The Case of the Missing Library Book

My kids spent the bulk of the afternoon today in an orthodontist's office waiting room. Fortunately, we came prepared with homework, snacks, coloring books...and a piece of contraband in the form of a library book.

"What is that doing here?" I screeched when the object emerged from one of my kid's backpacks. After paying exactly $57.18 to the local library in lost book fees over the past year, I've instituted a strict policy: no library books outside the house.

"I won't let it out of my sight," my son vowed.

By the time we emerged from the exam room, the waiting room was completely empty except for the receptionist. The woman smiled and watched us in amusement as my kids gathered up their stuff.

"Looks like you've got you hands full," she giggled as Cortlen slung his backpack over his shoulder...before zipping it up. The sight of the mass of papers and books reminded me about the contraband.

"Where's the library book?" I asked. "I want to see it."

After an extensive period of searching through all of our personal belongings, the library book was deemed officially MIA.

"It has to be here," I insisted, scanning the empty waiting room. I ordered my kids to look through the magazine rack and under all the chairs.

Meanwhile, the receptionist got out the vacuum and starting turning off the lights.

I was on my hands and knees, with my head stuck under a row of chairs when the receptionist asked if we were looking for a library book because she found one a few minutes earlier and had put it behind the counter for safekeeping.

I pulled my head out and glared at her.

And then I hugged her.

Christmas Lists

Yesterday afternoon, I asked each of my children to generate a list of things that they want for Christmas.

The list-making (which took, miraculously and wonderously, a whole 30 minutes) served no other purpose than to keep them busy and entertained, as I have learned from experience that the lists they produce are utterly useless and not connected to reality.

This year, for example, 90% of the things on Kellen's list are woodland animals:




"Do you mean a Webkin deer?" I asked, pointing to the second item from the bottom.

He looked at me like I was nuts. "What would I do with a Webkin deer?" he scoffed.

I'm slightly afraid to know what he would do with a real deer.

Still, all of the nonsense on my boys' lists doesn't compare with what is at the end of Camber's. She circled her top choice, just to make sure that I wouldn't miss it.




"That's not going to happen," I told her flat out. "No more babies at our house."

She looked at me knowingly. "You can't say that. You don't get to decide."

I cocked my head. "What do you mean?"

"Babies come when they want to come."

Later that day, I called my friend in Texas who has two girls, ages 10 and 12.

"We've been over this many times in detail," I hissed. "But it's not getting through."

She suggested several age-appropriate books on the human anatomy and changing bodies.

Want to guess what my daughter is getting for Christmas?


***
Sorry for the infrequent postings as of late. For the past several weeks, I've been working on an academic writing project that has been consuming my life. Thanks for your patience and understanding!

Happy Thanksgiving...

from my pumpkin cheesecake.


Yes, it's oozing out of the oven.

Medieval Times

It should have been a dream come true for all of us.

The opportunity to wear one's Halloween costume after Halloween without the risk of embarrassment, guilt, or shame.

No utensils.

Complimentary paper crowns.

An elaborate gift shop that sells real swords that they will ship to you, free of charge.






Middle-aged men with mullets dressed up as medieval knights, pretending to battle to the death in an arena filled with sawdust.



What more can anyone possibly desire?

Evidently, our seats were no bueno.

"We're too far up to catch any of the flowers that our knight is throwing into the crowd," my daughter sulked

And the grass was always greener on the other side.

"I kind of wish I had a fork," said the son who at every other meal picks at his food with his fingers.

"I pretty much hate you for making me wear this costume," my husband hissed just as Cameron catapulted himself over our pew and landed headfirst on the ground.

"Oh. My. Gosh." Cortlen tugged on my shirt-sleeve. His eyes were wide in amazement. "Jesus is here. And he's married!"



Needless to say, we left the minute the show was over.

The Orthodontist

We bought our house last year knowing that we would need to replace the flooring. After almost a year of saving up for hardwoods, do you want to see what I ended up picking out?


I'm pretty pumped about our recent trip to the orthodontist. The news was all good: Camber needs 4 teeth removed, a palate expander, two sets of braces, and headgear. Kellen needs all of the above, minus the extracted teeth. Cortlen is most likely going to need everything that his brother and sister need, as well as a contraption that looks like a hockey face mask.

"I'm sweating right now," my husband told me when I called to tell him the fantastic news. "And I feel a little sick to my stomach."

After the orthodontist showed me all the equipment that would be placed at intervals into my kids' mouths over the next two years, I questioned whether it was all necessary.

"What if we did half of what you proposed?" I asked.

The orthodontist responded by asking me how I felt about my kids having two rows of teeth.

"I'm getting braces!" Camber squealed with joy as we emerged from the office. The orthodontist even promised her that hers would come with rubber bands attached to her molars, preventing her from opening her mouth all the way.

Kellen tried to give me a high five on the way out the door. "This is the best day of my life," he announced.

Cortlen was understandably the most excited of the bunch. "I'm going to look like a freak!" he yelled, referring to the hockey mask.

To add insult to injury, the orthodontist's office had wood floors.

On my way out, the overly perky office manager asked me what kinds of magazines I like to read.

"Why?" I asked suspiciously.

She didn't miss a beat. "You're going to be spending a lot of time in our waiting room over the next several years," she said knowingly. "We might as well get something that you like."

I hate her already.

Career Day

Today was Career Day at my kids' elementary school. For some reason, the idea of talking about medieval culture to a captive audience of third graders struck me as appealing. At least on paper. Over the past few weeks, I have spent all of my free time fantasizing about how I would do such a good job in the classroom that my kids' school would be inspired to modify their curriculum to include a 2 week unit on medieval literature every year--taught by me of course.

In my make believe world, everyone was interested in what I had to tell them about the fourteenth century.

In real life, not so much.

All of the things that I were convinced were going to be big hits were met with blank stares. None of my daughter's classmates were at all interested in learning about how a medieval manuscript was made, or even touching the piece of reproduction parchment (ie. animal skin) that I bought on E-bay expressing for this occasion.

While the third graders could care less about all the things I wanted to talk about, they latched on and would not let go of something I said in passing while I showed off a scale replica of a medieval church. "Some people liked to go to church so much," I told them, "That they walled themselves into small rooms inside the churches and stayed there until they died."



Eighteen hands shot up into the air when I said this.
"What happened to the body?"
"Did it smell bad?"
"Did they mummify it?"
"Did rats eat it?"

My daughter's teacher began squirming in her chair. I tried to change the conversation by writing a sentence in Middle English on the white board. "Anyone want to guess what this says?" I asked.

A little boy raised his hand. "I'll bet a ninja could kick down the wall of the church if he wanted to."

Thankfully, I made brownies.

Unfortunately, when I lifted the foil cover off of the plate, I realized that Cameron had eaten at least six of them while I was in the shower earlier in the day.

I put the foil cover back on the plate.

Camber's teacher looked longingly at the wall clock. "Well thank you," I said and gathered my stuff up into a pile.

The teacher practically shoved me out the door. "Thanks so much," she said as enthusiastically as possible, which wasn't all that enthusiastic.

"I am a disgrace to society," I told my husband, who was waiting for me in the parking lot with Cameron.

He gestured to two cars that had just pulled up. Out of one them emerged a physician who was dressed in scrubs and rolling what appeared to be a dialysis machine.

Dang doctors and all their toys.

The other person was wearing mouse ears and carrying a box full of Lightening McQueen gift bags.

Stinking Disney.

Funival Crashers

Every year our homeowner's association hosts a neighborhood carnival, paid for with our homeowner's dues.

It's because of this fact that the minute that we got to the so-called Funival, I ordered my children to eat several hundred dollars worth of hamburgers.

"But I'm not hungry!" they cried in unison.

In addition to a "free" lunch, the Funival also had a D.J., a face painter, a temporary tattoo artist, and several moon bounces.

There are several hundred families that live in our neighborhood but there were easily several thousand people in attendance at the Funival.

"Something doesn't seem right," my husband observed as a group of kids ran by. They were wearing t-shirts emblazoned with the name of the elementary school across town.

I realized what was going on when I saw spotted half of my kids' soccer team in attendance.

"I didn't you know you lived in this neighborhood," I said to one mom.

"We don't," she replied casually. "But we come here every year."

On our way back from the Funival, we passed by the back gate. On the other side of the wrought iron fence were rows of parked cars. Entire families were climbing the fence.

"Why do I have the uneasy feeling that I just bought half of Orlando lunch?" my husband asked.

"Because you did," I said matter-of-factly.

So it is. So it is.

The Canned Food Drive

Something about my pantry today didn't seem right. I stared at the shelves with a furrowed brow and tried to figure out what it was.

It took me significantly longer than it should to realize that almost all of my canned food was missing.

"Did you take 15 cans of chicken noodle soup with you to work?" I asked my husband on the phone. "And 8 cans of black beans? An a package of Oreos?"

When he didn't answer, I remembered that my kids' backpacks seemed overly bulky and heavy this morning.

It's for a good cause, I know.

My kids came home with chocolate powder around the rims of their mouths.

"My teacher said the couldn't take cookies," Cortlen explained with a knowing smile. "Only canned food."

"So you brought the Oreos back home, then?" I asked.

He just laughed and ran away.

"What Are We Having for Dinner?"

This question doesn't bother me as long as it isn't followed up with the following statement:

"I hope it isn't {insert whatever meal I happen to be making at the time}."

About a month ago, my older kids turned into super picky eaters. Because saying that they don't like something doesn't earn them much sympathy around these parts, they have devised a new strategy to avoid eating undesirable objects that includes likening me to a carcinogen.

"What's wrong?" I asked at the dinner table tonight. My kids looked at each other knowingly. They all were sitting on their hands and looking like they had just been poisoned.

"Did you touch any of this with your hands?" my daughter asked, gesturing to her bowl of stir-fry.

I shook my head.

"But you breathed on it," Cortlen said.

"I'm going to pretend like I didn't hear that."

My three year-old, who, thirty minutes earlier, opened the refrigerator and ate his way through half a jar of pickles before I caught him, pushed away his plate too.

"Yucky!" he screamed.

"Great example," I told my older kids.

My daughter suggested that I should cook with a hair net, like the ladies in the school cafeteria.

"And gloves and a mask," Kellen added with a straight face.

Around that time, I started to feel a little bit persecuted. "Everybody out!" I barked and banished them all from the kitchen.

Then I made some brownies.

"I'm going to die of starvation," one of them whined as he watched me take the pan out of the oven.

"You want some?" I asked with a smirk.

Three people nodded like ravenous dogs. Suddenly, my lack of gloves and hairnet wasn't a problem.

"I spit in the batter," I told them as they scarfed up the dessert.

They didn't even acknowledge me.

"I licked all the brownies before I gave them to you," I added.

Nothing.

"I mixed in some of the stir-fry ingredients into the batter," I continued.

Out of all of my confessions, this was the only one that was true. If it worked for Jessica Seinfeld, I figured that it would work in some grotesquely modified form for me.

My kids stopped chewing and eyed the brownies suspiciously.

"It's just a chocolate chip," I said of a protruding mushroom, and smiled.

The Waffle Man

Just when I thought that my weekend was going to be blissfully uneventful, a man stuffed something down his pants at Super Walmart.

I came upon the man when I rounded the corner of the frozen food aisle. Even though the store was crawling with people, he was startled to see me. This was most likely because he was in the process of depositing a box of frozen waffles down the front of his sweatpants.

"Uh," I stuttered in the moment that our eyes locked. Having lost my words, all I could do was point to his crotch.

The man, who also had a black fanny pack slung over one shoulder, scurried away. His gait was about as normal as could be expected for someone who was balancing the equivalent of a shoebox on top of his genitals.

I grabbed the first store employee I could find, who happened to be a produce clerk.

"There's a man with waffles in his pants running around your store!" I shrieked.

The produce clerk looked disinterested at best.

It wasn't until after my son verified my story that the man called for reinforcements.

Out of nowhere, a group of plain-clothed men who had biceps the size of tanks converged upon us. "Where is he?" they growled.

I gestured to the baking aisle.

Thirty seconds later, the group returned with a man who had a mass in the shape of large rectangle bulging from his pants.

Upon closer examination, it became strikingly evident that the man was not playing with a full deck.

I felt bad for the guy, but not bad enough to give into my son's request to put a couple of boxes of Eggos into my shopping cart.

I'm steering clear of frozen breakfast foods for awhile.

The Curling Wand

I have always harbored fantasies of being a hair stylist. And a flight attendant. But mostly a hair stylist.

That's the reason why I recently bought the set of hot rollers and a $19.99 curling wand.


"That's a horrible idea," my husband told me when I announced that I planned to offer my services to all of the high school girls in my neighborhood.

Homecoming season is upon us and I can barely contain myself.

"You are the last person who should be doing anyone's hair." He reminded me of all of my failed experiments.

I learned the hard way that cutting hair is an acquired skill and is not a inherent talent with which we are all are born.

"My mom told me that I had to come over here." This is what the seventeen year-old girl living next door told me when she knocked on my front door last night.

I clapped my hands in excitement.

"I don't really like my hair curly," the girl sulked as I forced her into one of my dining room chairs.

"I don't like reading everyone's college application essays, but I do it anyway," I hinted.

The girl stopped complaining and let me work my magic.

"I look like Little Orphan Annie," she whined.


"Taylor Swift," I corrected.




"I don't even really want to go to college!" she cried. "I just want to stay in my bed for the rest of my life!"

My husband poked his head around the the corner long enough to shake his head. "I told you so," his eyes said.

"Why do people always have emotional breakdowns in front of their hair stylists?" I whined to him later. "I can't work in this industry if all my clients are going to cry through our appointments."

My husband reminded me that I was partially responsible for my client's breakdown.

At his urging, I agreed to put the curling wand away until the high school football /college application season officially ends.

The Abomination that is Halloween Candy

My kids spent the better part of last night rolling around (literally) in their Halloween candy. They did this, of course, after first counting it, sorting it, sniffing it, offering to trade it and then changing one's mind at the last minute, and recounting it.

My husband and I tried to teach moderation a few years ago, but have long since given up on that ideal. Now I encourage my kids to consume their Halloween candy as quickly as possible.

The sooner it's out of my house, the less likely that I'll find it ground into the carpet in the dark recesses of my kids' closets.

"Who wants Skittles in their cereal?" I asked this morning.

Three hands shot into the air.

"Do you want to eat candy for dinner?" I asked this afternoon.

My kids pulled their heads out of their Halloween buckets long enough to ask me if I was joking.

"Absolutely not," I told them. "Go for it."

When my husband came home from work, my kids had chocolate dripping from their mouths.

"I'm a little grossed out," he said, as he watched them move like machines through the contents of their orange plastic pumpkins.

At eight o'clock, one of my sons announced the impossible. "I'm a little sick of candy," he said.

I beamed in satisfaction.

"Can I have some ice cream or something?" he continued.

Talk about gross.