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.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Hidden Booty
The other day, Luke woke up bored. He looked at his toys, and his face read, If I have to play with those legos one more time, I am going to puke.
Luckily, Cookie is prepared for such emergencies. Out came a treasure chest full of treasure. Or, as it looked to the rest of us, a small basket, circa 1988 with country hearts and buttons around the side of it, filled with Mardi Gras beads and coins that came with the King Cakes she had purchased at Fresh Market for Fat Tuesday.
After the initial excitement of showing us his loot wore off, she suggested that she hide the treasure chest and Luke could look for the buried treasure. He didn't quite understand the game, so the rest of us had to join in the fun.
"ARRRRRGH, where's the buried treasure?" Cookie shouted.
"AAAAARRRRRGHH, I'm only after me rum! It's five o'clock somewhere!" I bellowed. (The kids had me up no less than eleven times the night before. I was joking about the rum. Sort of. Later, I found out that Luke is cutting four molars. Did you know there are twenty baby teeth in a full set? I thought there were only sixteen, since he hasn't gotten teeth in fifteen months!) "And if Luke ever wakes me up that many times in one night again, I am going to make him walk the plank. ARRRRRRRRRGH!"
We zeroed in on the booty, which was located in plain sight underneath the dining room table. Luke STILL couldn't put two and two together. "Look!" my mom shouted, pointing at the basket, "Look what I found!"
"A CHAIR!!!!!!!!" Luke shouted excitedly, grabbing onto one of the dining chairs.
I looked at my mom, stonefaced, and said, "I hate to break it to you, but we're not doing an Easter egg hunt this year."
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."
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Sweet Dreams Are Made of This
Luke is what we call an "active dreamer". It's never a mystery what he's dreaming about (loudly). Last night his dreams were full of two things he regularly deals with: sweets and injustice.
Last night, he started crying around 11:30. I went in to check on him and he was still asleep. He started shouting, "I want more. I want more. I want more chocolate." I rubbed his back until he calmed down and moved into a different stage of sleep, then went back to bed.
At 4:30, I sprang from my bed in response to some ear-piercing screams coming from his room. Based on the severity of his sceaming, I had expected to find that he had fallen out of bed...onto a pile of glass shards...with mutant bats flying through the window and attacking him.
He was still in bed, screaming intensely, "I WANT MORE. I WANT MORE. GIVE ME MORE. I WANT MORE 'NILLA WAFERS." Oh @#&*, not this again, I thought. The shouting went on for about thirty seconds before I could get a word in edgewise. I jostled him a little bit and started explaining to him that he was having a dream. He woke up and looked at me and demanded that I spit the 'Nilla Wafers out.
"I don't have any. You're having a dream," was what I was trying to say, but he thrust his fist into my mouth at that point. He wiggled his fingers around, sticking them down my throat. His sharp little talons (which I JUST cut to nubbins on Saturday) scratched my throat as I pulled them out. This all happened very quickly. Thankfully, my saintly mother rescued me from the situation and sent me back to bed.
As I woke up this morning (to stickers being put on my face by the same perpetrator), I felt like I had been intubated.
I have no funny punchline about the situation. And really, I'm only recording this story so that someday, when Luke is building me a mother-in-law suite in his pool house, I can have documented reasons why he should stop selling me short on formica countertops. I want the granite countertops, you son of a gun. I DESERVE THE GRANITE.
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.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
What Goes Around Comes Around
On Valentine's Day, I had a brilliant idea. "Let's take the kids to Chuck E. Cheese's tonight!" I said to my parents that morning. I had heard friends talking about it when we lived in Little Rock and San Antonio. We had never gone because I didn't think Luke was old enough to play the games. But now he's old enough, and what could be more romantic than a life-sized petri dish full of germs for Valentine's Day? We met my in-laws there at 4:30. My mother sat in our booth and clutched onto her coat the entire time we were there. She kind of had a sad face, too. I don't blame her...not to be snobbish, but the clientele there was a bit seedy. Not at all like I remember Chuck E. Cheese's growing up. I mean, you didn't have to be dripping in diamonds to go there, but when I was a kid, not everybody looked like they had just come from the free clinic down the street, either.
Tick tock tick tock...
Thirty-six hours passed. Tuesday morning, Luke started throwing up.
When Luke was a baby, he came by his nickname "Pukey Lukey" quite honestly. The boy had some reflux going on. If there was an Olympics category for projectile spitting up, he would have had the gold medal bagged up for sure. But after he turned one, it mostly went away, and I waited with dread until the day he THREW UP threw up. And the day came, just thirty-six hours after we went to Chuck E. Cheese.
I hate to boast, but I handled it beautifully. But that's only because he had spent the night at my in-laws' house and I was ten miles away. I jumped in my car as fast as I could and went to pick him up. We headed home and as I carried Luke up the stairs, he planted a kiss full on my lips that said to me, "Thank you for taking me to Chuck E. Cheese's. The box of mini-crayons I purchased with my winnings was worth all this agony."
It was the morning of my mother's Republican Women's Club meeting and she was hosting. The meeting started at ten. Luke made it no secret that he did NOT want to stay upstairs. He said approximately forty-seven times, "Hmmm, I have an idea. Let's go downstairs." I went down around 11:00 "to get Luke a glass of 'gingerbraille'"--you know, what blind gingerbread boys read--and mostly so I could see if the meeting was wrapping up any time soon. They were discussing what would be on the menu at the next lunch meeting (Chicken Amandine). I went down at 11:45 "to get some baby food". The president was explaining that you don't have to order the lunch in order to come to the meeting. I went down at 1:30 "to get George some clean pajamas from the laundry room". Glory halleluia, the last two guests were leaving, but not without a discussion about the private room at the restaurant where I waited tables in college, and whether it would be a good place to have meetings in the future.
By the end of the day, Luke was feeling more like his old self.
Tick tock tick tock...
Wednesday morning, sixty hours from when we arrived at Chuck E. Cheese's, I felt like I was dying. Right on schedule! Every time I've gotten sick since having children, I have fantasized about getting sick and having my mother there to take care of me and the kids, because usually my husband is out of the country when I have to take care of a child with strep throat while I have strep throat and I'm pregnant with morning sickness. Oh, and the dog develops some sort of stomach ailment, necessitating trips outside every two hours through the night. (Can I get a "Holla" from all my military wife friends?) Let me tell you, it was not as great of a vacation as it sounded. Next time, I'll have to fake it and stash a box of Little Debbies and magazines under my bed to make it really fun.
After one gruelling "session of congress" on my knees in the bathroom, Luke said to me, "Mommy, can you be sick downstairs?" I figured they missed me, and so my mother made me a bed on the couch. My heart skipped a beat when Luke cupped my chin in his hands and said to me, "I will take good care of you today." I started having visions of my little boy bringing me trays laden with saltines, jello, gingerale, and a bud vase with a single flower he'd picked from the yard. And his hands were clean and his hair combed. Like a bubble popping, my dream vanished abruptly as he started climbing on me, stepped on my stomach, poked me in the eyes, piled throw pillows on top of me, banged me in my already-throbbing forehead with my temporal thermometer, and told me I looked "dirty dirty".
Tick tock tick tock...
By about midnight I was feeling much better. Right in time for my mom to start yacking her guts up...for SIXTEEN HOURS AND COUNTING. I hate to cut this short, but popsicle duty beckons. And then I've got to disinfect door handles, burn sheets, sacrifice a lamb, etc. If my mother ever forgives me for the Chuck E. Cheese's debacle, it will be the miracle of unconditional love.
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.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Quiz
Which of the following do you think my two-year-old has done in the past 48 hours? Circle all that apply:
A. Dared his grandmother to touch his Lego man's bottom.
B. Passed gas at the dinner table, and then went around the table telling each person individually, "Shoooey, you stink!"
C. Wet on my mother's off white club chair, and then sassed her as she cleaned it up.
D. Wet on my mother's off white carpet, and then sassed me as I cleaned it up.
E. Penned a new song that went, "The mommy cleans the rug, the mommy cleans the rug, high ho the derry-o, the mommy cleans the rug."
F. Rubbed my bare legs, and after feeling the stubble, took a closer look and pointed out that I have sprinkles on my legs. It's winter, people. Don't judge.
Answer: It's all of them. I can't wait to see what tomorrow holds!
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!
Saturday, February 6, 2010
To Infinity and Beyond
Luke's uncle gave him a copy of Curious George and the Rocket the other day. We've been reading it a dozen times a day, and it's got Luke thinking about his future.
"I'm going to go in a space ship," he told me confidently, "I will be brave."
"Really?" I asked slowly, trying to buy time while I scrambled to come up with a more assurant response. The list of things Luke can't bring himself to be brave about flashed through my mind. This list includes, but is not limited to: hayrides, merry-go-rounds, Sunday School, the shopping cart with the firetrucks and police cars attached to the front for toddlers' amusement, showers, and the evil vaccuum cleaner.
"Yeah," I said, "You're just like Buzz Aldrin!"
"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!"
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