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.