Skinny Jeans

To my total horror, yesterday I discovered (another) patch of gray hair on my scalp. In a frantic attempt to make myself feel better about the process of growing older, I headed straight to Forever 21, a mall clothing store whose name evokes the Fountain of Youth.

I wasn't two steps inside the establishment when I was accosted by a sneering teenager.

"Can I help you?" she asked in a way that implied that I was in a place where I didn't belong.

"I'm looking for something called skinny jeans," I told the girl, with an air of confidence that I didn't know I had.

The teen rolled her eyes. "That's all we carry," she said, and walked away.

Rejoicing, I grabbed one of everything.

Once inside the dressing room, I realized that I had been bamboozled. Skinny jeans are really just uncomfortable leggings.

"These are no good," I told the sales girl, passing a thick stack of pants through the dressing room curtain. Something about the last pair of jeans, however, caught my eye. At the last second, I snatched them back.

"Now we're talking," I said to myself as I slipped the pants on and admired myself in the mirror.

A few minutes later, the sales clerk tapped on the curtain. "Do you need anything?" she asked.

I drew back the curtain and smiled broadly.

The teenager bit her lower lip and shook her head.

"Have you tried Anne Taylor Loft?" she asked me.

She might as well have said 'Coldwater Creek.'

"That's an old lady store," I hissed.

I forgot to mention that all four of my children were in the dressing room with me at the time.

The teenager shrugged her shoulders. "Do what you want," she advised, "But I think you should shop around."

As much as I respected the teen's honesty, on the way home, I started to wish bad things upon her.

Last night, I prayed that when she grows up, she'll have triplets.

The Baby Zoo

Yesterday my kids didn't have school, so I took them to one of Philadelphia's many "quaint" and "unique" zoos.

That's real estate speak for "small" and "weird."

Half of the cages were empty; the other half contained animals that are found in abundance in my own backyard.

"Why would someone pay so much to see a raccoon?" my husband asked me later that night.

That is a good question, one that any mother of young children can readily answer.

The zoo in question is geared toward the preschool, but with a little creativity and a positive attitude, I figured that we'd be okay.

"This place is for babies!" squealed my seven-year-old daughter as I pulled into the parking lot.

"I'm definitely not getting out of the car," one of my six-year-olds stated defiantly. By the time I switched off the ignition, he was already curled into a tight ball on the floor of the back seat.

Twin B had a better idea. "Can we go home yet? Can we go home yet? Can we go home yet?" he asked in quick succession.

I lined them all up against the side of the car.

"For once, this isn't about you," I said. "It's about your little brother," I continued, pointing in the direction of Cameron, who was sound asleep in the stroller.

This earth shattering news was a tough pill for everyone to swallow. My older three spent the next thirty minutes whining, sulking, and accusing me of starving them to death. Whoever didn't succumb to hunger pains was sure to die of embarrassment.

"Look around!" shrieked my daughter. "I am the oldest kid here!"
"That makes us the next oldest kids here!" screamed my boys in unison.

It didn't help that a daycare group crossed our path at that very moment.

Ignoring the collective wailing about ruined and deprived lives, I took Cameron out of the stroller to get a better look at a dead rat being pecked to pieces by a trio of turkey vultures.

For unknown reasons, I felt a deep connection to the rodent.

I watched the gory event for an unreasonably long period of time. When I turned around, I found my twins throwing pebbles into a murky duck pond. My daughter was lying in Cameron's stroller. Fast asleep.

Ah. The irony.

The Big Game

Like most Duke grads, my husband and I have what several (lame-o) ESPN sportswriters call "excessive school pride" (is there such a thing?!!!). Throughout the NCAA tournament, I have kept my enthusiasm to myself.

"I would hardly call painting your fingernails blue and wearing Duke gear every day for the past three weeks low-profile," my neighbor pointed out.

There are haters everywhere.

Including, I am sad to admit, in my own house.

As we learned during last year's tournament, Cortlen is a die-hard Duke fan, unless they are playing a school whose name includes a reference to his favorite body part.


Against better judgment, I'm letting him stay up to watch the game. On one condition.

"One mention of butts," I warned, "and you're gone."

An Easter Miracle

Miracles do happen. Case in point: the son of one of my "Special Moms" is receiving a new heart as we speak. You can follow Mason Strickland's amazing story HERE.

Please say a couple of prayers today: one for the family who lost their little one last night, and one for the entire Strickland family.

Go Mason!

Happy Easter!

Easter Shopping

Last year, my children were far too interested in the contents of their noses to be bothered with the contents of the shopping cart next to them. This general lack of awareness of the world around them, coupled with a strategically placed sweatshirt or purse, enabled me to do my Easter shopping with my kids in tow.

This year, I wrongly assumed that I could pull the same trick.

"What's all that candy for?" Kellen asked as he scaled the side of the shopping cart for a better look.

I put the bags of jelly beans back on the shelf.
"I was hungry," I replied, "But now I'm not."

"Why is there a Barbie under your jacket at the bottom of the shopping cart?" my daughter asked me the next day at Target. Lowering her voice to a whisper she continued, "Are you going to steal it?"

"I thought you hate that stuff," observed Cortlen a minute later, as he watched me examine a bag of plastic Easter grass.

"I do," I answered, shrinking away from the shelf in feigned disgust. "Let's get out of here."

As a result of my failed expeditions, I was forced to do all of my holiday shopping tonight. To my surprise, every retailer in my city was pretty much cleared out of Easter candy, except for the disgusting kinds (ie Starburst jellybeans and malt balls). While I was rummaging around the shelves for a lone Cadbury egg or rogue chocolate bunny, a grocery store employee approached with a cardboard box.

"Yes!" I said to myself as the man opened the container. "More Easter candy!"

I waited patiently as the man unloaded the box and stacked its contents on the shelf. Strangely, the man wouldn't make eye contact with me, even after I hugged him.

Soon, I found out why.
Inside the box were 200 heart-shaped Pez dispensers. Another hundred bore the likeness of Cupid with a bow.

"This is Valentine's Day candy!" I shrieked.

The man shrugged his shoulders. "Take it or leave it," he replied. "It's all we have left in the back."

I left it.

Now I'm having regrets.