The Magic in the Mundane

After school today, I took Liam and only Liam to the mall to buy him some clothes. We stopped at one place because I wanted him to check out their pants and he stood in the doorway moaning and groaning until I told him that my wallet and I were not going to the store he wanted unless he tried on the pants at this place. So he tried on the pants but we left the store empty handed. We went to his store where he picked out a shirt and some skater socks which he explained to me again for the fiftieth time were clearly skater socks and not basketball socks because the pattern continued uninterrupted all the way around the sock and they had no level of compression. Then we went back to my store because he decided he did in fact want the pants I picked. I held my tongue the whole time I was paying for them but I may have danced a little while he wasn't watching. 

After that, we decided to grab a bite to eat. He wanted a steak finger basket at Dairy Queen but I wanted salad with quinoa at Panera. After explaining to him that because he had Whataburger last night (it's been a busy week...don't judge me) that he really needed to make a healthier choice, we compromised with Chipotle. While he was struggling to bite off more than he could chew, he kept mumbling something about not looking at him while he eats. I then explained that not only is it customary but it is also common courtesy to look at someone while you are talking to them and that yes, dinner is the perfect time for a little conversation. 

After dinner, Liam and I went to Jacob's orchestra concert. Okay, so I forced him to go to the concert because I didn't want to drive the 20 minutes home just to turn around and head straight back to the high school. Oh and did I mention that when we got to the school, I had to threaten him with grounding to get him inside the auditorium because he wanted to sit in the car and listen to his music, which lately consists of Chuck Berry, Jimi Hendrix and the Rolling Stones? With a groan and a sigh, he followed me inside and we found what we thought would be great seats but turned out to be kind of lousy seats as we could really only see half of Jacob's forehead and his right foot. Liam was relieved to see that each division of the orchestra was only playing three pieces until halfway through the second division's performance he realized there was a third division. During one of the pieces, at a quiet moment just before a crescendo, a baby sneezed loudly breaking the silence and thereby lessening the effect of the impact of the music and Liam and I both suppressed a giggle and then we shot each other an appreciative smile acknowledging our similar senses of humor. 

After we finally made it home, Liam asked me trim his neck...something he never asks me to do between his haircuts...so I jumped at the chance to clean him up a bit. Now as I am thinking about the events of the evening...Liam insisting on some new clothes and caring about his grooming...I am suddenly aware that there just may be a girl behind all of this. 

Once he was satisfied with his neck trim, without prompting, Liam, began diligently working on English homework (yes, Liam...yes, diligently...and yes, English). He hunted me down for some new pencils and after he sharpened several of those, he decided he needed to show me the erasable pen his friend gave him as he has never seen anything better suited for English class. I told him that in fact erasable pens have been around for a long time and I offered to grab him some next time I am at the store. Several minutes later, he came back into my room to ask my advice on how to write something. This was the perfect butter cream icing on the Liam and Mom Spontaneous Date Night Cake. Of course, he hates when I call it a date night, but you mamas out there know these are special dates, indeed.

It's The Circle of Life, Buttercup

A few weeks ago, I took a laundry basket filled to the brim with white socks needing to be sorted, paired, and put away in their respective drawers upstairs to the game room where 2 of my boys were watching TV. Folding socks is a group project in my house because frankly, the thought of matching on average 224 individual socks every two weeks is mind numbing at best. Yes, 224 individual socks. Trust me, I have done the math and it includes our fearless leader's habit of changing his socks multiple times a day...something George vehemently denies but piles of socks don't lie so he must be doing it subconsciously. Maybe he changes socks in his sleep...maybe he's a sleep socker!

So on this particular Saturday night, my laundry basket and I joined Jacob and Nathan as they were watching Life Story on the Discovery Channel. In case you missed it, Life Story is a BBC production that follows a variety of individual animals and the challenges they face just to survive. I can tell you right now, this was a Nathan pick. That boy loves him some nature shows...especially ones that focus on marine life...but on this particular night, the focus just so happened to be on a leopard. I can also tell you that Jacob was only in the room in an effort to outlast Nathan so he could get on the PS4 and lose his mind in the realm of video game wars. So there we were on a Saturday night, the three of us, sorting and pairing 224 socks (not to mention any tighty whities that were in that load) and watching a BBC production about a leopard and her ability to survive. Yep, I think it's fair to say we know how to party like rock stars.

As fascinated as I am with nature and wild animals, I struggle with these wildlife shows. I explained to Nathan that I remembered watching Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom as a child and how sad I always felt when the lion went in for the kill. Nathan is by far more practical than I was at that age reminding me that the big cats also need to eat. It was as if the stage lights dimmed and the backdrop changed from our game room to the scenic views of the Serengeti. In the distance I could hear the low chants and drum beats of  "The Circle of Life." I thought to myself, "You are a grown woman. Suck it up, Buttercup. Let the boy watch his show."

Before I knew it, I was engrossed in this leopard's life and it certainly didn't take long for the program to focus on her need to hunt for food. There she was, this magnificent creature designed by God to chase and overpower her prey, on the tail of some poor less agile antelope. I watched with sheer fascination right up until the moment it was certain the antelope was doomed and then I covered my eyes in anticipation of the horror to come, but my sweet Nathan was keenly aware of my distress so he flipped the channel just in the nick of time, and he said in his tender and protective tone, "We can just watch something else." To which I replied, "Well, maybe for just a moment so we can miss the actual kill scene."

After a few minutes passed and we felt sure that the antelope had indeed met her untimely demise, I told Nathan to flip it back to the nature show. Jacob teased me a little about whether I could handle the show as we watched this amazing creature drag the antelope carcass to safe keeping so she could continue to feed. I dug deep because I wanted to show the boys I was tough enough to watch the show without crying and at this point, it was easy to pretend the carcass was just meat plus the soothing tones of  Sir David Attenborough's narration provided ample distraction. What is it about a British accent that seems to lessen the brutality of nature? Suddenly a pride of lions showed up on the scene and my heart began to pound. Jacob laughed, mocking me again, and asked if I could really handle this. If I am anything at all, it is stubborn. The fastest way to get me to do something is to tell me you think I can't do it. Nothing lights up my competitive spirit faster than for someone to question my capabilities...especially if it is something that I know I can do. So with my heels digging into the carpet, I assured him I was just fine. As the lions approached with hopes of stealing the antelope carcass, the leopard dragged that dead animal up a tree going to the highest branches that would support her and the carcass all the while one lion tried repeatedly but unsuccessfully to follow. Just then part of the carcass' internal organs fell to the ground resulting in a bit of a feeding frenzy among the lions.  The 3 of us watched in awe but then Sir David informed us that what we thought had been the antelope's stomach or lungs was actually her uterus and apparently it had been clear to everyone but us that the uterus contained a fetus. Well, that was it! My heart sank, I yelled, "NOOOOO!!!" at the TV, and threw my teary face in my hands all the while Jacob was laughing at my response because I thought we had just avoided the fateful undoing of the leopard only to discover the antelope had been pregnant. Nathan instinctively turned the channel and began patting my back. Not that Jacob isn't a sweet and loving kid but he's 16 and Nathan, well, he's 11 but he has always been my little protector whereas Jacob is good at helping me laugh at myself.

After stomaching some random Disney tween comedy for several minutes, we decided we were pretty curious to see what happened with the leopard so we returned to our wildlife program. Things were looking up until Sir David mentioned something about our leopard girl being in heat. Now, George and I have had "the talk" with all 3 of our boys but we never used the phrase "in heat," so although I know Nathan loves a good nature show, I also thought he would be clueless as to what that phrase meant. Clearly, I underestimated my city boy, because as soon as Sir David said those words, I looked at Nathan who was in turn looking at me with shock and embarrassment all over his face. Without hesitation he flipped the channel back to Disney and the canned laughter. Jacob had been momentarily lost in a text and had missed the clear warning Sir David had given us so he told Nathan to turn it back to our leopard which he did before I could even utter my protest. What unfolded after that happened in just a matter of seconds but it played out in slow motion. Nathan flipped the channel to our leopard girl who had clearly been discovered by a male leopard who was well...let's just say getting familiar with her in the biblical sense. Just at that moment, Liam walked into the game room to see this all going down on the big screen, and yelled rather than asked, "What are you guys watching!" Jacob then looked up from his phone to witness the on screen shenanigans and I may have overreacted as I screamed, "CHANGE THE CHAAAAANNNNNNEEELLLLL!!!!" Nathan, was already a step ahead of me, fumbling with the remote as he aimed it at the screen and landed us back on the Disney Channel. There we were, the 4 of us....Jacob, Liam, Nathan, and I....all of us a little red cheeked with slight embarrassment at what we had just witnessed in the company of each other. Awkward silence filled the air for a split second until Vivie...sweet, innocent Vivie...shattered the silence with her quiet little voice startling us as we all turned around to see her standing behind the sofa where unbeknownst to us she had witnessed the whole event. She then simply asked, "Why did you turn it from the leopard?" The boys and I erupted in laughter falling to the floor with tears streaming from our eyes. This awkward family moment was brought to you by Discovery Channel, BBC Productions, and the soothing tones of Sir David Attenborough.

Takin' It To The Streets

Because we are shoulder deep in this little project called Raising 4 Human Beings, my husband, George, and I steal away nearly every evening for a quick jaunt around the neighborhood. This is our time to debrief, decompress, and just stay connected. About 2 months ago, our little rendezvous was put on hold for about a month as we received more rain in a month's time than I can scarcely recall. There was one night, amidst all those other rainy nights, where the rain subsided for the evening so we jumped on our chance and escaped the usual chaos for a bit. With flashlights in hand, we were giddy to get away if only for a short walk.

Our neighborhood is in a relatively rural area so we get a small taste of country living with ducks occupying the community lakes, toads inhabiting flowerbeds, snakes making an appearance from time to time, and the distant howls of coyotes piercing the night sky.  With the recent rains causing some area flooding, George and I were on the lookout for snakes that night. As we cut through the main park located next to the community pool, we heard some faint squeaking sounds coming from a hedgerow somewhat in the vicinity where our mama ducks nest. We shined our flashlights into the shrubs but couldn't see anything through the dense branches and leaves. I told George that it sounded like little ducklings gasping for air but there was no mama duck in sight. We just had to save the ducklings! As George continued to shine the light, I leaned in closer, squatting lower, nearly placing my face in the shrub but all for naught. The sound stopped so we decided to continue our walk.  As soon as we went a few feet farther, we heard the same squeaking sound coming from another area of the hedgerow and from the same spot where we had originally stopped. There were at least two ducklings stuck in that hedgerow, separated from their mama who clearly was eaten by coyotes because she was nowhere to be found. I ran back to the original spot with George trailing close behind. I was determined to get my hands on those ducks and rescue them. I crouched even lower and made kissy sounds trying to coax the ducklings out of the bushes, because we all know wild ducks come waddling as fast as they can when they hear kissy sounds. I all but put my whole head in the shrubbery getting as close to the sound as I could when George said, "Hey, look at that big fat dead mouse over there." All at once everything I ever learned in preschool came flooding back to mind stopping with the knowledge that ducks quack and mice SQUEAK! And just like that, I sprang to my feet and we were out of there! Mice, of course. There wasn't a nest of abandoned ducklings...it was a nest of mice...and I'm not talking about cute little Cinderella mice with their tiny little clothes and eagerness to do chores...these guys were big fat country corn-fed naked mice! Why else would there be snakes in our neighborhood if not to eat those big fat mice?! At that point, I was no longer walking but rather high stepping it as fast as I could lest those critters tried to grab hold of my shoelaces! 

On side note, when I was a small child, my family had a friend, an older woman named Mary Lou, who had grown up on a farm. She told me that when she was young girl there had been a night in which she had awakened to find field mice in her bed chewing on her toenails. Can you just imagine?! I give this precious woman credit for my fear of all rodents and for my absolute need to sleep with my feet under the covers. 

As we continued our brisk walk, we found ourselves on one of the streets that outlines the perimeter of our neighborhood and therefore backs up to a lake and a wooded area. Making our way down the sidewalk and dodging the low hanging tree branches, we heard that now familiar squeak again, but this time it was coming from the midsection of a live oak tree thick with leaves and branches. I looked at George, my eyes wide with fear, "Do mice climb trees?" To which he replied, "I imagine so. How else are they going to eat the bird eggs?" Are you kidding me?! 

This whole experience has rounded out my fear of rodents, so not only do I always sleep with my feet under the covers but now when George and I walk in the evenings, I walk in the street, avoiding the tree lined sidewalks because frankly, I don't think I would survive a mouse falling from the tree and landing on my person. No, thank you! 

Pop Tart Wrappers, Dr. Pepper, and The Force

I was gathering a load of dirty laundry to throw into the wash as is customary for me to do several times a day on any given day, when I discovered a crumpled shiny Pop Tart wrapper in the pocket of a pair of shorts. Having 4 children in the house, 3 who are increasingly becoming more and more mannish in size and appearance and 1 who is still my somewhat Tiny Princess Warrior, I find myself laughing in these moments when I know, without a shadow of a doubt, the culprit before I even have all the facts. Liam is the number 1 suspect when food wrappers are left in pockets, on the floor, on the counter, in the car, in his bed, under his bed, stuffed between the sofa cushions...you name the place, that boy has left his food wrappers there. What gets me is that sometimes the effort he takes to hide the food wrapper is greater than the effort it would have taken the boy to throw it in a trash can, but I digress. As I reached into the other pocket to empty it, I found yet another Pop Tart wrapper. This time my amusement turned to frustration as I realized that boy of mine had devoured at least 1/2 of the box of the Limited Edition Grape Flavored Pop Tarts in one day...probably consuming both packages within mere moments of each other, and most likely finishing off the entire box before calling it quits.

It's probably my fault as I'm sure his future therapist will tell him. I try to keep healthy food choices on hand all the time. Most days, there is somewhat fresh fruit in the fruit bowl...although today, the bananas and nectarines are looking a little past their prime. There are whole grain breakfast bars and crackers in the pantry and natural peanut butter and real fruit preserves in the fridge. Kale and quinoa make regular appearances on the menu as do spinach and broccoli...but yes, I also keep a small stash of junk food available. We always have chips, popcorn, and pretzels...and I wouldn't dare let us run out of chocolate milk because then what kind of monster...I mean mother would I be? On the other hand, things like Pop Tarts, novelty ice cream bars, and soda make less frequent appearances. Because of this, Liam has developed a Sneak and Destroy Method of snack consumption which he rounds out with the widely practiced Hide and Save-It-For-Later Method.

Just the other day, I found a lone frozen angus cheeseburger in the back of the freezer, past the frozen blueberries, behind the Costco packs of chicken breasts, further back than the icebergs and penguins, all the way back to the way way back where forgotten items are sure to die an unseemly death brought on by freezer burn. This cheeseburger had scarcely been in our freezer for a week and it was already hidden waiting for later consumption. I assumed this was Liam's doing as was the lone can of Dr. Pepper which had been strategically hidden behind the Costco pack of unsalted butter and chocolate milk boxes. As it turns out, I was wrong about the Dr. Pepper. Nathan, young sweet Nathan, it seems is learning the ways of the Junk Food Jedi, and while he hasn't taken on the same Sneak and Destroy Method of his predecessor, I see the Force is quite strong with this one. Liam did find Nathan's Dr. Pepper and yes, he drank it heartily right in front of him as he boasted about knowing all the hiding places. Nathan didn't show any signs of aggravation but I could see the wheels were turning in that clever mind of his. Liam may have met his match with this one because I know something that Liam does not. Nathan has formed an alliance with the Tiny Princess Warrior. Together, they may just change the climate of the Junk Food War. Time will only tell, and since all is fair in love and war, I have those kids convinced that my Healthy Choice Greek style frozen yogurt and my Skinny Cow fudge bars are for adults only. Little do they know, I am the Junk Food Jedi Master.

Every Breath You Take...

Each night when Vivie goes to bed, she walks all around her bedroom and lays down her "people" toys as if they too are going to sleep. The first time I saw her do this, I thought, "Oh that sweet girl is tucking all of her dolls and figurines in for the night." So I sat ever so patiently on her bed watching her make the rounds and after she crawled under her covers, I leaned over her and told her how precious I thought that was for her to tuck in all of her "people." Her eyes widened as she very soberly whispered in my ear, "I wasn't tucking them in bed. They don't sleep. I lay them down so they won't stare at me while I sleep."  Before I could even respond, she jumped up out of her bed, ran over to the shelf where one little friend remained standing, and laid it down on its back. Looking at me, she said, "Whew! I almost forgot one!"

Why, pray tell, are kids so creepy? I know it all comes back to an active imagination...at least for most. Of course, I reassured Vivie that her toys weren't watching her. I didn't bother asking her why she would even want to play with anything that she thought was watching her while she sleeps. I also didn't school her on the proper bedtime closet light and closet door situation. I don't want to scare the child, but she insists on leaving on her closet light and keeping the closet door open all night. This, I'm afraid, is a rookie mistake. Whatever it is that lives in the closet doesn't need a light shining on it making it all the easier for it to escape, and everyone knows it can't open a closed door, but it will however, take full advantage of an open door. I also haven't told her of the importance of keeping her feet covered at all times during the night lest The Under The Bed Trolls should come out and scrape the bottoms of her feet with their spoons. Clearly, I have some residual issues from my early exposure to scary movies.

The other day, Vivie brought home her self-portrait that she made in her pre-k class. She was so proud of it that she insisted I allow her to hang it on her bedroom wall. I asked, "Are you sure you don't want to hang it on the refrigerator door so everybody will see it?" She insisted that her masterpiece hang on her bedroom wall. She picked a prominent spot on the wall just left of the head of her bed. She smiled as she taped her picture onto the wall and then she stepped back and admired her work. I have to tell you that hanging artwork on my children's bedroom walls stretches me as a mom. Their rooms typically are somewhat messy and I have just preferred to keep the clutter at a minimum. Before you start bashing me as an unfit mother who doesn't know how to encourage self-expression and creativity in her children, I do keep some of their art and I display some from time to time on the refrigerator. Also, in my defense, I recognized how important this was to Vivie and I let her tape that picture to the wall and made my peace with it.

At bedtime that night, Vivie stuck to her normal routine of laying down all of her "people." She crawled into bed and as I leaned over her to pray, she told me to take down her picture and hang it on the wall inside of her closet. I took it down but I told her that between the bookshelf and all of her clothes, there wasn't a great spot on the wall in her closet so I hung it on the inside part of her closet door. She then started shouting, "Not on the door! Not on the door! Stick it on the wall! On the wall, Mommy!" Funny thing is, I knew she was worried that picture would either close the closet door or open it up wider at some point during the night. Again, I stopped myself from asking her why she would want something that she thinks is up and about in her room while she is sleeping.

Originally, I thought Vivie's little creation was just so precious but the girl has ruined it for me. She has turned it into Gladys and as far as I am concerned, that drawing needs to be tightly sealed in Vivie's keepsake box where it won't cause any trouble. 

Slice Me Up a Fat Piece Of Humble Pie

A few months back, I submitted a couple of articles to HomeLife Magazine and earlier this week, I received an e-mail from one of the editors informing me that he wants to publish both of them. The first one will appear in the February issue and the second one will be in the September issue. As you can imagine, I am downright giddy with excitement.

When I shared my big news with Jacob, he said, "That's just how Mark Twain got started. Hey...you could be the next Mark Twain." Y'all, I nearly wrecked the car. My sweet kid likened me to Mark Twain. Mark Twain. For the briefest of moments, I latched onto that comparison. Me? A great American novelist and humorist extraordinaire. Wow. I felt my head swell so quickly that it made me dizzy. I looked at Jacob and asked, "Mark Twain? You really think so? That's high praise!" Jacob in all the frankness he inherited from his father said, "I just mean he wrote short stories and stuff before he began writing books. You could write some short stories and stuff and then maybe a book." So he let a little helium out of my overinflated balloon of a head. In this particular moment, I chose to have selective hearing. Any way you slice it, my son compared me to Mark Twain...he just didn't necessarily mean to compare our talents.

Speaking of frankness, while Vivie and I were sitting in my car this morning waiting for Jacob's cross country practice to end, she reached over and grabbed my arm right on that spot all of us women just love to be grabbed. You know the spot....the spot where if you were to morph into an animal based on your physical traits, you would turn into a bat. Just as she squeezed my arm, her sweet smiling expression changed to one of slight horror and concern. She looked at me and said, "Mommy, you are squishy right there." Why yes, yes, I am a little squishy right there but it's because my guns are of the Nerf variety. There is no shame in Nerf.

Because I just can't leave well enough alone and I wanted to reassure her that Mommy's arms are not always squishy, I gave her a ticket to my gun show, flexed my arm and said, "Look at Mommy's arm now. See that line and my muscles?" Vivie promptly reached for that same spot and gave it a squeeze. She smiled and said, "I see your muscles and your arm is still squishy." So trying to show her that we are all a little squishy, I asked to see her muscles. She proudly flexed both arms and noted that her muscles are smaller than mine but only because she is smaller than I am. I reached out and pinched her bat wing only to come back empty handed. She smiled in a way that made me think she knew I was a little disappointed that her arms were lacking in the squish. I said, "Vivie, you don't have any squish on your arms." Girl fell out laughing and said, "Noooo! That's silly, Mommy!" I don't know what I was thinking. My 5-year old daughter is exceptionally beautiful but make no bones about it, the girl is built like a freak of nature. From the time she was old enough to walk, she was climbing. She never really had that toddler softness about her. She looks like she is ready for a starring role in a DC comic. Why on God's green earth would I even think to compare my squish with hers?! I blame it on the deliriousness that stems from early morning cross country practices.

No one will put you in your place quite like your children. God love them.

Mom Fail #76,893

George and I have been teaching a Sunday school class for 2-year olds at our home church for 9 years. Nine. That's a lot of changing poopy diapers all in the name of Jesus. Seriously though, we love it. Every week, we teach Bible stories, make crafts, and get our toddler fix all without having to increase the size of our own family. We have already been there and done that 4 times over (13 really if you count all the fosters we have welcomed into our home and I count them).

At a recent appreciation luncheon, our preschool minister awarded us with a gift certificate to Olive Garden. We'd been planning to use it for a much needed date night and I decided tonight was going be that date night. With Jacob being 15 and really a pretty responsible kid, we have allowed him to earn his keep by babysitting Vivie once in a blue moon so that his parents will be able to remember why they like each other so much. It's a win-win if you ask me. We get free babysitting and Jacob gets parents who still want to be married to each other.

Well, it's cross country season which means it is Team Spaghetti Dinner Season as well. Jacob's team had a meet today and a team dinner tonight which he told me about after said meet. He spends so much of his school year training for his sport and studying for all of his pre-AP and AP classes that on the rare occasion when he asks to do something social, I am hard pressed to say no...as was the case tonight. I told George that our dinner plans had been sauced and he said let's just take Vivie and whomever else wants to go with us. Liam opted to have the whole house to himself for a bit (classic middle kid who shares a room with his younger brother move if you ask me), but Nathan, on the other hand was so excited to try a "new place." Because we have 4 children, 3 of which usually order off the adult menu, we don't eat out often and when we do, 9 out of 10 times we choose Mexican fare. So yes, my soon to be 11-year old son had probably never had Olive Garden. I don't know if I'm sad that he was so stoked about Olive Garden or if I'm grateful that he is so easily pleased. I'm leaning toward grateful.

So our party of 2 was a party of 4 tonight and it was really a precious night of being able to just really focus on the younger 2 for a change. After dinner, we allowed the kiddos to order dessert and both Nathan and Vivie decided on the ice cream sundae. When the server put the ice cream sundae on the table in front of Nathan, my sweet boy looked at me with his dancing blue eyes and said, "Wow. I have never had chocolate sauce on my ice cream!" I looked at him in utter disbelief and said, "Sure you have." He promised me that no he had not. Chocolate sauce on ice cream was a new and exciting development in his experience with desserts. George just shook his head and said, " This is Jacob and the gum all over again."

Confession time: I abhor gum chewing. I think it is just disgusting and even more so if you smack your gum. Because of this, I was never one to buy gum for the kids. If anyone will smack gum, you know kids will. If anyone will get gum stuck in her hair, it will be a kid or at the very least, because of a kid. If you ever find gum smashed in your carpet, you know it's because a kid did it. In my world, gum + kids = mess waiting to happen. So yeah, I tried to keep gum on the streets and out of the mouths of my kids.

When Jacob was 5, he played t-ball. One of the moms (the dealer, as I like to call her) brought gum as part of the team snack. Gum. Seriously? Was gum on the list of approved snacks? Baseball moms are like the honey badger...they don't care about any such list of approved snacks. Maybe soccer moms do, but baseball moms are perfectly content to shove one of those plastic squeeze type bottles filled with nothing more than red dye #40 and high fructose corn syrup into the right hand of your precious little slugger and a Little Debbie Star Crunch into his left hand.  So the snack mom handed Jacob a piece of gum and my little guy held it in his sweet little hand with uncertainty written all over his baby face. He looked at the gum then at George and then at the gum again. All of the other kiddos were standing around smacking their gum like professional baseball players and then there was our sweet innocent Jacob, sheltered from this oral vice, standing there simply dazed and confused. George, embarrassed for Jacob, jumped to his aid immediately and explained the whole nonsensical chew-chew-chew-but-don't-swallow-it concept of gum. On the drive home following the game, I got an earful from George about how embarrassing it was that our kid was the only kid who had never even seen gum. It was done, It was over. My gum-free world was now a world of gum smacking bubble popping and sticky spots on the floor and furniture chaos. From that moment on, George took it upon himself to enlighten our kiddos in the ways of gum chewing when they were no more than 2 or 3 years old. He vowed never to have another incident of gum incompetency in our family again.

Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not as uptight as it seems. I try like most moms to ensure that my kiddos are eating a varied diet with lots of healthy choices from all the main food groups but I also let them enjoy some fun foods, too. For instance, when Hostess scared us all by going out of business, I bought some Hostess Cupcakes and Twinkies so the kids would know what a loss the No Nutritional Value This Can't Be Real Food World was experiencing. And just this summer, when Jacob asked about getting some Pop Tarts. I casually mentioned that when I was a kid, the frosted grape ones were my favorite. He said, "You know what's sad? I have not had enough to know which ones are my favorite." So I spent the next several weeks allowing the kids to try a wide range of Pop Tarts. I haven't bought any in weeks and weeks and you know what, they don't seem to miss them. I also bake cookies (and by cookies I mean real cookies with 2 sticks of butter and too much sugar to acknowledge) nearly every single week of the school year. So don't tell me I'm the food police just because I reserve soda for special occasions and I refuse to buy fruit snacks because their sugar bugs make cavities like rabbits make bunnies.

All is now right in the dessert world as Nathan has experienced the thrill of chocolate syrup on his ice cream.

I Spy With My Little Eye

Ever since I was a preschooler, I have wanted a pet llama. I have told George countless times that if we ever have acreage, I want to raise llamas. Now, I don't know the first thing about caring for llamas. I am a city girl at heart and frankly, I struggle with the day to day mess created by Scout, the ill-mannered white not-so-much-red heeler who drops enough fur all over the house to cause us all to wonder how the dog is not completely bald by now. And don't even get me started on who exactly will be shoveling all that llama poo. There really is no logical reason for me to take on llama rearing but I can tell you from where this deep-seated desire came. I can thank Sesame Street and their catchy little ditty about a girl taking her pet llama to the dentist.

What can I say? For whatever reason, this segment sold me on the idea of a pet llama. Watching this now all these years later, I still imagine what it would be like to have a pet llama and I just know that I would sing, "Me and My Llama" changing the words to narrate the events of our day. Yes folks, TV can mess up kids and put all kinds of thoughts in their heads.

My granddad knew about my plans to have a pet llama and he always told me I should think about getting a goat instead. My granddad was in fact a country boy in his younger years and having been around all kinds of animals, including a pet monkey that he had while serving in the Navy during the Korean War, he said that goats were by far the most fun pet a person could have. 

When Liam was a lot younger, he actually took art lessons from a lady whose husband was a goat farmer. So every week when we went out to her house for the lessons, we would get to see all the goats. They also had a few Great Pyranese and Australian Shepherds to protect the goats from the local coyotes. Those were some gigantic hairy dogs who wandered the property at their leisure and every now and again they would make their way into the house to nap on the cool tile floor. One day, while sitting in the art teacher's living room, I spied a grape on her kitchen floor. I was thinking of picking it up and tossing it in the trash for her but I was afraid I was going to disrupt her lesson so I just ignored it. Well, when class was over, and we were all gathering in her kitchen, I was reminded of the grape on the floor but before I could pick it up, one of the students inadvertantly kicked it and the grape rolled across the floor stopping so close to my feet that I nearly stepped on it. I was just about to bend over and get it when the art teacher noticed it. I said, "Looks like you lost a grape." To which she replied while leaning over to scoop up the grape, "Oh no, this isn't a grape. Apparently one of the goats lost an eye and one of the dogs must have carried it into the house. It happens all the time." All the time?! Let me just be clear. I do not do eyeballs...at all. Knowing I had seen that thing rolling all over her kitchen and that I had almost stepped on it and had almost picked it up...well, it was almost more than I could take. It was by the grace of God that I did not pass out right then and there.

Suffice it to say, I can clearly see that I am not cut out for dealing with farm animals, and as for Scout, she can drop her fur all over my house as long as she keeps her eyes to herself.

From The Other Mother: An Open Letter Response

It's funny how God works, crossing the paths of certain people at a specific time in a way that seems to be all coincidental and then you start to peel back the layers and you realize this was no coincidence. Something that person said or did impacted my journey in a significant way or vice versa. I have a sweet and precious friend that read my post An Open Letter to the Other Woman, and she shared with me her adoption story. She has a different perspective than I do because you see, she is someone else's Other Mother. She shared with me her heartfelt letter that she wrote somewhat in response to my letter. This friend of mine is beautiful and brave but she asked to remain anonymous so as to not potentially hurt members of her family who are unaware that she carried a baby and made the difficult decision to place him for adoption. Her story may not be like all of The Other Mothers because well...it is her story. I feel blessed and honored knowing without a doubt that she has impacted my journey simply by sharing her story with me.

From The Other Mother:

Thank you. These two words are so little and often, so overused, but I want you to know that they are so full of so much meaning...from me to you.

We share something, a connection that no other women can share. Though we have never met, I love you. I love you for raising our baby. I love you for loving our baby. 

Thank you for wiping tears. Thank you for teaching Jesus. Thank you for playing games. But most importantly, and the greatest thank you I have from the deepest part of my heart, thank you for being mommy.

I want you to know that one of the most difficult things for me to say is our… our baby. Yes, I am the birth mother. I gave birth to a beautiful baby. But I was not at a place in my life to be a mother.  You were at a place where you wanted – needed - to be a mother. Our baby was at place where he needed to be doubly loved. In God’s perfect way, He designed those places to all be in alignment with each other.  He allowed me to be a part of the blessing of you becoming mommy. He allowed me to be a part of the blessing of bringing a child into your home.

I think about you often. I think about you on Mother’s Day, on the birthday of our baby, on first days of school, on every holiday, on days that end in Y. I think about everything that you have experienced or will experience with our baby and I am grateful that God put YOU there for our baby. You specifically. Not just anyone, but you. You were chosen to be mommy. I was chosen to be the other mother. While I know you cling to the title MOMMY with honor and grace. I cherish being the other mother. I am amazed that God chose me to be a part of the blessing of this trinity, mommy, baby and the other mother. 

You are mommy. I am the one that is so incredibly blessed to know that you are mommy. In my heart, I am confident that our baby is exactly where he is meant to be, where God planned for him to be, right there in your lap with your gentle caress carrying him off to dreamland.

As you say your prayers and our baby, pray for the other mother, and  know I pray for you both. I thank Him for connecting us all in a way that we will never be separated.

Go, raise our baby. Love our baby. Cherish our baby. Be mommy to your baby… and I will be the other mother to your baby.

An Open Letter to the Other Woman

To My Daughter's Other Mother,

What I want you to know on this day that our baby girl was born is that she is loved...deeply loved and cherished as all children should be with the To the Moon and Back Thank You Jesus For This Precious Child I Would Lay Down My Life For Her kind of love. She has brought so much laughter and love into our family. She is nothing short of an answered prayer and a blessing from the Lord.

What I also want you to know is that I love you. I love you more than I could ever adequately express. My constant prayer for you is that you know real joy, that you have a saving relationship with Christ, that you find yourself in a healthy place in life, that you are not haunted by your decision to place our daughter for adoption, and that thoughts of this day overwhelm your heart with love and peace. I often imagine that maybe one day you and I could meet and over a cup of tea, we could share our love for Vivie. Maybe you would tell me about the day she was born. Maybe you would laugh to know how Vivie scaled the refrigerator to get to the Halloween candy or how she shimmied up the downspout of the rain gutter to pet a green anole. Maybe you could tell me if her asthma is genetic or if those brown eyes are like yours. I could tell you how Vivie and I often include you in her bedtime prayers...how we tell Vivie how much you must love her to make such a difficult choice knowing it was all for her. Maybe we could be friends and our daughter would see a little bit of herself in both of us. Maybe she could love us both and you would see that God had a plan for her all along. Maybe.

Until that time comes, I just hope you know that not a day goes by that I don't realize and appreciate the gift you allowed God to give our family. Thank you. Thank you for choosing life when our throw away society makes it so easy to choose otherwise. Thank you for loving our baby enough to recognize she needed more than you had to give at the time. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. No matter how many times I say it, it will never be enough but here's to hoping that maybe one day you will get the chance to hear it.

May the Lord bless you and keep you.
With much love and deepest gratitude,
Vivie's Other Mother

Let It Go

So we survived the first week of school by the skin of our teeth. This was quite possibly the longest, busiest week ever in the history of weeks. No lie. School started on Monday and after George and I got all 3 boys to 3 different schools that start at 3 different times, he went on to work while Vivie and I spent the day trying to get caught up on laundry and cleaning...just so you know, with 6 people living in this house, I am never caught up on anything. I used to think of it as job security; however, I have now decided I should probably be fired. As a matter of fact, when the kids' have the friends over, I often tell them, "Please excuse the mess. I had to fire the cleaning lady because she was doing such a lousy a job and I can't seem to find a new one."

Between getting back into our school routine, taking Jacob to his predawn cross country workouts, attending various parent meetings, starting back to work at my part-time preschool teaching gig, hosting Meet the Teacher Night at said preschool, and still trying to stay on top of regular household duties, I dropped the big birthday party ball and found myself drowning in mom guilt. Mom guilt...quite possibly the worst form of guilt there is. Ugh.

Princess Vivie's birthday is next week and we have a long standing practice that our kiddos cannot invite friends to their birthday parties until they start kindergarten which will be next year for Vivie. Instead, we have a party with the family usually the weekend before the big day and then we also do a little something on the actual birthday. So this year, like every other 4-year old girl on the planet, Vivie has been wanting all things Frozen. She specifically asked for a chocolate cake with Frozen decorations for her family birthday bash. No big deal....of course we would do that for our Princess Vivie. Well, somehow some way, this weekend sneaked up on me and I realized yesterday that I still needed to order her cake. I had exactly 137 things that needed to get done yesterday so Vivie and I ventured out to tackle my never-ending To Do List while the boys were at school. It was a race against time to accomplish everything and I really had to pick and choose the things that just had to be done and somewhere in the organized chaos, I fell short and totally forgot about the cake...until yesterday evening.

Baking one was out of the question because any attempts for me to decorate a cake are usually quite disastrous. Been there done that and learned my lesson. So George and I made our way to Wal-Mart because it is the only store within a 5-mile radius of our home and the baker informed us that there was no way she could have a cake ready for us the next day and she didn't even have any pre-made generically decorated chocolate cakes that we could take to add Frozen decorations ourselves. So we drove several miles to Target where the bakery was closed for the night but we found a cute enough marble cake...that's kind of like chocolate...but there was no one there to write, "Happy Birthday Vivie." They did happen to have 6 and only 6 Frozen cupcakes...3 vanilla and 3 chocolate...which we grabbed. Well, originally we had been expecting 7 family members apart from our 6 for this shindig but due to some extenuating circumstances, all of my in-laws had to bow out at the last minute leaving our party down to 8 including ourselves. Even still, 6 cupcakes for 8 people was not going to work and it certainly wasn't the big deal birthday party I had wanted for Vivie.

Vivie, the 4th child. Ugh. My 3rd and 4th babies seem to always get a raw deal. It's all logistics. When it was just the 1st and 2nd, they were still so little and our world wasn't inundated with practices, meetings, and appointments. When it was just the 1st and 2nd, our budget wasn't stretched as thin and there was more time and money to invest in these life celebrations. I was younger and less harried. Somewhere along the way, I went from sending out real invitations in keeping with the theme of the party to messaging the invitations. So yes, I am aware that the 3rd and 4th aren't having exactly the same childhood as the 1st and 2nd, and yes, I know that the love is still there and that is all that truly matters but I also know that you moms of 3+ kiddos know what I am getting at with this guilt of all things not being equal. Top that with the fact that not only is Vivie the 4th kiddo, but she is also adopted and you have the key ingredients for this particular mom fail to weigh very heavily on my heart last night. I don't ever want her to think she got the short end of the stick...that she is not loved as completely and wholly as my boys...because truth be told, she along with the 1st, the 2nd, and the 3rd, are the very rhythm to which my heart beats. They are my prayers personified, and  the reward of the womb whether conceived in mine or not.

So there we were in the checkout line at Target, me on the verge of tears and George trying to talk me down from the ledge, when the cashier dropped the cupcakes on their side. Are you kidding me?! She laughed and said, "Oops," as she proceeded to bag them. Uh-oh. Poor girl...obviously not a mother and certainly unaware of my emotional state. I'm pretty sure I jerked my head in her direction and spurted blood from my eyes when I said in a demonic voice, "What do you mean 'Oops'? I am not paying for jacked up cupcakes!" I think I scared her. I know I scared George. I could see the horrified look on his face...the Oh Heck. Is This Going To Be Our White Trash Moment Right Here In Target? look on his face. We bought the cupcakes. You know what they say, 6 jacked up Frozen cupcakes in the hand are better than a cake in the bush.

Because all of the out of town guests had canceled (and let me just be clear) for important reasons. We decided to push the family bash back to dinner which gave me some time to find a cake to supplement the not so fabulous cupcakes. With a new game plan this morning, I went to a different Target and bought little Elsa and Anna figurines to serve as cake toppers. Then I  went to Kroger and found a pre-deocorated chocolate cake with white icing and blue designs on it. I literally jumped up and down when I saw it. I asked the lady in the bakery if she would write "Happy birthday, Vivie," on it and she said she could but she only had a few color choices for the icing. I made my peace with purple even though it did not match the cake at all but it is one of Vivie's favorite colors. Things were clearly looking up. While the alleged cake decorator was putting the final touches on the cake, I was doing pirouettes around the freshly baked bread. Yes! Yes! Yes! My baby girl was going to get her Frozen cake after all! The lady handed me the cake and it's like I heard the needle scratching across the vinyl abruptly ending the melody in my head. Maybe I should have asked for her decorating credentials. Maybe I should have done a tox screen, smelled her breath or at the very least asked to see a handwriting sample. All I can figure is that they let the deli girl cover the bakery today.

I was out of time and out of options. I decided that Vivie wouldn't notice how messy the writing was so I took the cake and added some Frozen flair.

My sweet girl enjoyed her party. She loved all of her gifts...well, she pretended to love the clothes because as she said the other day, "Anyone who loves me knows that clothes are not a real present." The best part is that we get to do a mini repeat next week on her actual birthday. I already have the cupcakes ordered. It's all good until next year...oh dear, don't let me forget to make reservations at Build-A-Bear.

Like a Strand in the Wind

So I had another birthday this year...6 months ago to be exact. Let me preface this with the fact that I am so very grateful (truly, I am) to have been blessed with another year because this whole living thing is...well, kind of fun. It just so happens that I celebrated or recognized or to be quite honest, bemoaned hitting another milestone age. The big 4-0. You know, 40. "They" say it's the new 30. "They" lie. "They" say 40 is FABULOUS! "They" lie. "They" lie like a cheap toupee on a sweaty bald man's lumpy uneven head. Let me tell you what 40 is...it's the new F word, that's what 40 is.

Remember when the milestone ages were exciting? I mean wasn't it fun to turn 10 and kiss those single digits goodbye? And then 12, because like Stephen King told us, we would never have any friends quite like the ones we did when we were 12. Oh and 13 was huge! Being a teenager was the pinnacle of cool. 15 meant a learner's permit and for me, my first real kiss. Of course, everyone loves a sweet 16. And just like Stevie Nicks' white winged dove, I didn't think anything could be better than being 17 except maybe turning 18 in an election year even if my presidential candidate of choice lost. (That noise you hear is the conservative nerd alert). At 18, I met George and at 19, I fell in love with him. Then came 20 marking the end of my teenage years although I think part of me will always be 17...it must be a part on the inside...deep on the inside...because nothing on the outside still appears to be stuck at 17. Seriously.

It seems to be all downhill after 21. The next big one after that is The Dirty 30. The Dirty 30. I would say that I would love to be The Dirty 30 again except that when I turned 30, I had a 4-year old, a 3-year old, and a 4-month old so when I hear The Dirty Thirty, I automatically think about dirty diapers and spit-up on everything. Everything. Boy could not hold down his milk for anything. Don't get me wrong, when I was in the throes of caring for 3 little boys under the age of 5, I loved it. Absolutely loved it and that was after having been pregnant for nearly 5 years solid.

But now I am the new F word. I am 40 and I am tired. Seriously. I am a night owl willing to stay up until the wee hours of the morning because if my high school curfew taught me anything it's that apparently all the really cool stuff happens after midnight and since my high school curfew was midnight, I therefore missed out on all the cool stuff (whatever that may have been) and that, my dears, is why I was not cool in high school. But I digress...these days, I can stay up all night as long as I am not watching a movie. If George and I start watching a movie after 9:30, I will fall asleep and have to watch the blasted thing the next morning by myself before George takes it back the to the Redbox. 40 did that to me. 40 has betrayed me in lots ways. I won't tell you what body part I tripped over while getting out of the shower a few months back...suffice it to say, the old girls aren't what they used to be. The new horror hit me just last week...I thought I was suddenly going blind or possibly having a stroke. Thankfully that wasn't the case but I'm pretty sure my eye doctor will tell me at next week's appointment that it's time for readers. Readers. Mercy. 40...six months in and I shudder to think how much deeper those lines around my eyes are going to get and those laugh lines....who is laughing about those?

Seriously though, the Big 4-0. It's not all bad. I still have Jesus...and really He is everything. I have 4 beautiful children...the most beautiful children. I have been blessed with a great love that has lasted more than 20 years. And as it turns out, it's true what "they" say...I am comfortable in my own skin in a way that only comes with self-confidence and age and wisdom. I guess "they" don't always lie. Of course, "they" didn't tell me that I would be dealing with wrinkles and pimples on that skin all at the same time. At 40, I still know what's cool. Chuck Taylors are cool. I wear Chucks therefore I am cool even if I wasn't cool in high school. Knowing and being are two very different things after all. I started running last year (when I was still 39) and sometimes I imagine running backwards will turn back the miles as if I am an odometer in a John Hughes' film. It didn't work for Ferris but I have discovered that when I put on my running skirt and hot pink calf sleeves and pop in my ear buds and let my guilty pleasure songs get me pumped up for the run, and it's just me pounding the pavement, feeling like I'm flying even when my lungs are telling me to quit, you would be hard pressed to convince me that I am not on the edge of 17.

Have You Seen My Invisible Plane?

I have a love affair with all things Wonder Woman. Maybe it's because I grew up watching Lynda Carter swoop in and save the day wearing tall red boots and a patriotic strapless leotard. She looked amazing with her perfectly coiffed hair and her gold boomerang tiara. To me, she was fierce and beautiful all at once.  I, like so many others, wanted to grow up to be Wonder Woman (and a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader--clearly I was raised by a pack of feminists).

For my birthday, my friend, Leslie, gave me a Wonder Woman apron. It was my favorite gift and let me just confess, when I wear it, it goes straight to my head. The boys all had the same reaction the first time they saw me wearing it....it was a look of shock and horror rounded out with a gasp. I often tell them that I want to wear it when I go running through the neighborhood because surely, it will only make me faster. I think they lie awake some nights worried that one day at school a friend will say, "Hey...was that your mom in the Wonder Woman apron that I saw running around the lake yesterday?"

Several years ago, one of my boys was given a set of Justice League action figures that contained a Wonder Woman. The boys didn't want her because they considered her to be a "girl toy,"  and this was in the days before our sweet Vivie came along so they gave Wonder Woman to me. I carried her around in my purse for years. She was a fun little reminder of my childhood plus she was a gift from my little guys. Somehow, somewhere, I lost my little Wonder Woman and I have been on the lookout for another one ever since. Finally, a few weeks ago, I spotted one in a funky little local candy store. I knew I had to have her even though she is different than the last one I had. She isn't really small enough to carry in my purse so for the time being, she rides shotgun in the cup holder of The Big Pearl. My new Wonder Woman isn't quite like Lynda Carter's Wonder Woman. In fact, she looks a little more vintage than I would prefer but hey, so do I these days! Nonetheless, she is absolutely cool.

So a couple of weeks ago, Wonder Woman and I were out on the town...just the two of us...running some errands and we...er...I mean I...I decided to hit the drive-thru of a fast food place to grab us...er...me a salad for lunch. The drive-thru line was long and it was the peak lunch rush hour so there were two college age guys standing outside taking people's orders to help move the line along. When it was my turn, one of the young guys popped his head into my window and asked how he could help me but before I could even place my order, he spotted my gal pal Wonder Woman and he asked, "Is that you? Are you Wonder Woman?" 

Without skipping a beat, I replied, "As a matter of fact, I am Wonder Woman. She is my alter ego." Well, this apparently made his day because he was quite excited to know that he had just met the real Wonder Woman. 

Just as he was beginning to jump up and down, his co-worker came over and asked me if everything was okay but before I could answer, my first friend said, "DUDE! She is Wonder Woman!! I saw her action figure and asked if it was her and she said YES!" 

The other guy quickly chastised him for asking me that and said, "DUDE! You can't ask Wonder Woman to reveal her identity. It's supposed to be a secret. Now she is going to have to shank you!"

Then guy number 1 said, "No, man. I thought I could join forces with her. I want to be a superhero, too. I think I could be like Robin or something."

Guy number 2 then said, "No, man. You need to set your sights higher. You could be The Flash and I could be Batman!"

Guy number 1 was so stoked at the thought of this that he stopped everything and looked at his friend and said, "Wow. Do you really think that I could be The Flash?! That is so cool, man."

They hugged and bumped each other's chest, finished taking my order, and then the three of us parted ways...all of us superheroes...all of us laughing and smiling... the two of them clearly in the early stages of a bromance...and me thinking, "Yep, I did grow up to be Wonder Woman and that kid knows it even if no one else does." 

Toto, I've A Feeling We're Not in the Hundred Acre Wood Anymore

I woke up in a cold sweat with my heart pounding this morning. I had a dream that the kids were getting ready for their day, and I had forgotten it was actually the first day of school. I realized that I still needed to pack their lunches and we didn't really have any of our usual lunchbox fare on hand. After I pulled together some less conventional items for their lunches, I began the search for the lunchboxes, themselves. I knew I had bought them but for the life of me, I couldn't remember where I had stashed them. The whole pace of the dream was frantic and stressful and it ended with me out in the school yard chasing my new Thirty-One bag which was being carried away by winds that must have come directly from Oz. I blindly stepped in what I thought was mud only to realize it was quicksand engulfing me right in front of my children as I cheerfully shouted,  "Have a great day! Wash your hands often! Be kind to others, and make a new friend!"

School actually starts next week so I still have time to stock the fridge and pantry with lunch goodies and to hunt down those lunchboxes which shouldn't be nearly as elusive as they were in my first of the season's Back-to-School Nightmares. I know there are some of you moms out there who are ready for that first day to arrive, and while I have organized all the supplies, bought the new shoes, and scheduled those back-to-school haircuts, emotionally speaking, I am not ready. Summer has flown by leaving me in a cloud of chlorinated dust. I had a big Sand Bucket List for the Summer of 2014 and I need another 2 months to check off all those little home improvement projects I wanted to tackle, all those books I wanted to read, and all those field trips I wanted to take with my crew. But alas...we are out of time, friends. Out of time.

Jacob will be a sophomore in high school this year. Ugh. That boy...how utterly rude of him to grow up right before my very eyes. When I dropped him off for his first day of kindergarten, he was so ready...he just went right into his classroom, smiled and waved goodbye. I, on the other hand, did the ugly cry as I made my way down the hall. I will never forget the horrified look on the assistant principal's face as I'm sure he made a mental note, "Yep, she's one of those crazy moms." Jacob came home from school that day informing me that he no longer needed his old buddy, Pooh. It was a tough blow for Pooh and for me. Now, Jacob is learning to drive. He has man hairy legs, and is quickly closing in on 6 feet. There are even times when I hear him in another room, that I mistake him for George. My man child is quickly becoming more man and less child.

Liam will be in his last year of middle school, Nathan in his last year of elementary school, and Vivie in her last year of preschool. I think this was poor planning on my part. Too many emotional milestones at once. It's funny, I have been dreading next year because of the all their firsts hitting at once...first year of high school, first year of middle school, and kindergarten for the baby of the bunch....but I hadn't given much thought to how hard all of  the lasts would be for me. There are days when I feel like I have been a mom for every millisecond of 15 years but when the Back-to-School season hits its peak, it feels like I have only had these four babies for precious minutes.

So for all you mamas who are first time kindergarten moms, I would like to tell you that each year gets a little easier to let them go, but it hasn't for me. Each year seems to go more quickly than the last and each passing year brings us closer to pushing these guys out of our nest. Take heart in knowing that the first day of school can be tough but you will quickly find your rhythm, and kindergarten won't seem like such a big deal...until the end of next summer when you are faced with yet another first day of school. I cry a little on the first day of school every single year and that's okay because motherhood is a difficult blessing at best. We spend all of our time, invest all of our love, and share all of our wisdom in the hopes that our children will someday leave us.

The Boy in the Attic

There is a running joke in our house about an imaginary boy who lives in our attic. He gets blamed for all kinds of things around here...missing socks, lost keys, big messes, eaten cookies, weird noises...you get the idea. The joke has been reserved for just the older crowd so as not to cause any undue sleepless nights for the younger ones, but once a Dellinger kid is old enough to recognize the boy in the attic for the harmless joke that he is, that kid is included in the jokes. Now, I can't take credit for the notion of the boy in the attic. He is something I have lived with for many years thanks to Archie Bunker.

In all honesty, as lighthearted as we try to keep The Boy in the Attic's Tales of Mischief and Mayhem, I will confess something here if we can promise that this stays just between us. Sometimes that little booger freaks me the heck out. There have been times when I have been home alone and suddenly, I smell cigarette smoke coming from upstairs (we are a non-smoking family...well, George is pretty hot but what I mean to say is that no one in this house smokes cigarettes). Every now and again, I hear unexplained noises and random items go missing...like a shirt I know I washed and hung in my closet will suddenly disappear but once I start seriously looking for the shirt and asking around about it, it suddenly reappears tucked away where I know I already looked for said item a hundred times. It's times like these that I think about this:

Seriously, what could possibly be scarier than Gary Busey secretly taking up residence in your attic?! As long as I am being completely honest with you, I will admit that there have been a couple of occasions that I have made George take a quick peek in our attic certain that he would not only find all kinds of our missing items stashed up there along with granola bar wrappers and empty water bottles, but that he would also discover some person sitting up there petting Bobby Brady's dog, Tiger. I know, I know...I have seen too many scary movies and my imagination sometimes gets the better of me. It's one of the downfalls of being a writer...sometimes we briefly lose touch with reality because in our minds we can make the story plausible. 

All this to say, that yesterday while Vivie and I were cleaning her bedroom (which is located upstairs), she began to tell me about her missing Strawberry Shortcake doll. It's no surprise that she can't find something in her room as it has been in a state of perpetual mess all summer. Then she went on to explain that she left it on her shelf, went downstairs to get a drink, and when she came back, the doll was gone. As I was throwing out logical explanations for the doll's disappearance, she quickly interrupted me (now mind you, she is not privy to the boy in the attic shenanigans as she is only 4) and she said, "You know what I think? I think there is someone up there (pointing to the air vent in her ceiling) and he comes down and takes our stuff!" What I wanted to say in that moment was, "Shhh. Sweetie, he can hear us," but what I really said was, "Well, that would be impossible for someone to be up there without us knowing. There isn't anyone up there. I'm sure we will find your doll when we finish cleaning your room." I could tell by the look on her face that she didn't believe me. 

Last night as I was trying to sleep, I started thinking about all the times when Vivie didn't want to be upstairs alone because she was hearing strange sounds or she would say she thought somebody was watching her. Yeah, kids will scare the poop out of you if you let them. I guess I better hunt down that Strawberry Shortcake doll today so George can get a good night's rest. 

Party Up at the DMV

I took my oldest son, Jacob, to get his learner's permit this week. I drove him to a small town nearby so as to avoid the crazy 3-hour wait at our local DMV. On the way there, he was cool and confident...after all, it's only a written exam and he knows his stuff. I, on the other hand, was wound so tightly that my knees were trembling and my stomach was somersaulting all over the place. My first born is learning to drive. Egads! Where is that toasty little blonde-haired blue-eyed loaf of bread I baked in my oven? How is it that he weighs as much as I do and clears me by a solid 3 inches?

While we were at said small town DMV, I overheard...because I was eavesdropping...I do that sometimes because I'm nosy like that....anyway, I overheard the older DMV lady asking the young mom whom she was assisting when she was going to try for kiddo number 4. Number 4. As if asking a woman about her reproductive plans isn't rude enough, this old lady had to throw some crazy in the mix. The young mom chuckled uncomfortably and proceeded to tell this lady that she was recently divorced so that wasn't going to happen. Much to my surprise, the older lady laughed and explained to her that she didn't need to be married to have another baby because single people have children all the time. Seriously, old lady? She already has 3 kids. Why is that not enough for you? Do you even realize how much work and money go into raising 1 child let alone 3? As the mother of 4, I can't imagine going it alone. There are days when the laundry threatens to take over the entire house, the kitchen sink is piled high with thousands of cups (clearly we drink by buffet rules...clean cup each trip, please), and the kids are bouncing off the padded walls of my insane asylum. It's days like these you can find me huddled in some dark recess of my closet rocking back and forth chanting:

                                   Y'all gon' make me lose my mind up in here, up in here

                                   Y'all gon' make me go all out up in here, up in here

                                   Y'all gon' make me act a fool up in here, up in here

                                   Y'all gon' make me lose my cool up in here, up in here.

                      (Who knew rap artist DMX understood the plight of the stay home mom?) 

I guess it's a rite of passage for some old ladies. Forget that whole notion of wisdom coming with age. Some old ladies choose to spew the crazy and say whatever absurd ideas pop into their heads. Maybe I will be like that...it might actually be fun but I will spew responsibly.

After Jacob passed his exam, we drove back to town and headed over to the high school football stadium, a.k.a. the largest vacant parking lot that we could find. Jacob was anxious to get some drive time under his belt and I was, well, just anxious. So I parked the car and I went over the ins and outs, the bells and whistles and the various blind spots of The Big Pearl (my Ford Expedition). Then it was time to let the man child drive for the very first time ever. Suffice it to say, it turns out that big parking lot could stand to be bigger and really I think we could have done without all the parking lot light posts. Also, I wonder if his driving school instructor is a drinking man because I know after an hour of touring the various bends and turns in that empty parking lot, I would have traded my favorite Chuck Taylor's for a Valium. 

Jacob actually did a great job considering it was his first time out but my leg is still sore from slamming my imaginary passenger side brake.

                                           

Summer Olympics Dallas 2024 or Zombie Apocalypse?

My sweet precious absolutely beautiful girl, Vivie, is freakishly strong. No, I mean it. Girl is crazy-hoist-herself-to-the-top-of -the-fridge-and-climb-up-the-rain-gutter strong. She is (and I refer to her this way with all the affection a mother has for a child who is so desperately wanted and loved) my Little Dung Beetle. Did you know that dung beetles are among the strongest of creatures on the planet with the ability to pull over 1000 times their own body weight? Okay, so I don't call Vivie my Little Dung Beetle for obvious reasons, but I am floored by her strength and agility.

She has the makings of a real gymnast. At the ripe old age of 3, she already has that muscular triangular build that is so Mary Lou Retton-esque. So in an effort to give Vivie the foundation to become a gold medal gymnast should she so desire later on, George and I had decided to enroll her in a gymnastics class this summer but then her friend, Reed, who is very much her male counterpart to her wild child ways, invited her to attend his gymnastics class for Bring a Friend Day. Well, I was pretty excited at the prospect of getting a sneak preview of my girl in action and of course, I was certain that the instructors would take one look at my little powerhouse and offer her a scholarship to their program because surely, she is Olympic bound.

So the morning of our big day (I'll admit I may have had just a small sip of the Stage Mom Tea), I dug out a hand-me-down blue sparkly and velvet leotard, dressed Vivie, and pulled her hair up cheerleader style. Again, I admit to having sampled the Stage Mom Tea. We made our way to the gym where I filled out the necessary "We Are Not Responsible If Your Olympic Bound Child Breaks Every Talented Bone in Her Body During Our Session" paperwork and proceeded to wait for Reed's arrival and let's be honest...for someone to acknowledge how Vivie is built just like a miniature Olympian, a Mini-Nadia, if you will. Reed arrived but not the acknowledgement that my girl was indeed ready to take the gold.

In my efforts to prepare Vivie for class, I left out one detail, however minor. I failed to mention to her what exactly we were doing. I had simply told her that she and Reed would get to play together. Again, I am not sure how I managed to drop the ball on this one, but alas, I did. Class was getting ready to start, so all the kids (and there were a bunch because after all,  it was Bring A Friend Day) lined up at the door that leads to the gymnasium and all the parents, myself included, headed upstairs to the observation room. Oh yeah, seeing as how I only told Vivie that she would be playing with Reed, I also didn't mention that  I would be upstairs. Vivie, who was completely enthralled with Reed and feeding off the excitement of all of the other kiddos, was completely unaware that I had left her immediate vicinity. The gymnasium door swung open and the kids burst into the wide open space filled with trampolines, rings, parallel bars and all that jazz. There was a fury of excitement and laughter as the two college age male instructors shouted, "RUN!" From the observation room, I saw a sea of children take off running for the other side of the room at which point, I expected to see Vivie right in the middle of the group if not towards the front (she is Olympic bound, you know). When Vivie heard, "RUN," she looked over her shoulder to see that not only was I not there, but none of the mommies were there. I can only imagine that she was wondering what kind of monster must have snatched up all the mommies, caused those two big guys to yell, "RUN," and scared all of her newfound friends to take off screaming. Well, Vivie started to wail and darted after the kids, trying to catch up with the other survivors. When she reached the group, they turned to run back from whence they came, leaving her in their dust. She then ran back to the starting point, tears streaming down her face, as she continued to wail, " I want my mommy! Where is my mommy?"  She spent the next 35 minutes curled up in my lap refusing to participate until the last 10 minutes of class. Not exactly the first impression I hoped she would make. Those last 10 minutes were all I needed to see to know that we will indeed be back and hopefully next time, she will enjoy the whole session. If the road to the Olympics is paved with blood, sweat, and tears, Vivie may have just taken her first steps, however timid, onto that road.

Shop Til You Drop

My mother, albeit loving and nurturing, is a real Suck-It-Up-Buttercup kind of mom. Just as there is no crying in baseball, there is no whining in her presence. She was raised with the understanding that for almost any injury she had, her daddy had had worse in his eye on any given day. So Mom is not a complainer by nature and she raised my brother and me with the understanding that whatever our wounds may be, my Papaw most certainly had worse in his eye, a thought that always left me wondering what exactly had been happening to this man's eyes. I feel I should tell you that he did indeed have both of his eyes and they were fully functioning.

While our boo boos and owies were usually minor, there were those few times when Mom's reassuring sentiments of  "you're fine" or "shake it off" missed the mark. As mothers, haven't we all been there? I know I have. There was that time my oldest son, Jacob, was practicing handstands in his bedroom and landed on his foot wrong. He was trying not to cry when he crawled on his hands and knees down the stairs. I looked at his foot...no swelling, nothing protruding from the skin..."You're fine. Prop it up with some ice on it. No biggie." A couple of hours later when he was still complaining (very unusual for Jacob), we took him to the doctor. Turned out he'd broken not one, not two, but three bones in his foot. Yep....and the Mother of the Year Award goes to yours truly. I really should have known it was something worse than what had been in my Papaw's eye because prior to that mishap, the last time Jacob had shed any tears with an injury was when he broke his collar bone earlier that same school year. All that and the kid still earned the Presidential Award in Physical Fitness.

At least when I missed the mark with Jacob's broken foot, I had the luxury of doing it without an audience. Mom had not been so fortunate. I was about 15 and she and I were shopping at our local Target. This was before Target had eaten all of its Wheaties and grown into the super store we all know and love. I tell you this at the risk of showing my age because you need to know that the checkout lanes were the old school style with the steel railings separating each lane. Mom and I were just wrapping up our shopping excursion when I said to her, "I don't feel well. Can I have your keys and wait for you in the car?" To which she replied, "You're alright. We're almost done." So there we were waiting in line as all of our items were making their way down the conveyor belt. Time was slowing down and my head was starting to spin. I moved to the other side of the railing from Mom so I could support myself on it as my stomach was starting to flip flop and I was getting tunnel vision. Then suddenly, everything was quiet and black. I had passed out right there in the checkout lane at Target. Luckily, I had been leaning on that shiny cold steel railing so when I dropped, I didn't hit the floor. Instead, my body draped over the railing, my long hair and longer arms dangling to the floor. I must have been like that for a minute or what seemed an eternity to my mother who was embarrassed and concerned all at once. I'm not sure if Mom noticed me right away or if the cashier or the people in line behind us brought me to her attention as she was busy paying for our items. I wish I could have seen the expression on the cashier's face. She wasn't much older than myself and when I awoke to the sensation of Mom trying to pull me up by my hair using one hand, her other hand still clutching her wallet, I could hear the worried cashier ask Mom if I was okay. Mom was laughing as is apparently her custom when someone falls, faints, or otherwise makes a scene. I  then heard Mom say "Allison, get up. Get up. She's alright. She does this all the time. Get up, Allison!" 

For the record, I didn't do that all the time. I came to fairly quickly and we managed to make it home intact minus just a smidgen of my dignity. Apparently, I had the flu and that, my friends, was worse than anything my Papaw had ever had in his eye. 

Betty the Basted Beauty

One of my love languages is good food. When my kiddos tell me that a meal or dessert I prepared for them is delicious, my usual response is, "Well, that's because you are tasting the love and goo." Goo being the warm mushy feelings that surround the love itself. We have our family favorite recipes that have their frequent appearances on the menu cycle and then we have those meals that are meant for special occasions because they require a little more love and goo to get them on the table.

A few years back, I decided to try my hand at a new recipe, one of those extra lovin' numbers. I was craving roasted chicken and I had never before prepared a whole chicken. So feeling a little adventurous and really excited to knock the socks off my family with a juicy succulent bird, I hunted down the perfect recipe. I knew it was the perfect recipe because Ina Garten said so, and let's face it, she would know. Recipe in hand (Perfect Roast Chicken), ingredients, and a kitchen all to myself...not sure how that happened...I started the process. 

"Preheat oven to 425." Done. 

"Remove the chicken giblets." Wait, what?

"Remove the chicken giblets." Eyes glazed over. What?

"Remove the chicken giblets." Chickens still come with those? No, that can't be right. 

Picking up my plump whole chicken, I took a closer look at its packaging and I saw the most horrific words, "with neck and giblets." What? Nooooo. I carefully put the chicken back down on my counter, washed my hands and left the room. I was not prepared for this. I don't do blood and guts. I was the most ineffective lab partner when it came to dissecting creatures. Nope. This surprise feast just wasn't happening. I could wait to make the meal when George got home and he could remove the giblets and apparently the neck, too. So there I sat resigned to wait for my man to save the dinner, when that nagging woman in my head (she's old and rugged and most likely slaughtered her own pet chickens before removing their giblets) started fussing at me to put on my big girl panties and if I needed to wear some latex gloves that would be okay, she wouldn't tell anyone. So I did put on my big girl panties and a pair of latex gloves and I marched into the kitchen praying the whole time that I would not faint or vomit. 

I removed the wrapper and carried my hefty bird by it's legs to the sink. Let me just say this, raw chicken is slippery and I don't know about you, but I don't hug naked chickens so getting that heavy bird to the sink without dropping her to the floor and sending her into a salmonella spin was a feat in and of itself. Gosh, this was about to get real personal and I didn't want to be rude so I introduced myself to the bird, named her Betty, and promptly apologized for the many ways in which I was about violate her. I gingerly stuck my hand in Betty's carcass and pulled out a plastic bag of what my Aunt Nita would have probably called gravy goodies but we were not having gravy with this meal...especially if I had to put those goodies in it. I was not ready for that. I could just imagine ripping that plastic bag open and the slimy innards flying out all over the place slapping me in the face before skidding across the kitchen floor and coming to stop under the oven. No, I would not be opening that bag of gravy goodies. 

After tossing the bag into the trash can, Betty and I clumsily danced our way from the sink back to our workstation. Feeling like she and I were in this thing together...I mean we were really getting to know each other..I looked at Betty and with all the confidence in Ina's recipe, I simply said, "Let's do this."

"Remove any excess fat and leftover pin feathers and pat the outside dry." Okay, I could handle this part although who was I to judge Betty's fat as excessive? So there she was, Betty with her newly performed lipo all waxed and dried. Betty was ready for either a day at the beach or an afternoon in my oven. Unfortunately for Betty, the rest of the recipe was simple enough to handle (though I did not relish the task of stuffing her with a whole lemon sliced in half, a bunch of thyme, and a head of garlic) so she spent the afternoon working on her tan in my roasting pan. 

I'll have to say, and not pridefully so because after all it was Ina's recipe, that was the best tasting chicken I have ever had. My family enjoyed it but I don't think they tasted as much love and goo I as I did. I have made that recipe a few times but I usually make George prep the bird or I use pieces. I just can't allow myself to get so involved with another bird. In the end, there could never be another Betty.

The Old Lady at the Club

I have a secret to share with you tonight. It's something that only a few of my closest friends and family members...and several Costco employees...know. I don't photograph well. Not only that, but I especially don't photograph well for IDs. I truly seem to lose all sense of myself just before the photographer snaps the picture. I start overthinking the whole situation. Seriously. My mind starts racing. Should I smile? Should I look seductively into the camera? Should I go for that studiously serious look? Should I make duck lips?...I kid...no one should ever make duck lips. The obvious answer, at least for me, is smile. It's as simple as that. Just smile. No doubt about it, always smile. Otherwise, my ID will look like a pocket-sized mug shot. No lie. So you're probably wondering if I know I should always smile, what exactly is the problem? Again, let me remind you that I overthink these ID photos. I can't seem to help myself.

Allow me to give you a case in point. When I went back to school a few years ago to work on my master's degree, I had to get a new student ID, much to my chagrin. While standing in line behind a bunch of tight skinned pimply faced 18-year-olds at the campus ID Systems Office, I started to feel like the old lady at the club. In my mind, all those kids were staring at me as I was breaking out in my best Hammer Time moves. So I got nervous, awkwardly nervous, palpably nervous. Then it was my turn, and suddenly, my Always Smile philosophy was hiding behind The Nervous Old Lady with the Moves Like Hammer who was thinking, "I don't want to look too excited about school and have people think I'm a nerdy old lady at the club, so I 'll just look aloof and pretentious...that will make me the cool old lady at the club." Yeah that will indeed make me cool. As it turns out, my Aloof and Pretentious Cool Look strongly resembles the Deer in the Headlights Look or more accurately the Drunk Squirrel in the Headlights Look. Judge for yourself.

I suppose when the student employee asked if I would like to try that again, I should have said yes, but alas, I have years of ID photo experience to know that the second shot would not have been any better, after all, I now had his What the Heck Was That expression seared on my brain causing the Nervous Old Lady to bust out the in-case-of-emergency tootsie roll move. And that, my friends, would have been all the more embarrassing. 

No, aloof and pretentious is not better than smiling.

Going back a few years from my student ID photo shoot, I had a very similar experience at Costco. Oh, how I love Costco but oh, how I loathe my Costco ID. The photo was taken about 8 years ago, when I was at the peak of my not brief enough frumpy phase in which I looked older than I actually am now. Apparently, I thought 30 was the new 50. My Costco ID is so bad that the cashiers routinely ask if the person on my ID is shopping with me. When I inform them that the old woman in the photo and I are actually one in the same, I get some surprising and somewhat rude reactions, like asking what work I had done. One particular cashier always seems a little too excited to check my driver's license to verify my identity. I call her Deputy Fife because I know she's expecting to bust me on some gross misuse of someone else's Costco membership. I wonder, does she get a bonus for unmasking fraudulent shoppers? Does she really want to deal with the bulk size toiletries, juice boxes, and snacks that I would leave on her conveyor belt should I not actually be the Costco member? I wonder if she has really thought this through or if all the power of her handheld scanner has just gone straight to her head. The real quandary is that my driver's license doesn't look like me or my Costco ID. I seem to always leave Deputy Fife with a baffled look of disappointment on her face. I just may be the Roadrunner to her Wylie Coyote. With a little ingenuity, she just may drop that anvil on me yet.

I should get a new card made, I know, but then again, I don't need that kind of pressure in my life.