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

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

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

(Alliteration is so hot right now.)

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

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

That's all I've got.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's nothing.

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

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

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

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

A Recipe for Disaster

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

How To Prove Your Ignorance:

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

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

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

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

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

The Adoption Option

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

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

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

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

Fair enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do bedtime prayers in your house ever sound like this?

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

Mom: Keep saying your prayers.

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

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

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

Mom: How about asking for help listening and obeying.

Child: Thank you for lamps.

Mom: Listening and obeying.

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

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

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

Mom: Amen.

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

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

The Symphony Through a Mom's Eyes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cookie Time

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

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

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

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

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


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


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


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


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

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

Curious George Eats a Nickel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bravery, Schmavery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The end.

This One Goes Out to the Musical Nerds

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



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



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

One-upmanship

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

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

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

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

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

Tameka-me-crazy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Almost thirteen months," I told her.

"Does he walk yet?"

"No."

"What a lazy baby!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stick This

Things Luke has emblazoned with stickers today:

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

Things Luke has vehemently refused to put stickers on today:

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

Le sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Entertainer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Checking In

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

Boy, am I tired of being an insomniac.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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