twenty-some-odd years ago.

Still Got It!

2010-01-11T09:30:00.000-08:00

We had some real adventures in Commissary shopping this weekend. I usually schlep the kids out to the store by myself, but this week, we ended up making it a family affair, because we really love a good time. We decided to relay shop--Joe and George were in charge of produce (when it comes to picking out a good melon, George is a savant), while Luke and I were responsible for the aisles (he keeps me on track in the candy aisle).

About three aisles in, an elderly man on a motorized scooter wheeled up and stopped next to my cart. He stared at Luke and said, "You like money?" Like his mother, Luke had no idea where the man was going with this, so he stared. "He's very shy with strangers," I apologized. "No problem," the man said, laughing through his dentures, "he won't be in a second when I give him some money."

The man then proceeded to reach into the pocket of his yellow-with-brown-trim belted polyester coveralls to pull out $1.50 in change to put into my son's small hands. "Oh no," I protested, "That's very nice of you, but he doesn't need to take all your change." "Take it!" he argued, "I bet he likes money!" "How about just one?" I suggested, prying coins out of Luke's fists. "Just take all of it," he said. We were backing up traffic, which always makes the colonels' wives a bit huffy, so I gave up.

Call me Nostradamus, because I knew exactly what would happen next. Luke started dropping coins through the grates of the shopping cart and all over the floor. I'm not dressed for this, I thought, hiking up my low-rise jeans to squat down and start gathering coins.

Yeah! Low-rise jeans! Take that, pimple-faced college boy sales associate from Buckle, who told me he'd suggest high-waisted jeans when I was out shopping for new jeans in my original size two months after Luke was born! Take that, tactless, wet-behind-the-ears jerk!

Now, I don't mean to boast, but as I stood up, the man patted me twice on the cheek and said, "You're cute." I laughed and said thank you. "I bet you're married, though," he said. "Yes sir, I am," I replied. "I'm 89 years old," he volunteered. "Oh," was all I could come up with. If I had been thinking faster, I would have inquired about his bank accounts and his health, as my dream man (other than my husband, of course) is a rich, old man with a slow ticker. And since he seemed to enjoy giving money away...

Anyhow, he wheeled off and left me in the dust, picking up coins every five steps. I kept a safe distance from him the rest of our shopping trip since Joe wasn't with me to defend my honor. I'll probably always wonder what could have been. Either way, I've still got it! Ow ow!

Another One Bites The Dust

2010-01-09T19:23:00.000-08:00

I realize my post titles are making my blog look like some kind of homage to Classic Rock these days. I just can't stop myself.

Anyway, what I'm referring to is another friendship possibility. I've mentioned before that I won't be remembering this short time in San Antonio for the oodles of friends I made.

Last week, I ran into my adorable German neighbor, Melanie, from my building while we were both taking our dogs out to go potty. We usually see each other, exchange pleasantries, and make empty promises to one another that we'll have a play date soon. This time, she reinforced the gesture by saying, "Please, feel free to drop in on me anytime this week so the kids can play together."

Now, I should interject that I LOVE dropping in on people. You just never know what kind of chaos you're going to find lurking behind the book's cover! Especially when there are children in the mix. Will their house look like a bomb went off? Will the kids be covered in honey and dust bunnies, with leaves and grass in their hair? Will the mom be braless and without makeup? The possibilities are delicious to dream up!

Usually, when I am dropped in on, the above description applies to my home. One time, though, back when I was pregnant with Luke, one of our pastors and another staff member from our church dropped in on Joe and me in the evening. They were out doing visitations and thought they would stop by. My house happened to be spotless, I was in a cute dress, and I was plating up some pineapple upside-down cake. "Won't you join us for some cake?" I asked casually, while I really wanted to do fist pumps, so excited that for once in my life, I appeared to have it all together. We sat around eating and talking, and I thought to myself, This is as good as it gets. A spontaneous snapshot of my life looks like a Norman Rockwell painting. It's all downhill from here.

Anyway, a knock on Melanie's door at 9:30 Thursday morning confirmed my fears--that she is some kind of psychopath.

When we came in, her two toddlers were well-groomed, finishing up their breakfast, and generally calm. Nobody was spilling juice or demanding chicken nuggets. The dog wasn't stealing anybody's muffin, and nobody was jamming a spoon down a baby's throat while the mother wasn't looking. They were like darling little robots!

Although they have a beagle, there was nary a dog hair on her floor. I would have eaten a seven course meal off of it. Her white sofa, that's right, white sofa, was spotless and casually accented with perfectly-fluffed throw pillows. I thought to myself, Okay, she appears to have it together, but I'll bet her desk is covered with bill stubs, catalogs and empty coffee cups. Wrong! All she had on the desk was computer equipment, and some freak of nature had left the mouse on the mouse pad.

A peek in her kitchen left me flabbergasted. Zero dishes in the sink. That slob probably uses paper products all the time, I thought. And then I realized that her dishwasher was running. Wrong again!

We sat in her daughter's room while the children played nicely together, and wouldn't you know it--all the beds had been made perfectly by Mrs. Hospital Corners. A trip to the bathroom with Luke was very informative, too. It seems nobody uses her sink without wiping it down and polishing the chrome fixtures. It's totally sick!

I wish I could be better friends with Melanie, because I really enjoyed her company, and her accent is adorable. She even gave me some suggestions to help George sleep longer at night, and lo and behold, they're working. It's just that, while I do try to keep my home tidy, I can't be up till midnight every night cleaning my windows and lining up our books from shortest to tallest in the event we have a spontaneous play date at our place. It would feel like I'm trying to sell a house all over again, and I got pretty burned out on that last summer.

I bet her closet is a real pigsty...

You Can't Always Get What You Want

2010-01-07T12:22:00.000-08:00

I awoke this morning at 4:30 am to George's cries. I went into his room and fed him back to sleep. After I went back to my room and laid awake for a half hour, I thought, This is nuts! I'm wide awake! I could get up and have a great start to my morning alone, or I could toss and turn, and maybe get 45 more minutes of sleep, then wake up really groggy to chaos! Be the lady of the house, Laura, get up! And so I got up.

I had a beautiful morning. I snuggled my dog. I drank coffee. I read my Bible. I sent a few emails. By 6:00, I thought, Hey, I'm going to make my family a special treat for breakfast. I love them so much and they'd really enjoy some warm Chocolate Mud Muffins when they wake up. I should do that. I should make those muffins. They're a healthy treat--high in fiber, low in fat, and not too bad on sugar! Make that precious family some muffins, Laura! And so my happy homemaker self headed to the kitchen and made those muffins and prepared some fruit.

Luke woke up at 6:20, groggy but smiley in his adorable dinosaur jammies. I took him to the bathroom and then told him he had to go back to bed until the sun came up, and when the sun came up, there would be chocolate muffins. He smiled and said slowly, "Chooocolaaate muuuuuffffiiiiiiinss!" with a huge grin on his face. Then he went back to his room where he stood at his window, staring, waiting for that sun to come up. He mumbled excitedly about chocolate muffins the entire time.

I took my shower while the muffins baked, excited that I was really getting a great start to my day and that my family was going to benefit from a calm, collected, happy mother. While I got dressed, I thought to myself about all the things I was going to accomplish before lunch. Wash the windows, scrub the baseboards, clean the top of the refrigerator, change the air filter, organize kids' closets by color and garment type, dust the ceiling fans, polish all the copper plumbing...typical everyday housework. I was, afterall, feeling like I could do anything. I smiled as I thought about what a high calling it is to be a housewife.

I let Luke know it was time for breakfast. He ran to his booster seat and waited eagerly. I put down his warm, gooey, chocolatey muffin, grapefruit, and a glass of ice cold milk and he twisted his face up and said, "Actually, I just want something else..."

"What?" I asked for clarification.

"Could you just make me some chicken nuggets?" he asked. I don't know where he got that idea. We've never had chicken nuggets for breakfast.

"Ahhh, make your own chicken nuggets," I snapped, walking off. Ungrateful child! Then I threw in the towel and spent the rest of the morning just sitting around.

Dude Looks Like a Lady

2010-01-06T10:16:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm becoming my worst nightmare, and that's a blogger who will write posts about her hair. Self-indulgent, no? This is exactly why I resisted starting a blog in the first place. But there will be a punchline at the end, and the joke's at my expense, so if you can't beat 'em, join 'em I suppose.

Anyway, two weeks ago, I had a hair appointment scheduled. About 24 hours before the appointment, I started getting an itch. An itch many exhausted young mothers get, I suppose. I became tired of spending an hour washing, drying and styling this thick mass of hair. It started to become known as "George's burp cloth" around here, and Baby George was pulling it out in clumps. That day, I had had one spine-tingling hair-pulling incident too many and I shrieked, "I AM CUTTING THIS HAIR OFF!" George spit up in my hair right as I was about to walk out the door for my appointment. That was all the confirmation I needed.

I took a photograph of a style I liked to my hairdresser, Jacob. Jacob is fantastic. He makes doing hair both science and art. He knows everything there is to know about hair. I don't think he'll be doing $45 haircuts for the rest of his life. And sitting in his chair is downright fun, which matters to me because he's one of the three adults I know in this town, including my husband. All that said, my hair ended up a bit shorter than I had bargained for.

When I got home, Dolley the Basset Hound started barking and howling at me. Joe said, "She's going crazy, I can't get her to stop." I replied, "Well, who could blame her? She thinks there's a strange man in her home."

I thought I was coming around to enjoy the new me until this morning. I should have known better than to go short while my toddler is trying to figure out gender identification. He walked by my room this morning while I was getting dressed, peeked in, and said teasingly, "Wook at dat wittle naked boy!"

That's it, I'm growing this out asap. Until then, I'm channeling my inner Audrey Hepburn...

Undecorating

2010-01-03T18:30:00.000-08:00

With the exception of cleaning up candy cane dog vomit, I think taking down the tree and putting away the Christmas decorations has to be the worst of all holiday chores. I finally sucked it up and got it done, and boy am I exhausted.

First, I had to throw our picked-over gingerbread house in the garbage.

Then, I had to tear this off of the wall:
And now I'm getting tired just thinking about it!

What is that delectable piece of eye candy, you wonder? Why, it was our Christmas tree, of course! Being that we're here in San Antonio for five (or apparently six...maybe seven?) months, all of our things are in storage, including our Christmas decorations. This year I had a break from our artificial tree, to which, ironically enough, I'm allergic. No ornaments, no stockings, no nothing.

I couldn't let my little boy get through Christmas without a tree, so I bought a roll of evergreen wrapping paper and made this little beauty. Sure, she leans a little bit to the left and her branches are bare in some spots, but she did the trick. I spent hours making little construction paper ornaments. It brought to mind a quote from one of my favorite Christmas movies and yours, "Christmas Vacation":
"[S]he worked really hard, Grandpa." "So do washing machines."

And to prove that kids will believe anything you tell them, here's a picture of my little simpleton taking in the piney aroma:

Anyway, I'm glad that's over. Now I can take back my apartment from the veritable winter wonderland it was! And, I think I am officially done talking about Christmas. Bring on Washington's Birthday!

Love Story

2009-12-30T05:16:00.000-08:00

My in-laws graciously bought Luke a children's Bible for Christmas. The Bible is the ultimate love story, and we're thrilled to start teaching it to Luke.

We opened up to the first page, and naturally, it started with the story of creation and Adam and Eve.

The instant I saw the illustration of Adam and Eve, though, I thought of a different love story. I knew I had seen these characters before.

It seems that Adam and Eve were modeled after Oliver and Jennifer. I won't be convinced otherwise! Don't believe me? Here, have another look:

Fortunately, the whole confess and repent message of the Bible was not confused with the movie's tagline, "Love means never having to say you're sorry."

Imitation is the Highest Form of Flattery

2009-12-27T12:00:00.001-08:00

I don't want you to think I'm looking for a bunch of attention or sympathy, but I do want to talk about a disease that I have. I'm sure you've seen commercials about it on television. It's called Restless Leg Syndrome, or RLS for short. I've had RLS for about six and a half years, which, coincidentally, is exactly how long I've been married.

I have a very rare form of the disease. My symptoms only attack at night, and they're usually provoked when I hear a noise that sounds like snoring (I can't call it snoring because my husband does NOT snore). Other times, my RLS will start flaring up when my space bubble is threatened, or when my covers are stolen away from me. One of these catalysts provokes my system, and my legs just start kicking uncontrollably. They don't stop until they've hit my poor husband and he stops imitating a snoring person, or backs out of my space bubble, or returns my covers to me.

Last night, I was summoned at 1:45 a.m. by George over the baby monitor for the fourth time of the night. I laid there, head pounding, thinking, "If anybody wants me out of this bed, they're going to have to blast me out with dynamite."

After about five minutes of listening to his half-hearted "Waaaaaah" over the monitor, I felt something very peculiar. It was my husband's big toe jabbing me in the ankle. Apparently, RLS is contagious. I had no idea!

"No way, buddy," I thought. "You're not going to beat me at my own game." Joe got up that time.

There was one person who did beat everybody else at the game, though, and that was George. He woke up seven times last night. Sleep training isn't exactly going as planned. If that kid doesn't knock it off, I'm going to start co-sleeping and unleash my RLS on him.

I'm only kidding. Put down the phone--you don't need to call CPS.

I Get No Respect

2009-12-21T18:39:00.000-08:00

For the past week, my oldest little treasure has handled some things that usually spin him into an oblivion of misbehavior extraordinarily well...when he's in his father's care. For instance, when we drop him off at Sunday School he usually pitches a full-body tantrum on the floor. He shakes the Dutch door, screaming for us to come back and get him. But not this week! This week, Joe took him alone, and the big man on campus just walked through the door, Thomas the Tank Engine backpack slung across his shoulder, all cool, and didn't look back.

When I take him to get his hair cut, I have to pin him using various wrestling holds. It's quite a bit like taking him to the doctor, actually. He screams, "She's hurting me! She's hurting me!" as the barber snips his babyfine hair. It's just plain ridiculous. This week his father took him, and it's a Christmas miracle--no tears!

It's not that he's never misbehaved or been difficult for his father. He just has a whole new respect for him ever since he put two and two together that his old man flies the same plane as Santa. Santa taxied in on a T-6 at the squadron children's Christmas party, like ten days ago. Since then, Luke has been reflecting on the events of the afternoon in his mind over and over. The other day, he said to Joe, "Do you fly the same plane as Santa?" Joe looked at me, a bit puzzled, and I nodded. "Yes," he said as it dawned on him what Luke was talking about, "I fly the same plane as Santa." And now all of a sudden, Luke thinks he's one degree from Santa Claus and that his dad is some kind of golden ticket. He probably pictures them together at the squadron bar after a long day's work, having a brewski, slapping each other on the back, playing Crud and sharing war stories.

And here I am, left with the typical misbehaviors and struggles. I don't think Luke will be quite as awestruck when I tell him that I once put together a design proposal for a well-known ambulance chaser in Little Rock. Maybe I could get some respect if I told him I play Mah Jongg with Mrs. Claus at the Officers' Club?

I know, I know, another post having to do with Santa. You would think we don't talk about anything else around here. We do--we've been talking with Luke quite a bit about the true meaning of Christmas, actually. The only Jesus-related funny, though, was when Luke claimed to be Jesus. And really, that's not quite as funny as it is blasphemous.

Redemption

2009-12-20T07:21:00.001-08:00

Luke knows that every once in a while, he has to do something really cute to redeem himself from his day's/week's/month's behavior. On Friday night, he pulled something out of his bag of tricks that redeemed a year's worth of mishaps.

We headed out to the city of Windcrest for their annual City of Lights display. It was so completely Texan in that these folks really go over the top with their Christmas decorations. And the fact that so much of the town participates makes it a really marvelous spectacle. We were awed by so many of the themes and ideas carried out. One house had a giant UFO crashed into a tree and green martians all over the lawn with a sign that said "Have an Out of This World Christmas". The craftsmanship was spectacular. One house had its lights synchronized with a local Christmas radio station, a la the Transsiberian Orchestra lights display video we've all seen on YouTube a hundred times.

One house had Santa Claus standing at the end of the driveway. Cars would stop and roll down the windows so that the passengers could speak to him. Luke has had a longstanding rivalry with the man in red, but he decided he really blew it at the squadron children's Christmas party, and has been asking me for a week, several times per hour, "Is Santa not scary?" A week's worth of reassurance must have given wee Luke all the courage he needed, because as we got closer, he said he wanted to talk to Santa. Joe and I looked at each other with skepticism. We asked him what he wanted to tell Santa. We couldn't believe his answer.

When our turn came, Joe rolled down the back window. Luke stared at Santa, sizing him up, eyes as big as saucers. It took a minute to remember what he was supposed to be telling Santa, but he finally spit the words out. "I want a hippopotamus for Chwissmiss."

We all had a good laugh, and as we drove off, Luke started sobbing. "Would you HOLD ME?!?!?" he repeated over and over, frantically. Poor little guy used all the courage he had to ask Santa for a hippopotamus for Christmas.

Bugger--now we have less than a week to go out and find Luke some sort of hippo, or else he'll never speak to Claus again!

Second Strike

2009-12-17T10:02:00.000-08:00

My family is starting to have a real problem with maple syrup. In the spirit of transparency, I do not have a problem telling you that it was my fault this time.

My plan for the morning was to go grocery shopping. The conditions weren't great--it was cold and rainy outside and Luke woke up with a bout of diarrhea, but I'm a real party animal, so we went anyway. Usually, I try to do errands during "second period," the part of the day that comes after George's first cycle of feeding, playtime and nap, but before lunch and afternoon naps. Writing out a grocery list is usually the obstacle that keeps me from getting to the store in a timely manner, but today was different since the only word on my list was "Everything," so we got out of here pretty fast during first period. I threw my hair up in a clip, put some training pants on Luke just in case, and away we went.

Thankfully, George was asleep when we got to the store. Feeling pretty footloose and fancy-free, I took a little longer than usual getting through produce. I'd tell you why, but if I told you that Luke and I squandered away our peaceful shopping time watching a bird fly around inside the commissary and get into mischief in the birdseed section, you'd think I was a real twit, so I'll just leave it up to your imagination. By the time we got out of produce, George was alert and getting dangerously close to his next feeding time. He started fussing a little bit, and then about five aisles in, he was really wailing.

I decided it was as good a time as any to try the kid out on Cheerios. I pulled a box off of the shelf, opened it up, and started cramming fistfuls of cereal into various open holes in George's face. Ahhh, he quieted down just in time for me to get to the syrup section of the breakfast foods aisle. Good thing, too, because I stood there thinking long and hard about whether or not I wanted to allow any more of it into my household, and I needed an ounce of clarity. I decided to go for it. Seize the day! That's what I always say!

As I pulled a bottle down and put it in my cart, an elderly amputee in a Jazzy wheeled up and started to stand up to grab a bottle for himself. He seemed to be having some trouble, so I asked him if I could help him get something. He told me which brand he wanted. I really had to reach for it, and as I did, I knocked over Mrs. Butterworth. She fell to the floor and busted open, her lifeblood draining all over the floor.

As I picked the bottle up to prop it up in a way that would prevent any more spillage, I got some syrup on my hands. I immediately started to feel the symptoms of Posttraumatic Stress Disorder. Luckily, just as I started seeing the black swirlies and felt a dizzy spell coming on, a commissary employee turned down our aisle and he cheerfully told me not to worry, he'd take care of it. Phew, we reached an anticlimactic end to our saga. No dogs to bathe, no rugs to throw away. The evidence of my carelessness disappeared with a quick swish of a mop, and I didn't have to listen to anybody screaming in time-out. Although, if anybody had to go to time-out, it would have been me. Hey, I wouldn't mind having a time-out! Would somebody please put me in time-out?

As I finished up my shopping, I decided that if we have one more maple syrup episode, my family is going to go Euro and start eating pancakes with Nutella. You know, I really like Nutella. I might go ahead and set up a maple syrup booby trap for Joe to stumble upon later.

Let Them Eat Cake

2009-12-16T01:58:00.000-08:00

George turned six months old yesterday, which meant time for our half birthday party tradition. I never meant to start a tradition when Luke was six months old. I simply had cabin fever. Luke had several colds back to back for three weeks. Pair that with several tornadoes in our area at the time, and I only left the house twice in those three weeks. That's two times. Twice. For groceries. I needed to do something out of the ordinary to break the monotony, so I made half of a cake and a silly party hat with a "1/2" on it, and the rest is history.

Now, twenty months later, I find myself repeating the same ritual, not because I want to, but because I have this genetic disorder passed down to me from my mother that makes me feel the need to make everything equal amongst my children. My sweet mom goes to great lengths to achieve absolute equality when it comes to my siblings (and our spouses) and me. She even makes the wrapping on our Christmas presents equal, even though we are spread across the globe. She seems to think we're all on the phone Christmas morning comparing the size and number of loops on each bow. If my mom spends Christmas Eve tossing and turning in her bed, or you see her stabbing sulkily at her beef tenderloin on Christmas night, you can bet it's because my brother asked for money this year, and there aren't as many ways to wrap up money as there are for the gifts she bought for the rest of us, and she's riddled with guilt over it. Don't worry about her, though, she'll be over it by President's Day.

So anyway, I don't want George to ever compare his and Luke's baby books and think, "Where are MY half birthday party pictures?" And please, please, please let Luke never ask me if his cake was made from scratch, because if my memory serves me right, it was from a box. I don't favor George, but his cake was from scratch.

I swear it was only his first cake--not his first Jack & Coke. Most respectable southerners wait till the baby's second birthday for such rites of passage.
Never one to be outdone, Luke dons his own party hat in the form of his bike helmet, and in his jealous rage, refuses to smile.

Now, if you're my sister, you're appalled by these pictures for several reasons. First of all, George has several pink dots on his party hat. Meredith would have gotten her ducks in a row and gotten some manlier wrapping paper. I'm lazy, so I didn't. Second of all, she's probably completely grossed out by my 25-50th percentile baby. Her son, whom she had with her 6'4" husband, is in the 95th percentile, which gives her license to boast about her milk supply and superior gene pool. (She doesn't really do that.) And third, she absolutely cannot believe I gave my baby cake. When I told her what we do for the six-month milestone, she laughed and laughed and told me what she was planning to do for her son, Jackson, when he turns six months in a couple weeks. She's going to...wait for it...the excitement is worth the suspense...okay, I'm going to tell you now...she's going to give Mr. Future Football Scholarship his FIRST FRUIT!!!! I can hardly wait for him to turn a year old so he can have his birthday dinner of bread and water. Different strokes, for different folks, I guess. Meredith is a really great and dedicated mom, though, and my nephew is even starting to crawl at five months. He's probably going to start doing his own laundry at age three and helping old ladies across the street at four.

Anyway, I'm just an amateur writer, so I don't have a tidy or clever ending to this post. I guess I'll just say, "That's all, folks!"

Not Guilty

2009-12-13T20:01:00.000-08:00

When your mom says you are not to eat any more candy off of the gingerbread house the two of you have just made together or else there will be big trouble, technically, you weren't disobeying if you remove a gumdrop (or "dumdrop" as some people around here call it), suck on it for a while, and then replace it.

In other news, Luke met his archnemesis, Santa Claus this weekend. It had been a year since their last encounter, but Luke quickly recalled the trepidation from Christmas past.

Tall Stack Morning

2009-12-11T13:25:00.000-08:00

Well, we're having one of those days my mom warned me I would have. The kind that makes me want to print off this blog post and keep copies on hand for the next person who tells me how much easier it must be for me that I just stay home with the children.

I got up this morning, greeted by Luke with a huge smile on his face. "Good morning, Mommy!" he said so cheerfully. "Good morning," I replied with a smile. "I sorry," he said. "Sorry? For what?" I asked. He ran off to play with his pirate ship without so much as a reply, and I dismissed his apology. Kids! They're so silly. Little did I know that his apology was actually a prophesy.

I got to work making my boy some pancakes. Luke loves pancakes, and that's an understatement. He loves pancakes so much that sometimes, he asks to watch videos of pancakes on YouTube. Can you believe people write songs about pancakes and record them for YouTube? So there I was in the kitchen, a flapjack-flippin' fool, a scene that would no doubt bring a tear to Aunt Jemima's eye, and Luke was at the table scarfing them down, asking for more, more, more pancakes please. I absentmindedly brought the bottle of syrup out of the kitchen and put it on the table as I brought Luke his third and final round. I absentmindedly left it on the table as I attended to hungry George and started feeding him his fruit and rice cereal. *foreshadowing*

After I fed George, I got up from the table to get a wet washcloth to clean up George's pear & blueberry encrusted face and hands. When I returned to the table, Luke had emptied George's box of rice cereal all over himself, the table, his chair, and the floor. No big deal, I told myself. It's just what kids do. I went to the hall closet and pulled out my diaper bag, put it on the floor and pulled out the vacuum cleaner from behind it. I absentmindedly left my diaper bag on the floor. *foreshadowing*

I went about our morning routine and put the baby down for his nap. When I came out, I found that Luke had broken into the most important thing I keep in my diaper bag--my vast stockpile of lipsticks. He was glossing Dolley up, and frankly, he had chosen a terrible color for her. No big deal, I told myself. It's just what kids do. I gathered all my precious lipsticks and glosses and wiped down a few surfaces that he had smeared.

With George in his bed, I figured it would be a good idea to get a leg up on my beauty regimen. Joe would be home early, and we were all going to go out for a nice lunch to celebrate today being his graduation day--he now holds a master's degree in public administration! I was putting some finishing touches on my hair when my mother called. I put her on speaker phone and laughed as I recalled the events of my morning. Luke then appeared at the gate in my doorway and asked me, "Would you wash my hands?" I laughed as I asked my mom, "Any bets as to why Luke wants his hands washed?"

I came out to the living room and was nearly brought to my knees as I surveyed the grisly scene. "Oh no!" I shouted. "WHAT?!?!" my mom asked. "Maple syrup. It's everywhere." "I'll let you go," she said. I looked at Luke like oh no you didn't and he looked at me like oh hell yes I did. Conveniently, George woke up crying about this time. I ignored my poor baby's cries as I looked around for a moment, shellshocked. It was everywhere--on the furniture, all over the floor, all over the dog, who was wagging her tail like Christmas came early!

I threw the dog in the bath and started washing her, furiously. Luke stood there crying that he wanted his hands washed, that he didn't want Dolley to play with his bath toys, and that he didn't want Dolley to have a bath at all. I think the last part was sympathy--would you believe that Luke is uncooperative in the bathtub? That he hates the water and bucks like a bronco when I try to wash his hair? I wiped out the tub and put Luke in it while I went around wiping surfaces with spray cleanser. And I'm ashamed to admit it, but I rolled up my rug, taped it up, and threw it outside for the trash. Were my furniture not leather, I'm not so sure it would have been spared. I returned to the bathroom, where I washed Luke down. At the risk of you thinking I'm a mean, sadistic mother, I'll tell you that I didn't feel one iota of guilt when I dumped water over that child's head and he cried about it in protest. Then, I went into poor George's room and started feeding him.

Joe came home a few minutes later to find a sobbing wife. I told him about our morning. He listened, shaking his head. He then told me, "Oh, by the way, I signed us up for the children's Christmas party." The squadron party where Santa will taxi in on a T-6 and deliver toys to the children. "Oh swell," I replied, "I'll get a lump of coal to wrap up for Luke."

Joking aside, I've already bought Luke's present for the Christmas party. I don't think I can give it to him, though. See, I bought him a book called Curious George Makes Pancakes, and I don't think I need a curious little monkey to give the child any more ideas.

What I Said/What He Heard: Snack Edition

2009-12-09T13:05:00.001-08:00

I like to give my Luke some choices in his day. Nothing major, just small A or B decisions that let him have a tiny amount of control over some miniscule aspect of his life. Sometimes, though, he tries to stage a coup. Take yesterday at snacktime:

He Said: Can I please have a cracker?
What I Said: Sure. Do you want a circle cracker or a rectangle cracker?
What He Heard: Pick a shape, any shape, and I will produce a cracker in that shape. And if I tell you we don't have a cracker in the shape you name, I am probably just playing mind games with you. We have every shape under the sun, and you should argue with me until you get the shape you want. May I suggest a triangle?

He Said: Can I please have some apple slices?
What I Said: Sure. Do you want green or red?
What He Heard: Pick a color, any color, and I will produce an apple in that color. Apples come in many colors besides red and green. Your only limitation is your imagination! Name a color, and *poof* I will make an apple in that color appear from our magic refrigerator! If I tell you that there's no such colored apple as the color you name, feel free to pitch a fit, complete with bodily convulsions. May I suggest purple?

I am pleased to report that his coup was unsuccessful. In fact, he almost had to spend some time in exile. There was no way he was going to get his way...seriously, we don't have triangle crackers or purple apples!

Christmas Giveaway!

2009-12-07T07:55:00.000-08:00

It seems like every blog worth its salt these days is running a contest with fabulous prizes. And since I don't mess around, I decided I have to have a contest, too. I'm not really sure what's going to be involved in my contest. I just know that the loser is going to receive my dog.

You might be thinking, "Laura, that's so insensitive! You should appreciate your dog! Our family dog just died and we we miss her terribly!"

My response: Enter my contest. It'll be a win-win situation (er, for the loser and me)!

It's not that I don't love my dog. I do. It's just that I haven't felt the same about her since she ate Luke's umbillical cord stump...or broke into diaper genies, or cut naptimes short with her incessant barking, or snatched graham crackers out of little hands, or tried to "deflower" my helpless babies while they were lying on the floor...

So now that you know the truth about Dolley, you'll want to be Johnny on the spot whenever I figure out my contest rules, or else she might end up on your doorstep. I'll even throw in whatever kibble I have on hand at the time of the giveaway. I'll put a bow on her, if I have time--I'm pretty busy these days sweeping up chewed-up food that my charming oldest son has spit onto the floor.

My sister, who lives in Germany, shouldn't think she's off the hook. You can ship a dog to Germany--I've already checked!

Best of luck to all four of my readers!

Desperate Measures

2009-12-06T12:29:00.000-08:00

Well, George has ignored my gracious request.

Yesterday morning, after a rough night, I woke up an hour earlier than normal to a crying baby with wet pajamas and a two-year-old standing at the baby gate in his doorway singing made-up songs about Elmo and diapers. I opened my stinging, bleary eyes and told Joe I had an extra little item for his honey-do list. "What do you need me to do?" he asked me delicately. I told him I needed him to go to the pet store so he could get one of these to install in George's crib:

Just the bottle, not the hamster. Now if I could just figure out what to put in it. Yoohoo? Ovaltine? My mother, in her infinite wisdom, suggested Brandy Alexanders. It sounded like a good idea at first, but on second thought, that's way too many calories. Suggestions, s'il vous plait?

Mail Order Bride

2009-12-04T06:25:00.000-08:00

It's catalog season, and somehow, they've found us at our temporary address. The catalog companies must use ruthless means to collect their intelligence. I'd bet my Boppy that they use waterboarding in the cutthroat catalog industry.

The other day, Joe walked into the living room to find Luke thumbing through the pages of Pottery Barn Kids. To me, PBK is total eye candy, full of moderately expensive wooden toys, and plush bedding emblazoned with names like Caroline and Oliver. These items are set in vast new-moneyesque McMansion spaces, devoid of any eyesores the rest of us normal folks have in our homes, like baby-proofing devices, stacks of mail, or breakfast dishes we haven't yet had the chance to put away. The kids are in adorable coordinated outfits, which I'm sure their mothers ironed and had them dressed in by 8:00, and have no visible juice stains dribbled down the front. There is nary a ketchup smudge nor snot trail on their faces. Without a hair out of place, these kids are precious. And, oh, the babies! They have cherubic little chubby cheeks, they look like they've had ten continuous hours of sleep, and the expressions on their faces whisper, "I wouldn't dream of spitting up on you."

Luke wasn't looking at the pages of boy toys. He had skipped the Star Wars and pirate merchandise in favor of the pages with Madame Alexander dolls and pink play kitchens. And here's the funny part--the part where Luke "pulls a Luke" and says something that makes us fall over laughing. He looked up at Joe and explained, "I'm just wookin' at the girls." Not to worry, Daddy, he doesn't want a doll for Christmas. He wants a girl!

Dear George

2009-12-02T07:40:00.000-08:00

Dear George,

I know you read my blog. Usually on your third cup of coffee, right after you read the Wall Street Journal, and before you check woot.com (today it's an ultraviolet toothbrush sanitizer and holder--a total waste of your time, considering you have no teeth). So anyway, I know you will read my message, and given your laid-back disposition, should be more than willing to comply.

Please stop waking up so many times every night wanting to eat. You are 5 1/2 months old now. Eating around the clock is child's play. You are a big boy now, time to cut it out. Remember that one time you slept from 10:00 until 6:00? Remember how I burst into your room and shouted, "WASN'T THAT FUN?!?!?!" and then I spent the rest of the day grinning like an idiot and hugging complete strangers? Well, it WAS fun, so fun that I'd like to do it again. And soon!

You know your cousin, Jackson, who is 18 days younger than you? He sleeps through the night. No eating! Zia Meredith has to put his pacifier in his mouth a couple times every night, but he doesn't want to eat. I'd be happy to do that for you. I've tried--and you usually look at me like I've completely offended you, which makes me totally buckle under the pressure. See, I'm a people-pleaser and I want people to like me, including you, my little puddin' head! Hopefully you're a people-pleaser, too, and you'll understand that I'd be happier if I was getting at least one session of delta sleep per night, and you'll be content to wait until 7:00 to eat. Too greedy? Okay, 6:00.

Now, I'm not an unreasonable mom--I expect a little quid pro quo in this game. Okay, some call it bribery, that's fine. I will buy you 800 thread-count Egyptian cotton crib sheets if you knock it off before you turn six months old. Dupioni silk from Posh Tots? That's ridiculous! Okay, fine, you drive a hard bargain. I'll do anything to get a little extra shut-eye.

Besides, if I have to get up several times to feed you, how am I going to have the energy to get up and deal with your two-year-old brother's multiple wakings?

Love You Forever,
Mommy

*********************************************************************
Ever been so desperate for sleep, you'd write a blog post to your baby, practice voodoo, or stand on your head in the corner of the nursery all night if it meant no night feedings?

Can You Tell Luke How to Get to Sesame Street?

2009-11-29T17:16:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don't want a pet parrot.

I'm Mary Poppins.

Luke vows to do something about the kangaroos' plumbing.

Can you tell they're brothers?

Happy Thanksgiving!

2009-11-26T18:26:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mother Goose

2009-11-21T19:40:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Little Relationship Advice

2009-11-19T06:30:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

I am My Kid's Girlfriend

2009-11-17T02:20:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Goes Around Comes Around

2009-11-15T18:08:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

What a Madcap Mom Wants for her Birthday

2009-11-12T15:59:00.000-08:00

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

* Liposuction

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

* 48 hours of uninterrupted sleep

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-11-12T15:38:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* George, his five-month-old brother.

For-giveness

2009-11-11T18:52:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

The One Contact Sport I Play

2009-11-09T20:07:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

Just Curious

2009-11-07T18:18:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

Not asking for any particular reason, why?

Yesterday in Haikus

2009-11-05T12:39:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

What I Said/What He Heard

2009-11-03T05:47:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Making Friends Where'er I Go

2009-11-01T07:58:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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