The Ballad of Jesse Z

Today, Z got his first lesson in the perils of law-breaking.

L, Z and I ran into Target for a quick errand. Which, of course, meant plenty of side-tracks, sales distractions and diversions in the form of shiny things. At one point in the journey through my red and white version of Heaven, I vaguely recalled hearing Z say something about his blue bracelet. But I was in my “Mommy’s in Target so don’t bother me unless one of your internal organs suddenly becomes external” zone. Plus, he wasn’t holding anything with a chevron pattern so he kinda just faded into the background. 

We completed our errand -- with a minimum amount of damage to JAO’s credit card -- and left the store. Half-way down the road, my post-Target buzz was harshed by Z’s sudden cry of, “Oh, no! Mom! I walked out of the store with this bracelet and it isn’t even mine!” 

Quickly, I spun in my seat to see what he was holding -- torn between horror at his crime and a tiny spark of hope that it was actually something sparkly and shiny. But all he was holding was a blue, braided-rope bracelet that looked just like the one he already owned. 

Apparently, while traversing the vast wonderland of home-goods and fabulously-cute shoes, Z spotted this blue bracelet, with no tags on it, laying on the floor. Since it looked just like his, he picked it up and put it on. Now, I’d like to say that it was an accident and that he thought that the bracelet was actually his -- after all, he had purchased the exact same one from that very Target two weeks ago. But, I’m not sure what makes him look worse: being a down-right thief or being so simple-minded that he couldn’t recall whether or not he had worn the bracelet into the store in the first place. 

I think I’ll go with simple-minded. It’s not illegal. 

But, regardless, I couldn’t let this life-lesson go unlearned. We returned to the store and I instructed Z to walk toward the Customer Service counter and admit to his crime. 

As we entered the store, he looked ready to burst into tears, throw up all over his new Crocs and faint all at the same time. To be honest, I was feeling a bit Jodi-Arias-on-the-first-day-of-trial myself. I’ve never been an accessory to a crime before. It was terrifying and thrilling at the same time. But, maybe that’s a matter for a future therapy session. I digress.

As we approached the Customer Service counter, I was surprised to see a police woman standing there. Never, in my extensive history of shopping at Target have I ever seen a cop while I was there. Perhaps they are always there, but as a law-abiding citizen, my upstanding-moral brain doesn’t register them because I are smugly confident in the knowledge that I have done no wrong. Well, today, this officer may as well have had a spot light shining on her surrounded by a choir intoning a harmonic “Ahhhhhhh!” 

I thought, “Oh, great. Z is really going to lose it now.” But he held it together and shuffled somberly up to the counter. He stood there a moment as the Target lady looked expectantly at me, then down at Z. She was about 50 and just screamed “grandmother.” Not to be overly-stereotypical, but, well, she did. I prayed she had experience with mischievous boys and would sympathize with how trouble seemed to come as naturally to them as breathing and understanding “Super Mario Bros.” 

“Go on,” I encouraged Z, “tell her why you are here.” 

In a voice so meek (and pretty stinking cute), Z replied, “I kinda stealed this.” He then stretched out his slightly shaking hand and placed the stealed item in question on the counter. Then he dropped his head once again and willed his little body to melt into the floor. 

The woman then leaned over the counter, propping herself up on her elbows so she was more on Z’s level, and asked in a mixture of sternness and leniency that I have never been able to master, “Can you tell me what happened, young man?”

Z kept his head down, but raised his eyes up just enough to fix the woman with a boyishly-endearing, repentant gaze. “I picked this up and kinda taked it, even though it wasn’t mine.” 

My heart was bursting with pride at his bravery, but my Mamma-bear Instinct was clawing its way to the surface. I had to chime in.

“This was laying on the floor with no tags, and he has one just like it. He picked it up and put it on and then just forgot about it and walked out the door. It wasn’t until a bit later that he realized it wasn’t really his.” 

(Now before you go judging me for making excuses for him, you should know that Charles Manson’s mother still, to this day, maintains her son’s innocence and continues to write the whole murderous rampage thing off as a fiction created by Hollywood and the National Inquirer.)

Okay, fine. That’s not true. But I know my baby boy isn’t a villain! I had to make Target Lady see that!

Still on Z’s level, this kind woman spoke again and said, “Well, it sounds like it was just an accident. Is that right?”

Z nodded contritely. 

“You were right to bring this back in. Now, you see this lady behind you?” She nodded an indication to the police officer. “She is here to make sure nobody takes things from the store when they shouldn’t.” 

Two wide eyes zeroed in on the lady in blue and looked ready to over-flow with tears. But the police officer spoke with an equally kind and understanding voice.

“Thank you for bringing this back in. You did the right thing. And you won’t ever take anything from a store that doesn’t belong to you, right?”

Z nodded with enough enthusiasm to separate his atlas from his skull. 

With the matter seemingly solved and the threat of my son’s impending imprisonment lifted, I turned my attention to the kind Customer Service Lady.

“And now,” I declared, “I have some items to return. And I HAVE my receipt.” 

I’m not sure why I felt the need to exclaim this loudly. Perhaps I was reacting to an unwitting need to separate myself from Jesse James, Jr. Or maybe my Me-Instinct is actually a bit stronger than my Momma-Bear one. Regardless, we finished the transaction and, with a final word of thanks to both the Target Lady and the Police Lady, we left the building. 

Exiting through the vestibule, I took a quick glance at the wall plastered with sales items and other advertisements looking for a Wanted Poster featuring Z’s snaggle-toothed school photo -- but, thankfully, it wasn’t there.

Yet.

When JAO returned from work, Z’s sidled up to him and whispered in his ear, “Daddy, I almost went to jail today.” 

Now, I sit at my computer and raise a glass of wine in a silent toast that we never hear that sentence uttered from Z’s lips again.

But, I’m not counting on it. 

Swim or Sink

Perhaps you have noticed that I am not like a lot of other mothers. I love my children dearly, but I do not need to be needed -- I need to be left alone. I do not ignore my children or neglect them, but I have not made them the end-all-be-all center axis of my life. I would throw my body in front of a charging, rabid rhino to save their lives, but I won’t sacrifice all that remains of The Woman I Once Was to ensure their complete and total happiness. I apply this philosophy to almost all aspects of motherhood. But, I dare say it comes into play the most during Summer Break. I suppose I never grew out of the idea that Summer Break was for one important and glorious purpose -- taking a break. And that is what I do. And, people, I break hard. 

It is for this reason, and many others actually, that we are not -- gasp -- a swim team family. I know the glory of the swim team is revered by many, though the actual existence of such an institution was never something I was aware of until a few years ago. Growing up, I knew of no one who belonged to a swim team, but now it seems my children are surrounded by the tight-bathing-suited adolescents and I am now surrounded by mothers who sing the glories of the sport and seem puzzled (and perhaps incensed) at my refusal to dive in.   

But, I would not be me if I didn’t have an entire blog’s worth of reasons why I actively avoid this summer-time ritual. And, I would also not be me if I didn’t feel the narcissistic desire to share my reasons with all of you. So here goes...the arguments for swim team and my well thought-out (and highly opinionated) rebuffs of those arguments. Enjoy. 

Argument #1: It teaches the kids to swim properly and be well-trained in all manner of strokes. 

I have spent thousands of hours watching kids frolic in pools -- both as a participant myself and as a parental observer. Never have I ever seen them spontaneously break into organized backstrokes and compare butterfly techniques. No, they squirt each other in the face, dive for pennies, and see who can do such a superb cannon ball that it splashes water up onto my People Magazine. And that is perfectly okay with me. A pool in the summer is the ultimate gigantic bowl of fun. Why is that not enough? Of course there is nothing wrong with knowing the “proper” swimming strokes, but I contend that unless your child is training to swim the English Channel, that is not a necessary skill. Perhaps some day, someone will say to me, “Little Bobby was goofing off on the top deck of the Disney Fantasy and fell overboard. Thank goodness he is on the swim team -- he was able to alternate between his freestyle and breast stroke and make it back to the ship! And, boy, it’s a good thing he always has his goggles around his neck.” 

Only then will I entertain the idea that I am doing my children a disservice by not insisting they can execute a perfect underwater kick turn.

Argument #2: Swim teams provide children with a sense of accomplishment and team spirit as well as teaches them the value of competitive sports.  

Guess what -- so does the soccer league and competition cheerleading I pay for in the fall and baseball and tennis that I pay for in the spring. Is there really a chance that two-and-a-half months of not participating in a competitive sport will reduce my children to sniveling recluses who have lost all sense of societal cooperation? Or perhaps the fear is that the lack of competition with their peers will lull them into a false sense of entitlement where they expect everything to simply be handed to them. As it is, my kids compete with each other on an hourly basis -- first one to finish breakfast wins; the one who has the longest french fry is the winner; who can spot the most school buses while on the road and shout "skittles" as loudly as possible, whoever takes the most breaths in 60 seconds is the champion breather! Believe me, kids don’t need an “organized” reason to compete. 

Argument #3: It gives the kids something constructive to do during Summer Break.

Um...what? It’s Summer Break! By its very implied definition, Summer Break means -- nothing! Having to do nothing, having to go to nothing, having to get up for nothing, having to think about nothing. (And, yes, that sentence was packed with grammatical inaccuracies. But, we’re talking about Summer Break -- grammar has no part in it.) During the school-year, my job is to prepare lunches, act as Room Mom, help with homework, do endless loads of laundry, chauffeur little people to play dates, ball games, gymnastics classes, birthday parties and cheerleading practice, and manage everyone’s schedule with grace and aplomb. During Summer Break, my job is to keep the kids at least partially clothed and prevent them from killing themselves and/or each other. That is all. If they want planned, age-appropriate, cognitively-stimulating, adult-planned activities throughout the summer, they can Google it. And dig in their piggy banks for cab fare to take them to those activities because the Mommy Limo doesn’t maintain summer hours. 

Argument #4: Oh, the kids love it! 

Do they? Do they really? If you asked Susie if she would rather jump and splash and play in the pool for a bit and then have a popsicle and watch the Disney Channel OR stand around in a too-tight bathing suit with a plastic cap on her head watching a bunch of kids swim back and forth in a straight line for two hours waiting for her turn to swim back and forth in a straight line -- which would she honestly choose? 

Argument #5: It gets them out of my hair for a few hours.

If your child is already annoying you by 8:00 am, you either need to adjust your tolerance levels or stop letting your kid get up so flippin’ early. 

Argument #6: It tires them out and they sleep so good at night.

So does melatonin. 

Now, before you go getting all Esther Williams on me and start evoking the name of Michael Phelps, I will concede two important points. 1.) I firmly believe that all children should know how to swim. With all the pools, lakes, rivers and oceans they encounter over the summer, being a strong swimmer is vital. And if you do not have access to a pool 24-7, I can understand how swim team might seem like a viable option for ensuring your child’s water safety. 2.) I am willing to admit that there are some children for whom competitive swimming is a passion and I have no problem with parents supporting their children in their olympic pursuit endeavors.

That, however, is where my concessions end.   

Yes, my children are currently waging an intense campaign of whining, pleading, crying and begging to try and get me to sign them up for swim team this summer. But, I will not relent. And if you should start to feel bad for the poor, little dears, feel free to come over and view the rooms piled high with toys, look back through all the pictures of elaborately-themed birthday parties and custom, homemade cakes, watch videos of hundreds of hours of dance recitals, t-ball games, soccer games and cheerleading competition routines, flip through my Room Mom Handbook and familiarize yourself with all I did for their classes throughout the school year and listen to tales of multiple Orlando trips and summers spent at the beach -- and then tell me how sorry you feel for them. 

Or just go ahead and call DFCS. They can find me in my backyard, laying by the pool reading People Magazine pausing occasionally to turn the volume up higher on my iPod to block out the constant calls of “Marco! Polo!”

I just hope they don’t want to drink from the pitcher of lemonade I’ll have sitting next to me -- because it may or may not contain Vodka.

Or melatonin.

Or both. 

Just keep swimming, my friends. Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming; what do we do? we swim. Swim.....

Guilt is a 4-Letter Word (Plus One Additional Letter)

There have been a lot of blog entries floating around lately that have dealt with the uber-pressure we moms (consciously or unconsciously) put on each other. Women have raged against the Elf on the Shelf and his buddies the Magic Elves and the mischief that they must make around the holidays. “What did you elf do last night?” is the oft-most discussed topic on the playground and Heaven forbid your kid doesn’t have a unique and hilarious tale to tell. 

I’ve recently seen one mom denounce the “minor” holidays and plead for her fellow women in arms to put down their crafty Pinterest weapons and call a truce. Love notes left in lunch boxes every day of February leading up to V-Day -- and then gifts? I thought Valentines Day was for lovers -- why are we now expected to romance our own kids? Don’t we do that every day by simply allowing them to live in our houses and give them food and clothing? Gifts for Saint Patrick’s Day? What’s to give besides maybe a snake? And now a leprechaun is supposed to visit every night, leaving green pee in the toilet and scattering clovers all over the house? What if you’re not even Irish? Most kids probably think St. Patrick’s Day has something to do with Sponge Bob’s friend. 

Then there are the moms who spout clean-eating and boast proudly of how their kids never even walk down an aisle in the grocery store containing foods tainted with the deadly Blue No.1 and look at you askance if you dare pass your kid a Berry Blue Blast Go-Gurt in their presence. 

I, myself, have written about the infuriating habit moms have of comparing their kids to others academically. No, I don’t care at what “level” your child reads, I’ve still seen him dig into his nose and pop the gooey treasure he found there into his mouth just like the rest of them. 

So, what’s my point? Am I now going to give you a “We’re All In This Together One For All Women Unite” load of hooey? Am I going to suggest that instead of tearing each other down while wearing a smile, a string of pearls and holding a homemade Paleo-approved apple pie we look for ways to encourage each other to simply do what we do best -- love our children? Should I get all sappy and say that being a mother is not defined by the creativity of your child’s Valentine’s Day cards (which, you know you put together yourself while he was off playing his DS), but by the number of times you stop and give him a hug just because you are overwhelmed by the joy that is his presence? 

Or maybe I should simply stop speaking in questions and come to my long-rambling point?

Being a mom is hard. But, guess what -- it’s always been hard. Get over it.

You think this pressure is unique only to us moms of the twenty-first century? You think we’re the only generation to have to hold down full-time jobs while being the family chef/maid/chauffeur/first-aid administrator and disciplinarian? Well, we’re not. 

You think the mothers who lived in little houses on the prairies didn’t feel pressure? You try cooking without a proper stove, washing clothes without a washing machine, sewing all your family’s clothes by hand, while snatching your baby out of the jaws of a marauding coyote while pushing the other child out of the way of stampeding buffalo while dodging the flying arrows being flung at you by angry Injuns. (Okay, so maybe that last one seems a bit non-PC, but you know it happened.) 

Look at the very first mom, Eve, for the love of all that is sibling rivalry. How many times have you broken up a fight between your sons? If it didn’t end in one of them slaying the other, than you’re already one step ahead of our infamous first matriarch.

The pressures of being a mom haven’t changed -- only the manifestations of those pressures. I am forever confounded by the way we moms accept (nay, embrace) this notion of “Mom Guilt” as an integral part of the job. Why do we walk around with the back of our hand to our forehead, sighing heavily and continuously ticking off the exaggeratedly long list of chores we must perform on an hourly basis? We sit around at Book Clubs and benches on the playground and reaffirm to each other that our lives as moms are nothing but guilt-filled, exhausting, thankless routines of woe. 

Is that really how you want to describe the greatest job you’ve ever been blessed to have?

You know what makes me feel guilty? Nothing. Not a darn thing. Maybe it’s a gift or maybe it’s early sign of sociopathic behavior, but I simply don’t buy into the Great Mom Guilt Extravaganza. If my kid pouts and tells me that other kids have leprechauns visit them, I say “bully for the other kids.” If my kid doesn’t have their sandwich cut up into shapes appropriate for whatever bogus holiday is around the corner like the kid sitting next to them, I could care less. And if my kid tries to manipulate me into buying, going, making, doing whatever it is that every other kid has, goes to, owns or does, by saying they will simply die if they don’t get to buy, go, make or do like the other kid’s moms let them buy, go make or do, then I hand them a backpack, an apple and wish them the best of luck. 

No one can make you feel guilty about anything. You do that to yourself. Remorse, sure; regret for something your conscious tells you that you’ve done wrong, go for it. But, guilt is a different and ugly animal. And I don’t like animals enough to keep that one around. Congratulate the mom who can whip up a Creek Indian tee-pee out of the scraps she has in her sewing drawer, but don’t give your lack of tee-pee building skills (or the fact that you don’t even own a sewing drawer) a second thought. Compliment the mom who hand-makes extravagant birthday party favors, but don’t for one minute beat yourself up because you threw a bunch of stuff from the dollar store into a plastic baggie and tied it with a twist tie. 

So you don’t create elaborate birthday cupcakes using fondant and homemade sprinkles. Maybe instead you find yourself in the thankless (yet vital) job of corralling ten rambunctious little leaguers during dugout duty. So you don’t obsessively explore the internet looking for educational crafts to construct with your children that will stimulate their minds and help improve their fine motor skills. Maybe instead you remember that your daughter loves pancakes baked in the shape of Mickey Mouse and lovingly pour those three circles of batter into the skillet on a Saturday morning.

There are a million different ways throughout the year that you demonstrate to your child that he is unique, that he is special and that he is loved. No one -- not even the mom with the idea that has been re-pinned the most -- knows better than you do how to accomplish that. 

I personally like the Christmas elves and have fun moving them about and engaging them in mischievous activities. But, if you don’t -- then don’t. It is highly unlikely that your child will end up firing a riffle from a clock tower screaming, “My Elf on the Shelf never moved!” 

So give yourself a break. Don’t rail against the moms who, in your opinion, raise the bar and over-achieve in the Martha Stewart game. I guarantee there is something that you do that other moms envy and be content that your kids are getting the best -- because it comes from you...their mom. And in the end, you know that if you gave your kid the choice between you or any other craft-making, cupcake-baking, original lullaby-singing, costume-sewing, creatively-themed-birthday-party-throwing mom on this planet, they would choose you. 

And that is enough.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go put the finishing touches on the Pinterest-inspired, kick-ass art room/playroom I have designed for my children -- complete with chevron-patterned bean-bag lounger, hanging hammock chair from Ikea and project table stocked with all the crafty goodness Hobby Lobby has to offer. And when your kids come home and ask you why they don’t have a kick-ass art room/playroom like my kids have and try and manipulate you into feeling bad because all you have to offer is a pack of dollar store Rose Arts and a stack of scrap paper you brought home from the office -- hand them a backpack, an apple and wish them the best of luck.

And then, when they decide that they have a pretty awesome mom already, do whatever it is that you do that makes them smile and feel like they are their mother’s favorite person in the whole world. Because that’s all they really need. 

The Bird

Last night, L and I were sitting at the dinner table enjoying a quiet meal with just the two of us. We were chatting about school and life and the riots in Egypt, when she said, “Hey, Mom, this means you don’t love God.”

My eyebrows shot up as I watched her try and form her fingers into whatever formation it was that meant a person doesn’t love God. After a brief moment of uncertainty, she finally achieved the look she was going for and held up her hand proudly. Basically, she was flipping me off.

I stifled a grin and asked, “Who showed you that?”

“Alex did. But, Kaitlynn told me that it meant you don’t love God.”

I carefully folded my napkin and laid it beside my plate, trying to decide how best to respond to this. I said, “Well, it doesn’t mean that you don’t love God. However, it is not a nice thing to do. It’s a gesture that people use when they are angry at someone and they want to show how angry they are. But, it is rude and you shouldn’t do it. Maybe Kaitlynn meant that when you love God, you want to be kind and do good, and holding up your finger like that isn’t being good.”

“Oh.”

“You know, L, in some cultures -- do you know what a culture is?”

Head shake.

“It’s a group of people --“

“Stop talking. I don’t want to know anymore.”

“Um...okay.”

And that was that. At least for a while.

Later, L and Z were playing together, which always ends in fighting together. I interrupted a barrage of “you’re a poopie-head, no, I’m not, you are, no, you are, no, you are” and tried to figure out who was truly the poopie-head. I decided it was L and told her to stop fighting with her brother and be nice.

The poopie-head looked up at me and said, “Oh, yeah? Well, then I’m going to do this to you!”

And she flipped me off.

So help me, all I could do was laugh. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it. I laughed until I had to bend over and grab the back of the couch for support. L was cracking up, too, and Z joined in though he had no idea why.

When I recovered somewhat I told L that, while I laughed, she really, really didn’t need to do that anymore.

She said, “You mean don’t do it at anyone else’s house?”

I responded very quickly, “No, please, no, don’t ever -- EVER -- do that at someone else’s house. Or school. Or church. Please. I beg of you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

This morning, as we were clearing the breakfast dishes, L showed her father her new gesture.

“L,” I warned, “we talked about that, didn’t we?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied.

“And what did we decide about that?” I asked.

“We decided that when I do that, you laugh.”

Touche, poopie-head.

Hot Stuff

'Tis the season to have hot flashes, fa-la-la-la-la, La-open-a-freakin'-window!

JAO will be wearing a t-shirt, a button-down and his suit jacket and still put on his long, wool coat and gloves. Meanwhile, I am driving the kids to school in a tank top and bare feet. I suffer through the drive in the stifling heat because their little hormonal systems have yet to undergo the assault mine has, and then as soon as they jump out of the car, I roll down the window and stick my arm out into the wind trying to direct more of the cold air onto my overheated torso.

I really miss wearing turtlenecks and cute sweaters. Okay, so I wouldn’t wear a cute sweater now anyway because my extra body bulk would only look even more bulky, but still. I have figured out that scarves are the way to go. I can wrap one around my neck when I am a bit chilly and still be able to easily yank it from my steaming body when I start to over-heat.

I know everyone is complaining right now about how cold it is her in the South. And I agree that if it is going to be this cold, we should at least have some snow. But, there is nothing as refreshing to a hot-flasher as strolling out to the mail box in shorts and a t-shirt when it is 25 degrees outside.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I could wear a camisole, a sweater and a scarf and be quite comfortable. Now, just thinking about that makes me want to open the freezer and sit inside.

Worried that I might have developed some exotic ailment that affects only the body’s ability to regulate its temperature -- like some South American reptilian disease or something -- I had the doctor run a complete blood work analysis on me last year. Sadly, the lab said there was nothing exotic about me at all.

At first I attributed it to just one other way having children has wrecked my poor body. However, I do know women who suffer from this and have not birthed any kids. So, now I’ll just blame Eve. She’s the eternal fall-gal for any weird body thing that women must endure but from which men are unjustly exempt.

Too bad I can’t develop some magic, rapid weight-loss disease.

Wait...I think that’s called cancer.

Never mind. I’ll just stick with the hot flashes.

It's What All the Kids Are Doing

Well, it was bound to happen. Every time I drive my kids to school wearing my pajamas and no make-up, I think, “Gee, I hope I don’t miss carpool or else I’ll have to walk inside in my p.j.’s.” And, you know how some mornings you just wake up looking better than others? Well, this was not one of those mornings.

Thanks to the stupid, little, hybrid car in front of me going 30-miles-per-hour in a 45 zone, this morning I paraded myself through a throng of smartly-dressed ladies on their way to Bible study while wearing my red and white striped Old Navy pajama bottoms and looking like death warmed over, frozen, and then re-heated.

At least I was wearing a bra today. That’s something.

I suppose I could blame myself for not leaving the house earlier, but I like me. I’d rather focus my anger toward someone else. Plus, people who drive hybrids annoy me. Save the planet on your own time and get out of my way -- I have places to go and ozone to destroy. Oh, and my stuffed and mounted baby seal is ready at the taxidermist.

Tra-la-la.

Yesterday, my children invented a new game. I wish I could say that it was brilliant and worthy of a quick trademark and immediate release just in time for Christmas. But, well, it’s not.

I was in the kitchen preparing some very yummy potato soup, which is extremely time-consuming, but totally worth it. L and Z were playing together in the den. Which is to say, they were teasing and baiting each other, wrestling around and alternating between laughing and crying, “Mom! He/she hit/bit/slapped/kicked/insulted/maimed me!” Typical afternoon.

They were hungry and I was only halfway through the peeling and cubing of 5 pounds of potatoes, so I offered them some grapes. After only a few minutes I heard, “Mom! These grapes have seeds in them!”

What? I never even looked at the bag because why would I think the grapes had seeds? Why the heck do they even sell grapes with seeds anymore? Is anyone buying bags of seeded grapes and going home and planting them in their back yard?

So, the seed announcement was followed by, “Mom! Z just spit the grapes out all over the carpet!”

Great. “Bring the grapes back in the kitchen, guys!”

Silence.

“Guys?”

The next sound I heard was the sound of all the grapes being dumped out on the floor.

“Hey! Pick those up, L! Z! Are you still there?”

Then I heard laughter and L said, “Okay, my turn!”

I put down my potato peeler and went to investigate. As I walked into the living room, I saw L standing at the top of the nine-foot ladder and Z standing underneath it.

(Side bar: Since we are still in the middle of Christmas decorating, the ladder is still in the middle of the living room. Z has a stone bruise on his heel from climbing to the top and using a long piece of rope garland to repel back down. The last time, he repelled just a bit too hard.)

Anyway, I arrived just in time to see L dump the entire bowl of grapes down onto her waiting brother’s head. And he laughed because, apparently, that is what he knew she was going to do and he was okay with that.

“What on earth are you doing?” I asked, surprised. Though I really don’t know why I bother with surprise anymore.

L informed me, “We made up a new game.”

“What is it called?”

Z piped up with, “The Grapes Dumping on My Head Game!”

L gave him a withering look. “No, Z, it’s not.” Then she turned to me. “It’s The Grape Dropping Game, Mom.”

Oh, well, that sounds much better. “What are the rules?”

“There are no rules.”

“Well, how do you know who wins?”

“We’re all winners, Mom.”

“Yeah…if you’re a Socialist.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Pick up the grapes. And, Z, get down off the ladder.”

He protested, “But it’s my turn!”

“Fine. But if you fall, L is driving you to the hospital this time. I have to finish my soup.”

And they say too much TV hinders the imagination.

The Sign Says "No Soliciting"

Yeah, yeah, it’s been forever since I last blogged, so I don’t blame you if you hate me and never want to read another word I’ve written. But, just in case you do, I have to share my latest encounter with the bizarre.

My doorbell rang and I wasn’t expecting anybody. In this day and age, with cell phones, texts, email, Facebook, etc., it is rare that someone will simply show-up on your doorstep unless they want to sell you something or kill you. Since I was pretty sure I hadn’t ticked anybody off badly enough to warrant a killing, I assumed the rather normal-looking man was a solicitor. (Though, it should be pointed out, that there is a nice, little wooden sign posted at the entrance to the neighborhood that says, “No Soliciting.” Unless, of course, you are soliciting cookies or candy. Then I’ll let you get away with it.)

I opened the door and the man looked at me quizzically and asked, “Do you remember me? Have you lived here for more than six years or so? Because I have cleaned this house before. So, if you have lived here for more than six years, then you’ve met me before.”

“Um...what?”

He then pointed to my next-door neighbor’s house and asked, “Didn’t that lady have cancer? Or she has cancer or something?”

“Uh...not that I am aware of.”

To further prove that he had, indeed, cleaned my house before, he then pointed to a house down the street and said, “And that guy had a big boat, didn’t he? Were you living here when he parked his big boat on the right-hand side of the house?”

“Er...I have never seen a boat there.” Then thinking perhaps the poor man was either lost or loony, I asked, “Are you sure you are in the right neighborhood?”

He laughed at that, but then proceeded to tell me that he was an exterior house cleaner and could pressure wash my entire house, from the gutter to the ground, and make it look like new. He started pointing out the black, moldy stuff on the door jamb and other areas where foreign matter was growing on my stucco. Quite frankly, I had never even noticed any of that. So then I got all paranoid thinking that everyone who has come to my home has shuddered inwardly at the unsightly fungus as they crossed over my threshold. And just what is that stuff, anyway?

But he ripped my attention back to him by saying, “Just so you don’t think I’m bull-shitting you, here are the names of your neighbors whose houses I’m doing.”

Excuse me?! Did he just use profanity while trying to sell me his services? I don’t appreciate that kind of language! What the hell?!

Okay, fine, so maybe I do, but not from some stranger who randomly shows up on my doorstep and starts taking walks down memory lane through my neighborhood.

He whipped out his iPad and touched the screen to wake it up. It came to life and there was a webpage with a video on it. It wasn’t playing, it was just the screen capture with that faint triangle on it that lets you know it is a video and you should play it. Creepy Solicitor pointed to the video and asked, “Oh, have you seen this?”

I was not sure what it was a video of, and even more not sure of what it might have to do with his convincing me he wasn’t a bull-shitter. He continued without waiting for a response from me, however, by saying, “The Russians blew up a pirate ship -- with the pirates still on it! They captured the boat, chained the pirates to the deck and blew the shit up!”

Inside my head, I was screaming, “What in the name of all that is holy is going on here?! Am I being punked or something?”

Outwardly, I said, “Um...what?”

He said, “Yeah, you’ll never hear about stuff like that on the news, but it happens. Today everyone is so politically correct, you know? Everyone is always looking at us and blaming us for doing things, but the Russians, they do that kind of thing all the time!”

Ah, to be so free from world public opinion like the Russians. Wouldn’t that be swell?

He went back to his iPad, closed the deadly-Russian-pirate-killing video, and pulled up another screen. He then turned it so I could read it better. It was a list of about five or six people who were supposedly hiring Creepy Solicitor to clean their homes -- complete with names, addresses, telephone numbers and how much money they were being charged.

He asked, “Do you know any of these people?”

I didn’t, but then, again, my next-door neighbor is apparently dying of cancer and I had no idea about that either.

“See that house over that way -- you gotta lean over -- see it? The one with the grey chimney? I’m cleaning her house today. What’s her name? Karen? Carol? Something like that.”

“I don’t know her either.” Boy, I really need to get out and meet my neighbors.

Creepy Solicitor went back into his sales pitch and talked about cleaning the windows and how everything would look like new. Then he started telling me about how he could clean the driveway, walkway and the back deck. He appeared to be winding down his spiel, for which I was grateful.

But then he upped the creep factor on me again by saying, “If I remember correctly, you have a really huge back deck, right? Do you mind if I walk back there and take a look to make sure it’s what I remember?”

“Well, um, there are dogs back there.” I realized I wasn't being very articulate, but this guy was throwing me off my game with his whack-a-dooness.

“That’s okay, I’ll just look over the fence. I’ll be right back.”

As I stood alone in my doorway, I began to think it wasn’t so wise to allow some stranger to wander around my backyard. But, then again, he was no stranger -- he knew more people in my neighborhood than I did. Plus, he had handed me a really nice, laminated doorhanger with his company name and number on it. If he was a rapist, he sure did spend a lot of money on his printed props.

He returned from his recon mission and announced that, yep, the back deck was just like he remembered and he could clean the deck, around the pool, the driveway, the walkway and the sidewalk in front of the house all for the low-low price of $175. The house and windows would be $275. And, here’s the best part, he could do it as early as tomorrow. Oh, hosanna!

I really hated to turn him down right then and there, especially since he had been so enthusiastic in his pitch. Oh, and warned me about the free-wheeling Russians who so brazenly practice their own sense of vigilante justice. But, I really wasn’t in the mood to spend nearly 400 of my Christmas-shopping dollars on cleaning the outside of my house -- which I hardly ever see anyway.

So, I used the standard “I’m just a girl and I don’t make decisions about money and I’ll have to check with my big, strong husband who has a much better handle on such confusing things.” Yeah, I can be really anti-feminist movement when it suits me.

I told him we would discuss it and give him a call if we decided we were in need of his services. He then thanked me and went on his way.

He’s probably just up the street right now asking that person if they know the lady with the huge back deck and warning them about the Russians.

See? Now wasn’t that worth the wait?

Little L Moments

L has started kindergarten, which means I am now old enough to have a child in school. Okay, fine, so I was old enough for that a decade ago, but that’s not the point. I have been making fun of all the moms I know who boo-hooed over their kid’s first day of school and mocked their sentimentality over something so silly. And to answer your next question, no, I did not cry on L’s first day of school. JAO, however...

But I would be remiss if I didn’t take a few moments to reflect on this momentous occasion in L’s life. Our nearly six years together has been interesting, to say the least. So, in honor of my daughter's new role as a matriculator, I thought I’d share some of my favorite Little L Moments from the past. I hope you enjoy reading them more than I enjoyed living them.

Our first tale takes place in May of 2007 just two weeks after the birth of Z. L was two-and-a-half. Thus the stage was set for misery.

With a newborn Z to look after, I hadn't been getting as much sleep as I needed and so I really, really wanted a nap. I got the baby boy to sleep and read some books to L. She was acting pretty tired so I hoped she'd go down without a fight. Schyeah, right.

I put her in her bed and threatened her life if she got up and then I went to my room to collapse. Sure enough, a few minutes later, I heard her get out of bed. I marched back down the hall, made her get back in bed and wearily trudged back to my room. This time, I fell asleep myself as soon as my head hit the pillow.

Fifteen minutes later, I awoke from a dead sleep to find L standing next to my bed with her hands covered in blood.

Blood!

Inwardly, I freaked out -- but she was so calm that I quickly realized she was not in danger of bleeding out. Nor did she appear to be feeling pain. I rushed her into her bathroom where I washed her hands and discovered a small cut on her thumb. I put a bandage on it and decided that she would live.

Then, I walked into L’s room to discover the source of the cut -- broken glass was littering her bed and floor and there was blood all over her sheets. The child had stood on her bed and wielding a plastic, yellow maraca, shattered the globe covering the light on her ceiling fan! And this was no accident. While she was tall for her age, she still had to jump up in the air in order to make contact with the light! This was a deliberate Mariachi attack on her light fixture.

I had to treat her sheets (which were brand-new Pottery Barn sheets, by the way) with stain remover and throw them in the wash. Then I had to do a super-duper vacuuming job on her carpet to remove the tiny shards of glass. Then, I had to follow and remove the trail of bloody hand prints that led from her door, down the hall and into my room.

Needless to say, I never got that nap.

Our next tale takes place the following New Year's Day. JAO, the kids and I ventured out to the mall to exchange some Christmas gifts. L was tired and irritable and basically being quite difficult. Baby Z was still in his sweet, agreeable baby phase and was content to ride in the stroller. (It would be another year or so before Z would fully embrace his Spawn of Satan persona.)

In an extremely crowded Macy’s, we split up -- I went with Z to one side of the store and L and JAO stood in line at the Men’s department to exchange a sweater. I finished first and returned to my husband and daughter. As Z and I were approaching, I could tell that JAO was irritated with L for continuously having to tell her to stop messing with all the things around the register.

When the exchange was complete, L turned to walk away. From my vantage point, a gentleman and his young son were between me and her. The next thing I saw, a little hand reached out from nowhere and punched the little boy square in the face. For the tiniest second I thought, “Oh, please don’t let that have been L.” But, the very next second, sure enough, here comes L sauntering around the man and the now-screaming boy, looking as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

The father was on his cell phone and didn’t even see what happened, but his mother, who was standing a few feet away, did. We both ran up at the same time -- she trying to comfort her child who was the victim of this random act of violence and me apologizing profusely for mine, the random act.

Even worse, the little boy and his parents were obviously of Indian descent. L could have been charged with a hate crime!

Fortunately, the assaulted boy’s parents could not have been more gracious. She assured me that her son was fine and she was not going to call the ACLU. I drug my demon child out of the store by the arm, fuming and ready to ship her off to Russia.

(It should be pointed out that this was not the first time L has randomly assaulted some other child. I couldn’t even relax at a playground because I never knew when she was going to haul off and smack the preschooler next to her.)

Outside the store, JAO asked a now contrite L why she hit that boy. Through her remorseful (whatever) tears, she replied, “Because I’m mean.”

She got no arguments from me.

But now Little L is a kindergartener and I am pleased to announce that she has not smacked anyone in the face (except for her little brother) since that day. And as crazy as she has made me, I can honestly say that being her mom has been a lot of fun. I am very proud of my girl and I’m looking forward to seeing the amazing young woman she will become.

Though I hope she doesn’t become that woman any time soon. Because I am way too young to be the mother of a woman.

Paying for a Summer of Sin

Hey, Jenny, it’s me, Regina.

Yeah, it has been a while.

I’m fine. Well, sorta.

My summer? It was good. Too good, I guess. That’s kinda why I’m calling. You know how last Spring I was looking all hot and feeling good about myself? Well, I’m still looking hot -- but it’s really more of an over-weight, sweaty-hot. Perhaps it would have behooved me to be a bit more vigilant over the summer.

My activity level? Well, how many calories do you think you burn carrying a cooler of beer down to the beach?

Not that much, huh?

It was a case, you know, not just some dinky six-pack.

Oh.

Did I make good choices? Sure! When the choice was between fried shrimp or fried scallops.

Yeah, I know. I use humor to mask my shame. So, um, I was thinking...can I come back in?

That’s swell. Wait...you won’t have to weigh me, will you?

You will? Crap. Can I at least weigh in the nude?

No? Man, you guys are really sticklers for that rule, aren’t you?

Fine. I’ll see you at 11:00.

Yeah, I’m really looking forward to it, too. And afterward I’m thinking about going for a PAP smear and a mammogram just to round out the day of fun.

Yes. That was my humor.

Bye.

And here we go again.

Can someone please explain to me how it can take four months to lose the same amount of weight you can gain in only one month? And don’t go saying it was the laying around and eating fried foods and drinking fruity drinks all summer that did it. If I wanted brutal honesty I would have called my mom.

I guess I feel like it just happened so fast. One minute I was buying the first two-piece swim-suit I’d bought in nearly seven years, and the next minute I was searching my drawer for the pants I wore home from the delivery room. It’s so frustrating.

I simply got too comfortable with myself. Sure, that’s supposed to be the touchy-feely, everyone’s a winner, we accept all kinds attitude. But, let’s be honest -- it’s that type of mentality that allows a 200-pound woman to wear a thong bikini and a 300-pound man to wear a Speedo. I don’t care how at-one with yourself you are, Oprah --suck it in or cover it up!

Wah, wah, wah. I'm too fat. Blah, blah, blah.

I suppose I can continue to bitch and complain or I can throw away the Chex Mix, pour out the wine, take the wrapper off the “Dancing With the Stars Workout DVD” and get back at it.

Yes. That was my humor again.

Because I don’t care how much weigh, it is NEVER okay to pour out wine.

The Manson Family Summer

For the love of all that is Mark Harmon, I wish my kids were in summer school.

Now I understand why my mother was never as excited about summer vacation as I was -- and why her mood seemed to suddenly lift on the first day of school. If I have to spend any more time alone with these two people who insist on calling me “Mom,” I truly don’t think we’ll emerge from this summer vacation with any semblance of a healthy mother/child relationship.

I resent how being a stay-at-home mom in the summer is essentially like having another part-time job. During the school year, I have my normal mom duties -- laundry, meals, applying the occasional SpongeBob band-aid, maybe reading a book or two if I’m in the mood. But that is when I have a limited number of hours alone with the children each day. Over the summer, however, they are always here! I wake up in the morning, and they are here. I turn around at lunch time, and they are still here. I go to cook dinner and they are still, freakin’ here! All day! Every day! They never go anywhere else! Why didn’t anyone ever tell me about this?

So, my summer job has become entertaining these children. And, I don’t mind admitting -- I should be fired from this job.

Sure, I could pack us up and head out to the park, but guess what? The park is boring. At least it is for me. Like I want to sit on a hard bench and sweat in the blistering sun just so they can run around on playground equipment that has been touched by every snot-nosed, germy, virus-carrying kid in the county? At home, they may fight with each other, but at least I have my computer. And my air-conditioning.

And yes, I could arrange for play dates, but that requires me to take a shower and put on makeup and try and look presentable to the other moms.

Museums require everyone acting civilized and mannerly -- and that simply ain’t gonna happen. The Aquarium costs a bazillion dollars, the movies cost even more and all those bouncy, jumpy places are loud and smell like dirty socks.

So, my laziness and my -- okay fine, it’s just my laziness -- has left us stuck at home for the majority of the summer with nothing to do but get on each other’s nerves.

As a result, we have all slipped into behavior that is almost feral with regards to how we treat one another. There has been screaming, hitting, biting, crying, name-calling and mocking. And that’s just from me. The kids have been much worse. Nothing I do seems to evoke a positive response, so I have sunk deep into the negative just to exact my revenge.

Our house is plenty big enough to allow two smallish children to coexist without having to ever come into contact with each other. However, they will not stay away from each other! There is a constant display of acrobatics and professional wrestling that inevitably leaves one of them crying. I have heard myself say more times than I care to admit, that grand old Cosby line, “No one in this house is allowed to touch anyone else in this house ever again!!”

But it never works.

If one of them turns on the Wii, the gaming console sends out a high-frequency vibration that only another child can hear and causes that child to come screaming into the room crying, “I want to play! I get the white remote! No, I don’t want to play bowling!!”

I know we’ll never be the Von Trapp family, but we could at least stop resembling the Manson family.

Last night, I decided we needed to have an emergency family meeting to deal with this growing problem.

Before the kids were to go upstairs and get ready for bed, I sat them down on the sofa, summoned all of my years of parenting website research and attempted to reach their little hearts and minds. I began all Dr. Spock-like by telling them that I, too, was guilty of bad behavior. I apologized for yelling and being short-tempered and using an ugly voice with them. I then asked them if they thought they could help by being better listeners and being kind to each other and showing JAO and I more respect.

L was the first to nod and respond. “Right,” L agreed. “We need better manner. New ones.”

“That’s right, L, we do.”

“Because mine are old.”

“Oh. Well, then we definitely should get you some new ones.”

I turned to Z, “Z, are you going to use your manners?”

L answered my question instead by saying seriously, “I’ve never seen any manners in Z’s room.”

Well, that explains a lot.

“Then we’ll have to get him some.”

“Good idea, Mom.”

After we all agreed that we would start over anew, fresh-family-faced and full of love and mutual respect, L jumped up from the couch and announced, “Okay, now I have something to say.”

“That’s wonderful, L, we would be happy to listen.” See what a great, loving, supportive mom I am already becoming? After only one, good, After School Special chat, the kids have fallen in line and jumped whole-heartedly on the Ozzy and Harriet bandwagon.

L ran across the room saying, “Give me one second;” followed closely by her parrot who intoned, “Gib me un second!” They ducked behind the recliner to prepare for their speech. I took a seat next to JAO on the sofa. We exchanged loving smiles that seemed to say, “Aren’t our children wonderful, Darling?” “Yes, Love of My Life, we are truly blessed.”

After a few moments of whispers between the two, L walked proudly out from behind the chair to take her position right in front of her father and me. She stood tall and began what I was sure was going to be a mature, respectful message full of promises of obedience and deference toward her loving parental units.

This is what she said:

“Mom, Dad, I love you. And you love me. And...” She whipped herself around, flung her tutu up in the air, and stuck out her back end to reveal her bare butt.

I am not kidding.

Next came Z with his Toy Story Pull-Up down around his ankles, saying, “I lub you!” and he, too, bent at the waist and mooned us.

JAO and I did the only thing we could do -- laugh. We laughed until tears came. We laughed until the kids were rolling on the floor with their shiney hineys flashing also laughing hysterically.

In the end (pun intended) I guess I would prefer a house full of zany laughter than one of strict, rigid obedience.

How better to say, “I love you” than with a good, old-fashioned mooning?

Papa, Can You Hear Me?

It’s funny how differently two people can view the exact same situation. Take into account that one of those people is a female and the other a male, and the view of the experience becomes even greater.

This past weekend, JAO, L and I attended a retirement party for some friends. Z was relegated to my brother and sister-in-law’s house because, well, I wanted to enjoy my evening. I wasn’t concerned about L, however, because she has now reached the age where she can occupy her time and basically take care of herself. I knew that our friends’ 8-year-old and 13-year-old daughters would be there and that L would enjoy spending time with them.

As I expected, L hung out with the big girls and seemed to be having a great time. I didn’t feel the need to hover or to constantly inquire as to her well-being. I trusted the two girls she was with and I trusted her. I knew she wasn’t going to head down to the street and hitch a ride to Alabama. (Like anyone would voluntarily choose to go to Alabama, right?)

Oh, I’m kidding. Don’t go all Midnight in Montgomery on me.

I noticed, however, that JAO seemed more concerned with her whereabouts and went in search of her several times. He would say, “Where’s L?” And I would respond, “Um, out there somewhere.” Then he would look disgusted at my lack of maternal concern and then go look for her. Of course, she was always just around the front of the house or up near the tree line in the back yard. Only once was she found hanging with the crack heads on the street corner.

When it came time to fix our plates for dinner, I attempted to assist her in this effort. I was quickly rebuffed with the proclamation, “Mom! If you’ll just leave me alone, I will make my own choices.”

I backed off and said, “Okay, Ms. Thing, go to it.” She then proceeded to fill her plate with one hotdog bun, a scoop of pasta salad and a pile of sliced watermelon. I dared to call out from the other side of the room, “L, you know there are hot dogs there, too, right?” I was shot down with a withering look and a roll of the eyes. I was like, “Whatever, Diva, go all vegetarian if you want.” I then fixed my own plate and sat down to enjoy a nice dinner complete with adult conversation. And I didn’t have to cut up anyone’s hot dog into non-choking-sized bites.

I did take a few moments to reflect on how grown-up she seemed sitting around chatting with the Big Girls. She’s really tall for her age and I will forever be jealous of her willowy figure and curly, blond hair. She had her Dora purse on her arm and a ton of Silly Bandz on her wrist and I was struck with a sense of pride at how beautifully mature she was acting.

Yes, she pouted when I told her it was time to go, but that was to be expected. That’s how I respond when JAO tells me it is time to leave the mall. So, I didn’t hold that reaction against her.

On the ride home, however, JAO seemed distracted and slightly upset. I finally got him to admit that his feelings were hurt by L’s behavior. Apparently, he didn’t appreciate her new-found maturity like I did. I didn’t laugh at him (at least not out loud) because I could tell he was really upset by this. I tried to tell him that it was all a part of her growing up. That it was natural for her to establish her independence and begin to do things on her own.

There is a difference in how fathers view their daughters and how they view their sons. The same holds true with mothers. I will go to my grave insisting that Z needs to be cuddled and loved-up. And JAO will forever see L as his baby girl. Maybe that’s the way it is supposed to be. I don’t see L as my little girl. I see her as the other woman in my house whose mood swings and dramatic flair rival my own. I’m also not the touchy-feely, sentimental mommy who laments the passing of each stage of her kid’s life. Instead I celebrate each graduation as a step closer to their independence and my freedom.

I don’t need to be needed. I need to be left alone.

I told JAO that I know for a fact that little girls will always need their daddies, even when they insist they don’t. They don’t call us “Daddy’s Little Girl” for nothing. A father’s place in his daughter’s heart will never be replaced. There may be rivals, but never any that pose a serious threat. JAO secures his place in L’s heart every time he reads her a bedtime story or let’s her stand on his feet while they dance. Or every time he pushes her on a swing or plays Duck, Duck, Goose in the living room or wears a tiara while enjoying some imaginary tea. Every hug, every smile, every soothing whisper tells her how much he loves her.

Yes, JAO, L will always need her Daddy. Well, at least she will always need her Daddy’s wallet.

HAHAHAHAA! You thought I was going to go completely Hallmarky on you, didn’t you?

Whatever.

Full Contact Parenting

You know those days when you just can’t wait for it to end so you can enjoy the relaxing bliss that is that first glass of wine? Tuesday was one of those days.

Okay, fine -- so practically every day is one of those days. Don’t judge me.

It started when JAO announced that he really needed to catch up on some work and, therefore, would not be home until late. Uggh.

Whenever I know not to expect JAO home until late, the afternoon seems to stretch on endlessly. It’s not that I mind being around my children that long by myself, it’s just that -- okay, it is that I mind being around my children that long by myself. They seem to fight more and get on my nerves more when I am flying solo.

When both parents are present, the burden of parenting can be equally shared. One parent breaks up the first fight while the second parent gets the next dirty diaper. Parent One prepares the food while Parent Two wipes off the faces and hands -- and table, chairs and walls. Single parents have my utmost respect. How they do it without going all rifle-in-a-clock-tower is beyond me.

So, I began to formulate a plan: We would swim in the pool until they were ready to drop, then we’d enjoy a nutritious dinner of hot dogs and carrot sticks before retiring to the den for popcorn and Movie Night.

All seemed to be going according to plan; L and Z frolicked in the pool and I chatted with my friend on the phone while attempting to soak up some sun. Let’s face it, cellulite looks so much better when it is tan. I was just beginning to think I would survive my solo flight unharmed when the stench of pool poo filled my nostrils. That little (insert expletive here) pooped in the pool once again. It was mostly contained by the swim diaper and rubber pants that he was wearing, but I was still too grossed-out to allow L and Z to continue playing in the water. My plans for an afternoon in the pool were shot and so I was faced with the dubious task of entertaining these little people until bedtime.

After an hour of bickering and whining from all of us, I decided to bump up Movie Night. We watched “Charolette’s Web” and I was instantly reminded of why I had avoided seeing the film when it first came out. I cried like a freakin’ baby! Stupid spider.

When the movie ended, we still had time to kill before the nutritious hot dogs and carrot stick dinner. So I decided it was time to reattempt the removal of the splinter Z had in his foot. After all, it had been there since Sunday. JAO and I had tried to get it out the afternoon it happened, but to no avail. If you have never had the occasion to remove -- or attempt to remove -- a splinter from any part of a child’s body, let me help you understand the situation. It’s like an Olympic event. It involves strength, endurance and determination. Picture the Crocodile Hunter (God rest his soul) laying on top of a giant crock and wrestling it to the ground all the while trying to keep his limbs and extremities out of the flailing creature’s mouth. It’s kinda like that.

Our first attempt at the splinter removal involved JAO pinning Z down, L holding a flashlight and me wielding the tweezers. I couldn’t even get to the splinter because Z was wriggling and kicking and screaming. I looked at JAO and said, “What kind of a man are you? This kid weighs 35 pounds -- can’t you keep him still?” My husband replied, “Fine! You hold him then!”

People, that kid is strong. Especially when he doesn’t want to do something. We gave up after about 15 minutes when we were all too exhausted to continue.

This was no ordinary splinter, however. It was really a thin sliver of metal that had come off the rotary drill bit thingy JAO had used when he was repairing the grout on the pool. So, I knew it couldn’t stay in his foot for long. What if it became embedded and then infected and what if he then had to walk around with a piece of metal in his foot and constantly be stopped walking through metal detectors and having to explain that he wasn’t carrying a weapon but rather his foot contained a splinter that his weakling parents were unable to remove?

No, it had to come out.

As soon as he saw me coming with the tweezers, he freaked. I tried calm cajoling, I tried bribery, I tried threatening -- nothing would convince him to simply sit still and allow me to do what needed to be done. Finally I said, “screw it” and I laid my entire body over his and pinned him to the floor. He was on his stomach facing one way, and I was laying on his back facing his feet. Even in this position, he was still able to squirm and kick and flop around enough to hinder my efforts. He was screaming and shrieking and trying to bite my leg. Then he twisted his upper body enough so that he could start pounding his fist on my back. All the while, poor L is holding the flashlight and saying, “I don’t like this Mommy! This is scary!”

Another therapy session added to her list. And his.

At last the tweezers hit their target and the metal sliver came out. I released Z and sat up. He was so far beyond upset that he continued to furiously scream and cry. If he knew any curse words, I’m sure I would have heard a litany of expletives. He grabbed a shirt off the back of the couch, thrust it into his mouth and bit down on it in a rage.

I still had the metal shard in my hand and didn’t want to drop it on the floor lest anyone else step on it and we’d have to go through this all over again. So, as I was rising to properly dispose of the offending piece of metal, L reached out to her hysterical brother in an attempt to give him a calming hug. The next thing I saw was his foot flying through the air to land a kick squarely on his sister’s mouth.
Instantly, she let out a screech and blood started flowing from her mouth. She had bit down on her tongue -- hard. So, now I have two screaming kids, one bleeding and the other one crying to near convulsions and I’m still holding the metal splinter in my hand.

I quickly ushered L into the kitchen when I dropped the splinter on the counter and grabbed some paper towels to hold over her mouth. Z followed right behind us. His cries had progressed to the sniffling and whimpering and rapid intake of breaths that usually follows a major kid crying jag. Once I was sure I didn’t need to take L to the emergency room for tongue stitches, I sat down on the kitchen floor and held both my upset babies in my arms and rocked and shushed and tried to restore peace.

I even shed a tear or two.

In the end, everyone went to bed splinter and stiches free. Being a single parent sucks. And some days so does being a kid.

But at least the parent has the wine.

The Talk

When I was young and thought my mother was crazy and out-of-touch, I promised myself and my future daughter that I would be a cool, laid-back, understanding mom. I’d be the kind of mom that my daughter’s friends would look at and say, “Wow, it is so stellar that your mom is, like, so totally awesome.” I was a child of the 80s. Back then, that was the hip way to talk.

But then I grew up. Well, kinda. And I have discovered that I don’t need to be L’s best friend and be a part of all the gossip and late-night talks about which boy is the cutest in class. I just want her to see me as someone she can come to with any problem or question and trust that I will give her an honest and direct answer.

I have struggled with this idea of truthfulness and how it extends (or doesn’t extend) to Santa, the Tooth Fairy and all those other harmless lies we tell our children. I play along, but will always fear that these untruths will taint my image as someone who can be trusted. But this past weekend, when my baby girl curled up on my lap, looked at me with those beautiful, blue, trusting eyes and very sincerely asked, “How does a baby come out of your stomach?” the last thing I wanted to do, was to give her an honest and direct answer.

I paused only slightly and then said, “Well, when it is time for the baby to be born, you go to the hospital and the doctor gets the baby out.” Ha! I did it! That was an honest and direct response that only answered the question asked. No need to elaborate, right?

Wrong.

“Yes, Mom, but how does the doctor get the baby out?”

Damn. Now what? Do I really want to get into this right now with a five-and-a-half-year-old? Is she old enough to know where babies come from? Of course, she’s not asking how the baby got there -- at least not yet. But, if I open up this discussion won’t it lead to The Talk?

Crap, she’s noticed how long I’ve been silent. Now any answer I give her will take on a magnified sense of importance simply because of the time it took to answer it. What if I tell her and then she goes and blabs it to all the other kids in preschool and I get angry phone calls from parents who weren’t even thinking about The Talk, but now must have it because obviously our household is one of sin and promiscuity and our daughter is a fountain of sexual knowledge?!

Okay, say something -- anything!

Speak, woman!

I know! Maybe she’ll accept the c-section explanation better and will be easier to comprehend. Okay, fine...go with that...

“Well, um, sometimes the doctor will have to get the baby out by opening up the mommy’s tummy. See, he makes a cut from here to here and -- ”

At this point, L burst into tears. Clearly, that was not the right direction to take.

I was hit with a litany of “I don’t want the doctor to cut open my tummy! I don’t want to have a baby! Don’t make me, okay Mommy! Promise I don’t ever have to have a baby!”

I was trying to calm her down and assure her that wasn’t a decision she had to make right now. The only way I could get out of that situation was to promise her that I was not going to make her have a baby now or any time in the future. That stopped the tears, but we both walked away from that encounter emotionally drained. And I felt like a huge failure. One of the first big moments in our relationship as trusting daughter/truthful mother was blown all to heck.

I spent the rest of the day worrying about it and trying to figure out how to rectify the situation. I simply couldn’t let her go on thinking that child birth was the horror show she was envisioning.

That night, before I tucked her in, I sat down on her bed beside her and said, “L, can we chat for just a minute about something?”

“Sure, Mom.”

“Well, you know how we talked this morning about how babies are born and you got so upset?”

“Yes. I cried and cried." She began to look concerned again and asked, "I don’t have to have a baby, do I?”

“No, honey," I replied. Then in a lighthearted manner I continued, "Look, L, there’s something else I need to tell you. See, there are two ways a baby can be born. One of them is for the doctor to open up the mommy’s tummy, but the other way is for it to come out from somewhere else.”

“Oh. Where?”

“Well, you know how our body has a lot of different holes, right? And each one is for something different; our nose is how we smell, and our mouth is how we eat, and our ears are how we hear. Well, you know that you have a hole in your hiney where the poo comes out -- ”

People, the disbelieving look on her face said, “Cheese and crackers! Lady, do not tell me that babies come out of your butt!”

Quickly I said, “And then there is your hoo-hoo. Babies come out of your hoo-hoo.”

Her response was to pause for a moment and then crack up laughing and say, “They come out of your hoo-hoo?! Ooooh, that is so gross!”

To which I replied, “Well, yes, it sorta is.”

(On a side note: I know that it is considered the progressive way of parenting to use the correct anatomical words for body parts. And we do use the correct words for everything but the hoo-hoo. I hate the V-word. It just sounds icky to me and I never use it. Perhaps it was all the years of being taunted with the horrible nickname Vagina-Regina. Whatever -- hoo-hoo it is.)

“Does it hurt?”

Yes, it hurts worse than anything you could ever imagine and you will wish someone would club you over the head with a metal hospital stool just so your could focus your attention on some pain other than the excruciating sensation of Mac truck trying to drive its way out of your hoo-hoo.

“No, it’s not that bad. The doctor can give you some medicine that makes it not hurt at all.”

“Do you drink the medicine?”

“No. Brace yourself...it’s a shot. But, the shot doesn’t even hurt.”

“You don’t feel the shot?”

No, because you are already writhing in so much pain to the point where a gigantic needle being shoved into your spine is hardly even noticeable.

“Nope. Don’t feel it at all.”

Then, my little girl let out a huge sigh of relief and a big grin spread across her face. She said, “Okay, Mom. Maybe I will think about having a baby after all.”

“That’s great, L. Just don’t think about it for another 20 years or so, okay?”

She threw her arms around my neck and said, “Thank you for making me feel better, Mommy.”

I hugged my baby girl and said, “You’re welcome, Monkey. Now you get some sleep, okay?”

For the love of all that is ovulating, please fall asleep before you remember to ask me how the baby gets in your tummy in the first place...

“Good night, L. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mommy. Good night.”

Whew!

Being truthful is hard work. Where’s the stork when you need him?

Things Z Taught Me

Z turned three-years-old yesterday. I think I am now supposed to pause and reflect sentimentally on the past 1095 days this boy has been in my life. I should pull out all the standard clichés about the rapid progression of time and the “it seems like only yesterday” phrases. But tearing up at my kids’ baby pictures and lamenting the official end of my role as a mother of and infant/toddler is not my style.

I’m not made of stone, people -- I love that boy more than I ever thought it was possible to love someone who was so destructive. JAO accuses me of being soft on Z and falling for his little boy, cute manipulative ways. And I freely admit to my guilt. When he was first born, I had this overwhelming desire to retreat to my bedroom with my sweet, swaddled baby son and lock out the rest of the world. Now, of course, it is my overwhelming desire to flee to my room and lock Z out.

Nah, I’m kidding. No matter what, that kid is my favorite baby son and nothing will ever change that. I used to tease JAO about how much his mother still dotes on him and looks at him as though he could do no wrong; when I, in fact, know better. But now I understand her looks of adoration cast on her now-grown son. I used to tell my mother that she liked my brother best and she would always deny it. Now, however, I have a sneaking suspicion that I might have been right all along. You don’t mess with mothers and sons. There is a bubble around them that seals their special bond and protects it from the rest of the world.

Inside the bubble, however, a war of frustration and determination -- and sometimes poo -- rages.

Begrudgingly I will admit that I have come to, somewhat, enjoy the new form our relationship has taken. It’s a “him vs. me” game that both of us are determined to win. Z is trying to come up with new and creative ways to destroy my home or display some type of crazy-in-the-head shocking behavior and I, of course, try to thwart his efforts. Who is winning? I like to think that arguments could be made for either side; however, my guess is that you would all put your money on Z.

At the very least, life with Z has not been boring. In fact, it has been quite educational. The following is my list of Top Ten Things I Have Learned Being the Mommy of Z:

1.) Nothing cracks me up more (or disturbs me as much) as watching Z roll his eyes back in his head to the point where his pupils almost entirely disappear from sight.   

2.) Washable markers are not, in fact, washable when applied to carpet.

3.) If you’re bored, throwing toys down the heating and air vents in the floor is a fun distraction.
 
4.) If you try hard enough, you can wedge a wooden train into almost any crevice to the point where it is impossible to retrieve.
 
5.) A running child can cross the entire length of a Super Target in 12 seconds. A running mom pushing a buggy needs at least 20.
 
6.) Spill-proof cups are not, in fact, spill-proof when hurled at the wall with the intent of a major-league pitcher.
 
7.) The command “faster!” screamed by an excited Z being pushed on a swing can make passers-by think he is commenting on the marital status of their parents at the time of their birth.
 
8.) An open container of anything -- water, Coke, a can of Spaghettioes -- should never be left out unless you wish to see the contents of the container dumped out onto whatever surface is available.
 
9.) Even after he has had a complete, nutritious meal, if you walk into the room carrying anything remotely food-like, he will rush over to you and hold his mouth open like a baby bird. “Bite? Me, bite?” “Z, this is a plate of fish head and cabbage.” “Me have some?” Sigh.
 
10.) A little boy dressed in a pink tu-tu and sporting a head full of pink hair bows still looks like a boy.

I know there are more lessons to be learned from my favorite little man and I look forward to whatever the next 1095 days have to bring. I am a better mom and perhaps even a better person because of Z. And yes, I teared-up a little bit during that last sentence. Like I said, I'm not made of stone. I love my son -- poo and all.

Let's Start a Revolution

So, apparently, The Revolution is coming. Are you prepared?

Anyone who knows my husband is aware of his fiscally conservative values. He is not one to make judgments on social issues, but for the love of all that is capitalistic don’t mess with his money. JAO is a financial advisor and is, therefore, quite knowledgeable in the ways of, well, finance. I, on the other hand, haven’t balanced a checkbook in nearly a decade. I don’t know who holds our mortgage, where our investments are or how much money is in his 401K. If pressed, I probably couldn’t even tell you what a 401K is. And I am fine with that.

JAO tells me I need to learn all this stuff just in case something ever happens to him. I tell him I choose to be optimistic about his longevity. Plus, what if I die before he does? Then I will have learned all that money stuff for nothing.

Lately, however, JAO is showing signs of increased unrest and frustration with our government. Don’t be too concerned; he hasn’t slipped into the realm of radical extremism. You don’t need to call the FBI and tell them he’s buying property at Ruby Ridge. But, I think he has looked at land up in the mountains of North Georgia.

It all started with Glenn Beck. Say what you will about the man, he is charismatic and very passionate about his beliefs. I don’t care to listen to him rant, but he seems to be saying a lot of the things JAO has been feeling only didn’t have the chalkboard on which to illustrate it. I prefer to unwind at the end of the day with a glass of wine and a good episode of 48 Hours Hard Evidence. JAO likes to kick back with Glenn.

The next step came with the purchase of the book The Backyard Homestead, a manual that promises to help you “produce all the food you need on just a quarter acre!” When asked why this was a necessary purchase, JAO replied, “We may need to know how to live off the land in order to survive The Revolution.”

My response was, “Unless there are instructions in there for growing your own Chex Mix trees or Pringles bushes, then I would rather not survive.” He then pointed out that there is a section in the book dedicated the growing, harvesting and fermenting of grapes for the purpose of making wine. So, I may be able to stick around for a least a few weeks after The Revolution.

Then came the delivery from FedEx. Inside the package were boxes of ammunition and a heavy-duty, Army type backpack. Being a hunter and an avid gun enthusiast, I wasn’t too surprised by the ammo. The third item, however, I found puzzling -- if not a bit disturbing. (I know, I know, some of you may find the ammo disturbing. I’m not going to get all NRA on you, but I have no problem with guns when in the hands of someone responsible and well-trained. We have a gun safe and every weapon in this house is securely locked up and out of the reach of children. So get off my 2nd Amendment back, okay?)

So, back to what I found disturbing: Also in the box, was $75 worth of MREs. That’s Meal, Ready to Eat for those militarily-challenged. Or my sister-in-law who called them MR3s.

I just cocked my head to the side, looked at him in wonder and asked, “What in the name of all that is frivolous and crazy made you buy those?”

“I don’t know. I wanted to see what they tasted like. I thought I could take them down to the hunting camp.”

“So, you want to sit in the woods in the middle of nowhere and eat your freeze-dried meatloaf and pretend you are the only one left on the planet?”

“Something like that.” Then he said, “You’ll thank me for all this preparation when The Revolution happens and we need this stuff to survive.”

I felt like I finally needed to get to the bottom of this revolutionary fear. “What, exactly, do you think is going to happen that will require us to live in mud huts and fashion clothing out of bacon?”

His response was to say that if the people who were opposed to the government finally got fed up enough and rose up against the tyranny then the government would respond by trying to crush the opposition. It’s not like history isn’t littered with that type of scenario. A Revolution is what this country was founded on. Is it really so far-fetched to think it could never happen again?

“It is never a bad idea," he concluded, "to be prepared.”

“I guess," I replied, "but think about this: If The Revolution occurs, there is bound to be a large wave of casualties at the onset, followed by those who have to dig in and live off the land to survive. I plan to die in the first wave. I am not a survivor. Gloria Gainer was not singing to me. I hope in the wilderness you can find a like-minded, Bear Grylls, Man vs. Wild, uber-woman to help you tend your gardens and repopulate the country with hearty, freedom-loving patriots like yourselves.”

He thought for a second and then said, “Okay. I’m going to go put this stuff down in the hunting closet. See ya.”

A few days later I saw a t-shirt that said, “Party like it’s 1773!” It made me laugh. Though it was a bit of a disturbing laugh.

And then I thought, “Hmmm...I wonder if that shirt comes in bacon...?”