My Favorite Toy

There are some toys that I start praying will break the moment that they enter into my house.

There are others that I hope will stand the test of time and will be passed down for generations as a family heirloom.

My daughter's new easy bake oven-like candy maker falls into one of these categories.

Sour Grapes Part II

When my kids got off the bus yesterday, they all had yellow sauce dripping from the sides of their mouths.

"What have you been eating?" I hissed.

As it turned out, my special lunches were not very well received by the cafeteria workers at my kids' elementary school.

Yesterday was an early dismissal day and school let out exactly one hour after lunchtime. Despite this short time frame, the cafeteria workers decided that my kids might starve to death or, worse, be forced to eat something that they don't like. Lest my children suffer the indignity of not getting their way, they gave each of my kids a "free" nutritious school lunch comprised of nachos, carrot sticks, two cookies and a container of chocolate milk.

I was on the phone with the cafeteria before we got back to the house. The man on the other end made things easy by telling me a story about his own daughter (who piled her sandwiches in her locker until rats got to them) and laughing hysterically when I told him about my foiled attempt to teach my kids a lesson. He also told me not to put two pounds of grapes in my son's lunch box ever again.

I thought we were good to go until this afternoon.

My daughter brought home a white envelope. Inside was a bill for three lunches.

Sour Grapes

For awhile, my kids packed their own school lunches.

That was before I caught on to the fact that we were going through bags of chips and cookies at an astoundingly high rate of speed.

For the past month or so, I've been monitoring what goes into the lunch boxes like a hawk.

My efforts at keeping my children healthy are not always appreciated.

"You KNOW that I hate grapes!" barked one of my children the minute he got off the bus. A ziploc bag of untouched fruit was flung at my feet.

I was unaware of the food aversion and agreed to send in an apple or orange the next day.

"I hate those too!" he screamed.

This morning, all three of them were in my grill about their lunches.

"You are so mean to us!" they cried in unison. "You want us to be unhappy. That's why you pack us fruit for lunch every day."

The insults and accusations of abuse continued for another ten minutes. All the while, I just smiled.

When my children open their lunchboxes this afternoon, they will be very, very, happy to discover that ALL I packed them was fruit.

Cortlen got four bananas. Camber: two pounds of oranges. The son who threw the grapes at me? He got enough to make a bottle of wine.

Squatters

The night we moved into our new house, we heard them. They were having a dance party in our attic.

That's when I knew we were super lucky.

That's also when my husband admitted that he had decided against renewing the pest control bond on the house.

"I am going to get them!" he stated confidently as he retrieved the ladder from the garage and climbed on top of the roof this weekend.

As my husband quickly learned, the task of looking for the squatters was made difficult by not knowing what exactly he was looking for.

"They sound like elephants," I said helpfully.

He spent three hours up on the roof. I comforted him below with encouraging words.

"Please don't fall."

When he came back down, he announced that he had plugged three holes in our sewer drains with mesh wire.

"It's over," he said jubilantly. "They're not coming back."

What my husband failed to consider was that they never left.

As I sit here writing this, I am being serenaded by what sounds like stampeding elephants.

Not good. Not good at all.

Uniforms

If you've read this blog for any length of time, you know my feelings towards uniforms.

I love them.

There is something about the idea of doing your job in a costume that I find extremely appealing.

Our visit to a certain tourist attraction on Saturday, however, awakened me to the sad reality that most of the uniforms available in Orlando are wholly undesirable.

Serenity Now

In Philadelphia, the closest boy in age to my seven year-old twins was a fourth grader who threw rocks at passing cars and dropped the occasional F-bomb.

It goes without saying that I was thrilled to learn that in my new neighborhood, there are six first-grade boys, one of whom still takes an afternoon nap.

My boys are in heaven. Most days after school, the group roams the neighborhood like feral cats, peering into people's trash cans, throwing footballs into trees, and going door-to-door begging for snacks. Approximately once every half hour, they all run through my house.

"I have a head ache when they are all in my kitchen," the mother of one of the boys admitted to me this afternoon. "When they are by themselves, everything is fine. But when they are together, they are just so hyper."

I can honestly say that I am not familiar with the serenity to which the woman implicitly alluded. I struggle to think of a moment in my sons' lives when they are not hyper.

My brother, who has two year-old triplets, put it best: having multiples is like having friends over all of the time.

It's great, but is an experience that often requires medication to survive.

Pillow Talk

Last night, I went to T.J. Maxx and purchased an accent pillow decorated with a bird.

"Birds are 'in,'" I told my husband when he shriveled up his nose.

After a few hours, the bird started to remind me of Edgar Allen Poe's raven.

"I'm taking Cameron to the store and I'll be back in 30 minutes,"I called as I walked out the door.

The cashier who processed the return was a long-time employee of T.J. Maxx. Her name tag indicated that she had been working there since 2011.

"Hello little boy!" she said to my two year-old, who was sitting quietly in the shopping cart, with his finger up his nose. "You sure are a cute little guy."

This made me smile.

"You need to be careful," the woman continued without looking at me. "Your mommy needs to strap you in the cart or else you are going to fall out and get hurt."

This made me stop smiling.

I love when people talk to me through my children.

I pointed to the stubs of what once comprised the two ends of a shopping cart seat belt. "None of your carts have seat belts," I told the woman.

This was an irrelevant point.

"All children riding in shopping carts should be strapped in, shouldn't they?" she asked my son.

The woman handed me back my receipt with a smile.

It was at that moment that I began to regret my decision to return the bird pillow. The store was empty and the woman was the only cashier on duty.

It took a few minutes, but I bought and returned the same bird pillow again. By the end of the fourth transaction, I felt very confident that the woman felt the same way about me that I felt about her.

GNO

Today one of my new neighbors (not Louise) invited me to attend something called "Bunco Night."

I'm not exactly sure what Bunco is, but since it involves all the women in my neighborhood, I'm guessing that it has something to do with two things I'm against: fat-free desserts and ritual sacrifice.

The Sign-Up Sheet

Every time I see a clipboard at church, I break out into hives. Like grenades and pit vipers, I go to great lengths not to touch these dangerous objects, but sometimes they are unavoidable. Yesterday was one of those days.

Usually I watch for the clipboard like a hawk, but in Sunday School I caught off guard by a woman in the same room who was wearing what appeared to be a large tarantula on her collar.

"It's a black pin," my husband whispered before I could ask. "It appears to be home made."

I was studying the tarantula in excruciating detail when something tapped me on the shoulder.

I practically jumped out of my seat in fear and horror.

On the clipboard were two equally abhorrent sign-up sheets: one for a Mexican-themed potluck dinner and one for people interested in learning how to make strawberry preserves.

Despite my personal feelings towards all social events, I picked up the pencil, which was attached to the clipboard with a piece of string.

"Don't do it," my husband warned.

Motivated by intense moments of guilt (why should my children suffer because I am a homebody?), I have a bad habit of signing up to participate in church-related social events. Typically, I regret those decisions almost immediately.

The clipboard wasn't even to the end of the row before I started to have a panic attack.

"Get it back," I whispered to my husband.

"I warned you," he replied and shook his head.

It was too late. I had committed to bring enough refried beans to feed 8-10 people.

I spent the rest of church stalking the clipboard. Just when I thought all was lost, I found it again, in the Primary (kids' room). I practically snatched it out of another woman's hand.

Scratching my name off the list of potluck attendees produced the same feeling, I imagine, as being injected with a vial of anti-venom.

Jesus Hair

More than anything else in the world, my seven year-old son wants to grow his hair down to his shoulders, or maybe his knee caps if he gets really ambitious.

"That sounds delicious," I said.


"All the boys in my class have long hair," he told me.

The next day I bought a pack of pastel-colored hair clips at the dollar store and left them on his bed.

My gift was not well received.

The length of all of his friends' hair has been a recurring topic of conversation in our household for several weeks. I thought my son was exaggerating until he came home from school today with his class picture.

Sure enough, he is the only person in the photograph who doesn't look like Samson.

"I TOLD YOU!" he seethed.

I shrugged my shoulders. "I'm not a fan of guys with long hair," I said firmly.

My son laughed like a hyena who had just caught its prey.

"Then you don't like Jesus," he sneered with satisfaction.






I tried to defend myself, but in the end was forced to admit that I would be more likely to put a picture of Jesus on my wall if He had a crew cut.

"I'm cutting your hair this weekend," I told him. "End of story."

Tonight Cortlen ate his dinner like it was the Last Supper.

"This is the last time you will see me with hair this long," he said mournfully to his siblings.

Everyone bowed their head for a moment of silence before I plugged in the hair clippers.

What Would Your Kids Do?

Question: If you saw a bathroom sink filled with pillows and covered with a sign that read "DO NOT USE," would you spit your toothpaste into that sink?

If you were seven years old and lived in my house, you would. And did.

"The pillows are a reminder that the sink doesn't work!" I shrieked. "Remember?"

I have never prayed for anything more fervently than for Fed Ex to hurry up and deliver my bathroom faucet and drain.

Louise

Normal. Normal. Normal. Slightly Weird. Normal. Yikes.

This is a list of my neighbors.

Louise, as she shall be known from this point going forward, knocks on my front door an average of once per day. All for very good reasons.

"If you see a white crane in your yard early in the morning, his name is Billy."

"Billy," I repeated, struggling to commit the name of the animal to memory.

"He likes Cheerios," she continued.

That was last week. Since then, I've been warned about toxic mold, aggressive squirrels, and half of the people living on my street.

"The people living next to you roll through stop signs," she said scornfully. Through other conversations, I've also learned whose kids run around like wild animals and who leaves their garage door open more than they should.

"I've filed several complaints with the Homeowner's Association about that," Louise told me proudly.

I told her that I had to make dinner and couldn't talk.

"Can I come in and see your house?" she asked this afternoon.

I shook my head. "Today's not a good day," I said, closing the door.

Almost immediately, I began to feel like a bad neighbor. After a few minutes, I opened the garage door and left it open for several hours...plenty of time for Louise to poke around if she wanted.

My husband complimented me on my generosity when he came home from work.

Praise unnecessary.

It was the least I could do.

Egged

All of the cars on my street got egged on Saturday night. Except for mine.

The neighborhood representative of the Homeowner's Association sent out an email that included a list of property damage (none) and a stern warning to the perpetrator(s): "This is a very serious matter," the man wrote. "And we are actively investigating it. We suspect that the culprits are teenagers, probably from our neighborhood. If this turns out to be true, their parents will be held responsible."

"My kids were all sleeping in their beds when this happened," I told all my neighbors. "I swear."

Still, the curious fact remains that my car was the only one spared in the assault. I have dedicated a significant amount of today's waking hours attempting to solve this mystery. I even made a chart:

Cars Assaulted:
Expedition
Hummer
Lexus SUV
Mercedes


Car Not Assaulted:

I am stumped. When I showed my lists to my husband, he mumbled something about "adding insult to injury" and "not being worth the egg."

That is one possible theory. There must be others. There must.

You Should Write a Blog!

One of my almost eight year-old's Christmas gifts was a trip to California to visit her grandparents. Last week, I put her on a plane to Los Angeles. She was super scared about her first unaccompanied flight and almost changed her mind at the last minute.

"Why did they make you come back here anyway?" she hissed at the gate. "I'm not a baby! I can do this by myself!" She practically ran on the plane.

So much for a tearful good-bye.

A few days ago, I made the trip myself to pick her up. The first leg of the flight was from Orlando to Saint Louis. To pass the time, I started jotting down notes that eventually will become a blog entry. While I was writing, the person sitting next to me on the plane drank three beers and two cocktails. Suddenly, without warning, the man laughed.

"What you just wrote was really funny," he slurred.

"Huh?"

"I'm really nosy," the man explained. In the conversation that followed, I learned that the man was a seventh year senior at Fresno State and upon graduation, will work as a sociologist. When I asked him what a sociologist does, he replied, "Too many things to name." I also learned that he had been looking over my shoulder the whole time and had read everything that I wrote.

I felt violated and in need of shower and and shotgun.

"It looks like you're writing a story," the man observed.

"Mmm hmmm," I replied.

"Are you writing that for your friends and family?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered.

The man scratched his head and thought for a minute. "You should start a blog," he said finally.

"That's a good idea," I agreed.

The man tried to order another beverage, but the flight attendant refused to sell him one.

I later told the flight attendant that I wanted to marry him. The flight attendant thanked me for my interest, but told me that he was already spoken for. He was dating a pilot who worked for a competing airline.

"On second thought, maybe a blog isn't a good idea," the drunk college student said. "Who would want to read stories about other people's kids?"

I agreed that the concept was rather strange.

"Good luck this semester," I told the man as I put in my headphones. He flashed me the 'thumbs up' sign and made me promise to start a blog sometime soon. I told him that I would think about it.

Apologies to my Hair

It's been five months since my last haircut, which isn't a problem for anyone except my husband and my new hair stylist, who I found from a coupon mass mailer.

"What are you plans for your hair?" my husband asked me at dinner the other night.

I put my fork down and counted to ten. Then I made a hair appointment.

"It's been awhile," the hair stylist scolded as she ran a comb through the back of my head. "When you have layers, you have to take care of them."

At that moment, I decided that I no longer wanted layers. I have enough living things to take care of without worrying about neglecting my bangs.

"This is why I don't get my hair cut very much," I told the woman. "Because hair salons always make me feel guilty."

The woman mumbled something about pride in ownership or pride in appearance or something and got to work.

"I'm going to have to charge extra," she warned at the half way point. "I've never had someone ask me to get rid of layers," she cried.

She acted like I had asked her to dye my hair orange and give me a perm.

"Don't you want me to dry it?" she asked as I hopped out of the chair. I shook my head. "I trust you," I replied.

My husband opened his mouth when I walked through the door. When he saw my face, he closed it.

"Do you like it?" he asked nervously. "Because that's all the matters."

I looked in the hallway mirror. What I saw (and still see) isn't pretty. However, the fact that the burden of caring for my hairstyle has been lifted has left me strangely relieved.

Flea World

My kids are never going back to school. At least that is how it feels. I'm doing my best to keep them busy, but by 2 o'clock every afternoon, they start becoming cannibalistic.

"We're going to a McDonald's Play Place?" they screamed in jubilation.

"Better," I promised.

Next to the fast food restaurant was an indoor flea market.

All of the people standing outside the flea market looked like they operate carnival rides for a living.

"I'm a little bit scared to go in there," Cortlen said, refusing to get out of the car.

Just then, a woman walked out of the building carrying a large gold Buddha statute and a rhinestone-encrusted belt buckle that spelled out the word "Hottie."

The sight of so many treasures in one place made my heart beat wildly. "Get out now," I hissed to my son.

Once you got over the smell (not so good) and the sight of so much cheap, knock-off Disney merchandise for sale, the place was pretty fabulous. I almost bought a pair of Prada sunglasses, which were a steal at $4 each. Cortlen bought a machete.

"No!"I screeched as he handed a wad of bills to a man wearing fatigues.

"It's my money," he protested. "I can buy whatever I want."

"No weapons," I insisted. "Or candy."

The man in the fatigues was sad to lose the sale.

"What are you going to do with a machete anyway?" I asked as we walked away.

"I don't know," he admitted. "It would just be cool to have."

Clearly, we have entered the gun and knife stage of male development. By the time my brothers were eight, they each had an impressive collection of hand held weaponry, which they bought off the streets of Tijuana, Mexico.

I am determined to break the cycle.

"I'll buy you a belt buckle," I offered instead. I pointed to a table covered with tantalizing choices.

"Except the one with the skull and crossbones," I clarified. "And the one that says 'Hottie.'"