Checking In

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

Boy, am I tired of being an insomniac.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tales of Brotherly Jealousy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mahmee Brane

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Proprietorship

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

"A meeting? What kind of a meeting?"

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

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

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

Ma Hayer

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

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

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

Selah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

"Really?" she asked, sniffling.

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

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

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

Kids Say the Darndest Things

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

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



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

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

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

The Phone Consult

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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