...Kafsky Life: Thoughts on the everyday chaos...

Growing up Google

2011-04-12T20:28:00.002-04:00

The other day, Gibson was asking about Heaven. He and Landis were engaged in some sort of discussion about how things work up there and they needed clarification on something. So he turned to me and asked "Mom? Can you see up in Heaven?"

"What do you mean?" I asked him.

"I mean, can you see - like with your eyes, the way we can see right now? Can we see like that in Heaven?"

"I don't know Gibson.", I told him. "I guess... But you know? No one really knows for sure what Heaven is like."

"No one?" asked Gibson.

"No. Not really." I replied into their wide, unblinking eyes.

"What?!?!" said Landis, skeptically. "Not even GOOGLE?!?"

Isn't that what EVERYONE does with old fruit?

2011-04-05T20:11:00.000-04:00

Me: "Landis, I cleaned something disgusting off your walls the other day."

Landis: "What?"

Me: "I don't know..... But it was gross. It was splattered up in the corner, near the ceiling. What the heck was it? And what were you doing?"

Landis: "What color was it?"

Me: "It was brownish - AND GROSS."

Landis: "Oh yeah.... It was a rotten apple."

Me: "A rotten APPLE?"

Landis: "Yeah. We found a rotten apple....so we threw it up against the wall."

Me: "You found a rotten apple, so you THREW IT AGAINST YOUR WALL?!?"

Landis, (shrugging): "Yeah."

And he says it with total nonchalance, like "Duh! Of course I did. It was ROTTEN FRUIT. It's what you DO."

I totally don't get it. And I can't help but wonder.........Is it my lack of a Y chromosome that leaves me in utter confusion about why that made even a bit of sense?

Here we go with the "sex talk"...AGAIN.....

2011-02-03T08:57:00.000-05:00

So I'm on the phone in the car on the way to the grocery store catching up with a college friend while the kids are in the back seat. (Oh Shut up. Don't look at me like that. You do it too.) She lives in California and I'm in North Carolina so the 3 hour time difference makes it kind of difficult to connect on any sort of regular basis. I'm trying to make the most of our phone call, but I've got one ear on her and one ear on the conversation the boys are having in the back seat because they're busy making fun of each other's imaginary girlfriend, and you never know where that might lead.

"Oh yeah?" I hear Landis say. "Well YOUR imaginary girlfriend has a VAGINA!" (Because I think it's clear at this point that this kid loves any excuse to toss out the V word.)

I pause in my own conversation to say "Landis.....I would certainly hope so. All girls have vaginas. That's what makes them girls." Gibson snorts with glee because he loves any opportunity to prove his brother wrong. Plus, you know, we all just said "vagina".

They return to their bantering and I return to my friend on the phone. But then I hear Gibson say "Oh yeah? Well you SEX your imaginary girlfriend!"

Shit.
Two things run immediately through my mind.
#1 - He feels pretty comfortable just throwing that "sex" word out there - like he's discussing pancakes or the blue sky, or something else fairly inconsequential.
#2 - It's clear from the way he used it that despite our very frank discussion about they way babies are made (and our little - ahem - slide show about how they get out of there), he still hasn't put two and two together. He doesn't get it. Or he certainly wouldn't be throwing it around in front of his mother.

I suppose this needs to be addressed. And I guess there's probably no time like the present.

"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh....Cheryl?" I say. "I have to go." And then I practically hang up on her as I adjust the rear view mirror so I can look directly at him.
"Gibson? Do you know what "sex" is?" I ask.
"Yes" he replies.
"What is it?"
"Well...." he squirms "It's when a boy doesn't have any pants on.... And a girl doesn't have any pants on.... And they are on top of each other....."
"OK......" I reply.  (Thanks 5th-grader-on-the-bus-who-thinks-he-knows-what-he's-talking-about. I don't know who you are, but I'm going to find you because I'm not the one who gave him this description and you're the next logical choice as the purveyor of this sort of information, no?)

Still, I'm pretty sure that he doesn't have the whole picture - or certainly not an accurate one, being that he's so casual about accusing his brother of "sexing" his imaginary girlfriend - so I probe a little more.
"What else, Gibson?"
"Ummmmmmmmm............... Nothing? I don't know. They're just on top of each other?" He squirms some more. "I don't know what else."

Sigh.... Here we go. Head long into another sex talk.  I don't know why it surprises me. I guess I thought maybe we'd just have that one, and then -- I don't know -- be done? Or maybe I thought that they'd have these sort of talks with their FATHER? Why don't they talk about vaginas and sexing imaginary girlfriends in front of him?! Why is it always me?

"Well... remember when we had that long talk about babies?" I ask him. He says he does. "Do you remember how all of that worked?"
"Kind of..." he tells me.
"Do you remember where the egg comes from?"
Yes.
"And do you remember what it takes to fertilize the egg?"
Maybe not so much...
"Well do you remember what you have in your testicles?" I ask.
"BALLS!!!" yells Landis.  Because I'm pretty sure he likes an excuse to use the word "balls" as much as he likes an excuse to use the word vagina.
"Landis... Your balls ARE your testicles." I remind him. "And I'm not really talking to you, OK? I'm talking to Gibson so I want him to answer."
He can't remember.
"It's sperm." I tell him. Oh yeah... He'd forgotten.
"And do you remember how we talked about how it takes both of those things to make a baby? And how we're designed so that the man's penis fits into the woman's vagina?"
Yes, he remembers all of that.
"Well that's what's going on when men and women have no pants on and are on top of each other.... That's the "sex" that you're talking about."

And all of a sudden it clicks. His eyes get huge as he bolts straight up in the back seat.
"OH MY GOD, YOU'RE NAKED?!?!?!?" he yells. "THAT'S SEX?!?!?!?" He writhes around. "That is SO GROSS. THAT IS SO GROSS!!!!!!! Oh My God, that's DISGUSTING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I hide my smile because I definitely don't want him to think I'm laughing at him and his reaction -- which, of course I am because It's so hilarious. So I fix my face and say "Well, frankly I'm glad you feel that way right now. That's totally appropriate. But you know, when you get older and you're married and you're thinking about having a family, you may feel differently."

(Because here's the deal........ Honestly, I want them to have a healthy attitude about sex, but I'm so far in to uncharted territory I'm not sure what to say or how to convey that. Or even if it's appropriate at this point in time. I mean, Jeezus, he's 8. 8!! But I just keep talking because that's what I do when I have no idea what I'm doing.....Which, let's be honest, is MOST OF THE TIME.)

"NO, I WON'T!" He shouts.
"Well, you might. But that won't be for a long time. So I'm glad you think it's gross for the time-being. You should think it's gross...."

And then.  THEN all of a sudden he has this realization..... and he stops writhing around and looks directly at me.
"Do you and DAD do it? Do you guys have SEX?" he asks.
I look over my shoulder at him and reply as casually as possible, "Well sure...... I mean, you're here, aren't you?"

He starts convulsing all over the back seat again but this time it's so hard I think he might actually be having a seizure. He whips his head back and forth with a fury, like he's trying to dislodge a mental picture that is too hideous to imagine.
"DIS.GUS.TING!!!!!! DISGUSTING!DISGUSTING!DISGUSTING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   OH MY GOD THAT IS SO DISGUSTING!!!!!" he shouts. "I am NEVER having sex. Never, never, NEVER!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Look Gibson." I say. "I'm glad you feel that way. I'm just saying that there may come a time when you change your mind about that. It's a normal part of a committed and loving relationship -- you know -- when you're an ADULT and you're ready to have babies."

"Well I'm NEVER having sex!" he shouts again. "If I have a wife, she can just go and have sex with SOME OTHER DUDE because I AM NEVER HAVING SEX!"

Well.
OK then. If my purpose here was to mentally scar my child beyond any chance of recovery - and I think it's clear that was my objective from the beginning - then I think I can say with certainty: Mission ACCOMPLISHED.

Confessional

2010-12-30T17:33:00.001-05:00

I'm not sure exactly how this goes... Is there a specific ritual I need to follow? I'm not Catholic but I feel an intense need to make a proper confession. Should I make the sign of the Cross? Maybe I'll just wing it. That method seems to work fairly well for me in the rest of my life.

Ok. Well... Ummmmm Universe? I've done something I'm ashamed of and I need someone to absolve me of my incredibly heavy guilt.
The kids are out of school on winter break and so a few days ago I worked from home. I had a lot to catch up on, having been out the week before Christmas, and so I was up at the computer pounding away, thinning out my overflowing email account, editing documents that marketing needed "yesterday", etc..etc...etc..... And I let the boys play Mario Kart while I was working.

That doesn't sound so bad, right?

Well it IS bad, Universe. Because......
Because.......
I let them play for... (Gulp......... Just say it Kafsky. Go on. Get it out there. No sense in pretending....)
Universe....... I let them play for (whispering) 8 and a half hours.
*STRAIGHT*
9:30am until 6:00pm.
Until their eyes were frozen wide and mush was dripping from their ears.
Oh God, I wish I was exaggerating -- even the tiniest bit -- but I'm not. Not at all.
There was mush. And difficulty blinking.
And as if that's not enough, there's more.
I didn't even bother to fix them lunch. In fact, I didn't feed them AT ALL. And while I can't be positive, I don't think they ever took a break to pee. (Of course, along with that "not eating" thing, they weren't consuming any liquids either. So who knows? Maybe their little bodies were too dehydrated to muster up the fluids needed to pee.)

Universe, I usually do pretty well with the mommy-guilt thing. I don't normally beat myself up or over-think my parenting tactics because the way I figure it, most everybody is doing the best they can with what they've got. Lord knows I am. But this one...? This 8-and-a-half-hour Mario Kart marathon thing? I'm struggling here and I need you to assuage my guilt.

Tell me it's ok. Or - if not necessarily "OK" - that this one instance doesn't make me the number one contender for the World's Shittiest Working Mother.

That must have been a really good scrub.....

2010-11-27T12:24:00.000-05:00

Landis is a LONG bath taker. He's always messing around in the tub, never really getting down to the business of washing his hair or his body unless you go in and nag him every 5 minutes.

Look. I'm all for a good soak too. But can we wash first, THEN soak? Please? It would make my night easier. And contrary to what Landis obviously believes, I don't enjoy being a nag.

So the other night, after I'd been in the bathroom a few times reminding him to actually WASH himself, I went back in to see if there was a snowball's chance in Hell that he'd decided to follow instructions.

He was laying as far down in the tub as he could, ears underwater, eyes closed.

"Landis?" I say.

His eyes open.

"Have you actually washed yourself?"

He nods.

"Really?" I ask him skeptically.

"Yes." He says as he sits up.

"Did you wash your hair?"

"Yes."

"Did you wash your body?"

"Yes."

"Everywhere?" I ask. Because let's face it......He likes to do a half-assed job.

"Yes EVERYWHERE!" he replies, clearly exasperated with me and my questions. "Even my VAGINA!"

How to defend your woman

2010-11-19T06:58:00.006-05:00

Gibson's newest obsession is obtaining a "six-pack". The abdominal kind. (Sigh...) Are you wondering why an 8 year old would care about that? Me too. To be honest, I don't even know where he heard the term because he most certainly didn't pick it up around here. I mean, I try to work out on a regular basis, but my fitness regimen has everything to do with the fact that I consume red meat, cheese, potatoes and beer in large quantities, and nothing at all to do with chiseling my gut. Unless you consider the ability to button your pants consistently (without cutting off the circulation to your brain) to be a sub-category of chiseling. I, for one, don't.

He's so committed to his abs that on our last vacation, Gibson spent time doing calisthenics on the riverside. "Mom! Watch this!" he'd yell, and then take off down the beach using "fast feet" drills to dodge the rocks along the bank. When he ran out of beach space he'd turn and sprint back, drop at my feet and do push ups followed by a few sets of sit-ups. He finished his routine by jumping back and forth 20 times over a line he'd drawn in the sand with his toe. And come to think of it, he may have thrown some jumping jacks in there somewhere too.... All in the name of the almighty Six Pack. (My routine was a little more mellow. It consisted of sitting in a chair at the river's edge, watching the sun set and doing arm curls. With 12 oz. "weights".)

When he digs snacks out of the pantry after school he studies the labels. "Is this good for my six-pack?" He shovels salad or green beans or broccoli into his mouth at dinner occasionally explaining - as he pats his stomach - that vegetables are good for your six-pack.

Six pack, six pack, six pack. The kid is 8.

So the other day he wanders up to the stove where I'm making dinner, pulls up his shirt, smacks himself in the stomach a few times for good measure and says "Hey Mom! Wanna' see my SIX PACK?!?!?!" Then he draws himself up to his full height and flexes with all his might - arms out to the side, elbows bent at 90 degree angles, look of intense concentration on his face - his entire body a solid little rock. "Hnnnnnnnnnnggggggg!!!!!"

And I guess I was feeling a little squirrely, what with all that hopped up testosterone floating around the kitchen, so I spun around, whipped MY shirt up exposing my not-nearly-as-solid-abdominal muscles and replied "Yo' Gibson!! Wanna' see MY six-pack?!?!" I gave my gut a few obnoxious smacks, raised my arms above my head, and flexed every muscle in my body - going through the motions of the best pose-down I could muster. Which, of course, made not a damn bit of difference to my physique because there is no way in the WORLD you can see any bit of muscle fiber under my pudgy little belly. And that, my friends, was the point. Because, you see, I'm funny. (Or at least I think I'm funny, and frankly that's all that really matters....)

Gibson though, didn't get my joke. So he's standing there, head cocked sideways, taking in my pose-down with a look of concerned confusion on his face. "Ummmm...Mom?" he says, and I can tell that he's going to try to let me down easy. "That's not a six pack............. That's chubby."

His baffled response totally cracks me up, because yes. Yes it is. See? It's a joke.

And then Mike,........Mike..... supportive husband that he is, decides that Gibson has just insulted me and jumps immediately to my defense.
"Well Gibson," he says indignantly, "she HAS had TWO babies!"

Hmmm.
Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...................... Thanks?

It's not that I don't appreciate what he was trying to do. I do. And I wasn't really offended. Really. I promise. But since the opportunity has presented itself, let me go ahead and use this interaction as a "Teachable Moment". Fellas? Lean in here. I'm gonna' share a little secret with you.
A little closer...
That's it.. Are you ready?
OK. Here's the deal......
When you perceive that your wife has been insulted and you (the fabulous husband that you are) spring to her defense, it's best to just say that you think she looks great.... as opposed to justifying why it's OK -- in fact, perfectly reasonable -- that she's a little bit fat.

Inside the mind of an 8 year old...

2010-10-09T18:55:00.005-04:00

"Oh GROSS!!"

"What's the matter?"

"Didn't you see that PICTURE?!?!?!"

"What picture?"

"There was a picture of a knee!! AND THEY GREW HAIR ON IT!!!!!!!!!!!"

Hmmmmm.... I guess baldness isn't something on an 8 year-old's radar screen......

Sight-Words

2010-07-17T18:51:00.007-04:00

Hey there, blogosphere! You still there? Yes? Oh good. Because I have something for you.....

I know, I know.... It's been a while. But you know....... I've been working my arse off, and after a really long day I have a hard time sitting back down at the computer to bang out the details of the latest escapade. Not that there haven't been escapades. Hardly a day goes by without producing some sort of usable material. It's just... You know..? Mama's TIRED.

But I have a good one, blogosphere. One I think you'll enjoy. So I'll tell the story and you can tell me if you thought it was worth getting back on the horse for, OK?

So the boys have picked up the elementary-school habit of telling "Your Mama's SO fat" jokes. (On a side note, we've discovered that when Gibson tells them, he thinks there's nothing funnier in the world. However, when Landis wanders into the same territory, Gibson gets really offended that anyone would dare speak of his mother that way. I mean jump-up-ready-for-a-fight-pissed, y'all. It's hilarious. But I digress...)

We've taken the liberty to change the format from "Your Mama's SO fat...." to "Your butt is SO big..." which is only mildly better, I know. But in our household, we like to go straight to the source. Hurl those insults directly. ("I'm not talkin' about yo' mama! I'm talkin' about YOU!") It's somehow more acceptable......

Anyway...... We're all crammed in the car on a 3 hour road trip, and to pass the time, someone starts in with the big-butt jokes. We go a few rounds, and we're all cracking up because the boys say things that barely make sense - and of course they think it's hysterical.

So Mike jumps in: "Hey Landis.." he says, "YOUR butt is SO big that when you pull down your pants it says 'WIDE-LOAD'!"

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Landis wastes no time retaliating. "Hey DADDY!" he replies. "YOUR butt is SO big that when YOU pull down YOUR pants it says F#@K!"

The car immediately goes from loud guffaws to complete silence.....

Landis, for his part, is waiting for the uproarious laughter. Now, it's important to note that he talks with a little lisp, and it was kind of loud in the car -- what with all the ha-ha-ing going on -- so before we totally and completely crap ourselves, we want to be sure that we heard what we think we heard.

I twist myself around in my seat so I'm facing him: "Uh......Landis? What did you say?"

"I said.... "DADDY! YOUR butt is SO big that when YOU pull down YOUR pants it says F#@K!" He delivers the exact same line with the exact same enthusiasm, and once again waits for uproarious laughter, because he knows that his joke is downright hysterical and that we just didn't hear him correctly the first time. He's poised on the edge of his seat, eyebrows raised, head cocked sideways, waiting for it..... waiting for it.... waiting for it......

Silence ensues. Mike is staring at him in the rear-view mirror. I'm staring at him all slack-jawed and twisted around from the passenger seat. Gibson is staring at him with eyes as big as dinner plates. Nobody says a thing. Except Landis, who slowly brings his hand up to his mouth, his eyes widening, and whispers "Is that a bad word?"

Gibson nods with so much vigor, I think his little head is going to snap off his neck. (Which, frankly, is a surprise to me. How does he know that?) "YES!" Mike barks, gripping the steering wheel for dear life, trying desperately to drive while simultaneously trying to meet Landis's eyes in the rear-view. "Yes it is."

"Where did you hear that word?" I ask him.

"I didn't hear it." he replies.

"Well how do you know it then?"

Guess how he knows it? He saw it on the bus seat. And do you want to know where he was when he saw it on that bus seat? He was headed to a field trip. With 70 other children, who by the way, are mostly 5, 6 and 7 year olds. He saw it on the bus I arranged to borrow for our day camp kids.

Yep.

Y'all.... He learned it at the day camp that mommy runs. And when that realization sunk in -- that I had unwittingly contributed to our child's new vocabulary -- I laughed. (To which Mike barked "NOT APPROPRIATE right now!" And he was right. But oh my God, it was hard to control myself.)

Turns out that Gibson - along with countless other children - had seen it too. Apparently it was written on at least 3 seats, but someone pointed it out to one of the counselors who, thank God, covered it all with medical tape out of the first aid kits.

I won't bore you with all the details of the entire conversation except to say that we had a little talk about the F-word, how rude it is, and how he should never, ever, ever, ever, ever say it again. He agreed.

And then we got on with our road trip -- sans the Big-Butt jokes -- and looked for other, more G-rated ways to pass the time.

If there's an up-side to this little incident -- and I think there is -- it's this: Our 6 year-old can read. Really, truly read.

A very long story about discussing the "Birds and the Bees" with your child. (And perhaps a teeny, tiny, small lesson about what NOT to do.)

2010-03-06T08:59:00.031-05:00

Before we officially get started here, let me warn you that in this post I will use the word "vagina" multiple times. In fact, I think I'll edit that statement to say that in this post I will use the word "vagina" LOTS of times. And I might use descriptives like "bulging". And there's a good chance I'll use the word "vulva" too. If that makes you squirmy, I recommend that you stop right now. Seriously. I mean it.

Still reading? OK then.

Here we go....

We've been having a multi-layered, years-long discussion with Gibson on the topic of pregnancy and the creation of babies. It all started a few years ago when a number of his Aunts were pregnant at the same time and anytime we got together as an extended family, there were these huge bellies in his face no matter where he looked. And so it was that one day when he was about 4, he asked me, "Mom? How do those babies get out of there? Do they get them out with huge scissors?" So we sat together and we had a little anatomy lesson. I explained all about how women have a uterus AND a stomach in their bellies, and how babies grow inside the uterus, and how women have different parts than boys -- (which he already knew since I'd had to assure him a few times as a 3 year-old that my penis hadn't fallen off) -- and that most babies come out through an opening right here (pointing) called a vagina. When we were all done, he nodded and said "So a baby comes out from where you pee?"

"Yeah.. Basically." I answered.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

And I looked at his inquiring, innocent blue eyes and said "LIKE A $&#(*$)%# SONOFABITCH!!"

Ha! Just kidding. What I really said -- with a laugh -- was "Like crazy, sweetheart. It hurts like crazy." He mulled this new information over while I braced myself for the inevitable question about how those babies get IN there in the first place. But it didn't come. Instead he said "OK." and that was that. For a couple of years.....

Then, one random day when he was six, he asked. "Mom? How are babies made?"

Luckily I'd recently had a conversation with my brilliant friend Janna, who said that she'd gotten some advice about not going into too much detail when that question first comes up. That we should simply answer the question they are asking. And that sometimes, they're not really looking for a huge long answer.... So I tried it.

I explained all about how men have these teeny tiny things called sperm, too small to be seen with the human eye, that are in their bodies -- in their testicles to be exact. And that women have teeny tiny eggs, too small to be seen with the human eye, inside their bodies -- inside these things called the ovaries. And that it takes a sperm (gesturing with one hand) to come together with an egg (gesturing with the other hand) to make a baby.

"Hmmmmmmm...." he nodded. "So women have eggs? And men have sperm? And when they come together they can make a baby?"

"Yep. It's called fertilization. And then the baby grows inside the uterus. And you remember how it comes out, right?"

"Yeah... It comes out from where you pee... AND it HURTS!" (Because apparently I gave my previous answer a little too emphatically.)

"Yep. So do you have any more questions about it?"

"No. That answers it."

"Are you sure.....?"

"Yeah. I've got it."

And then he went outside to play. And apparently to process for a little while.

Now cut to 3 weeks ago.

Gibson is sitting on the toilet, apparently contemplating some of life's mysteries while he takes care of "business".

He sticks his head out of the open bathroom door - because you have to be over the age of 7 around here to consider shutting it in the first place - and yells for me to come here. He has an important question for me.

When I show up in the door frame he hits me with this: "Mom? I was just thinkin'..... HOW does that baby get in there in the first place?"

"Well..." I start, "You know how men have sperm........"

"Yes. In their testicles." he tells me.

"......and women have eggs?"

He nods. "Yes. On their feet."

"Uhhhh... No.. That's in their OVARIES. Not 'on their feet'. Ovaries. Inside here, OK?"

Oh -- OK he's got it now. Not on their feet. (Though to be fair I totally get how he went there..)

"And how they have to come together for a baby to start to grow?" I offer.

Yep. He's got that already.

"So, Gibson, are you asking me HOW the sperm and the egg come together in the first place?"

Yep.

"OK....." I say, and I go ahead and make myself comfortable on the floor of the bathroom because I figure we're going to be here a while.

And so I start in explaining all about how women and men have different body parts and how they sort of fit together like a puzzle piece. I go on about how a uterus and a vagina are kind of like a balloon (thank you again for your brilliant advice, Janna) and how this part right here is like the vagina, and how the bigger part is like the uterus? See? And the same way a balloon is stretchy, a uterus is too! And once the baby is ready, it comes down and out of this part -- the vagina. And see, you know how your penis sticks out from your body? Well, it fits right in the vagina like this.. (index finger into end of balloon) ...and that's how the sperm gets from the man's body into the woman's body and finds the egg. And then BAM! The sperm fertilizes the egg, and that's how the baby starts to grow.

And as I am sitting in the door frame of the bathroom, explaining all of this, Mike walks in the door from work. Here's the piece of conversation he walks into: "And see the penis fits inside the vagina like this..." and I hear his footsteps pause, then an audible groan, followed by an "Oh My Gawd" as he makes a quick exit to the kitchen. Apparently someone isn't interested in joining in on our conversation about penises and vaginas today.

Anyway... We get through all of that, and I ask Gibson if he understands how it works. He does. And then I probe for any more questions. He doesn't have any. "Well, when you have any more, you can always ask Mommy and daddy. We know how it all works and we're always happy to explain to you anything you want to know. OK?"

"OK."

"Gibson," I venture "Are your friends talking about this?"

He snaps straight up on the toilet and says, emphatically "NO! nonononononononononnonono...." Which is pretty much proof positive that they are.

"Well, my friends used to talk about it.." I offer.

"They did?" He's intrigued.

"Good God, he's only 7!" Mike yells from the kitchen.

"Yes." I tell him. "It's normal for people to be curious and have questions. And we want you to know that you can always come to us. We'll always answer your questions." (Though from the way Mike is all squirmy in the kitchen, I think I should have said 'You can always come to ME.')

Gibson is satisfied, we finish our discussion, and I point out, quietly, to Mike that our son DOES play with all the neighborhood boys -- some of whom are 5th graders. SOMEONE is pretty clearly talking about it.

He grunts. Or snorts. Or basically makes that man-noise that means "I'm not really interested in talking about this at the moment...."

Now folks, the responsible thing for me to have done right then - or the following day -- would have been to go the the book store and get a book about how babies are made. Because a "thinking/planning" parent would have realized that the bathroom doorway talk certainly wasn't going to be our only discussion about it. But did I do that? Nope. Because "thinking/planning" isn't really my parenting strong point.

And so it was that a few nights later, Gibson invites me into the fort he built. And there, as we were snuggled into the relative safety of all the blankets and pillows he says "Mom? You know how you said that I could always ask you any of my questions?"

I nod. "Sure."

"I have some more...."

"OK. What are they?"

"Well.... I've really been wondering..... HOW does the baby come out of there?"

"How does the baby come out of the vagina?"

Nod.

"Well... The vagina is stretchy... you know... Like the balloon?"

"Yeah.. But HOW?"

Hmmmm.. I'm befuddled. Words clearly aren't cutting it. And, Dang it! I should have gotten a book! Why didn't I do that?! He was asking questions weeks ago! DUH......!!!

"Gib, I should have gotten you a book. I'm sorry I didn't. Hang on... Let me see what I can find.."

I climb out of the fort and scour our bookshelves for "What to Expect When You're Expecting", because I think it has pictures. But then I remember that I gave it away. I mean, once you've been through it, you pretty much know what to expect....

And then it hits me! Google! You can find anything on Google!

I go to the computer and pull up Google Images. I put in "pregnancy" and I get exactly what I'm looking for. Drawn images like this:

"OK -- See this? This is how a baby looks when it is first starting to grow....."

Bingo! He's totally into it. Things are clicking.....

We talk about how crazy it looks in this stage.

We talk about where the head will be, where the eye is, what part will turn into the arms, the legs, the spine.....

We flip through each week, talking about all the changes the baby goes through, and how long it takes for it to grow all the way into a baby that's ready to be born.

We talk about the umbilical cord, and how it feeds the baby.

We talk about how the baby doesn't "breathe" in there. We talk about the amniotic fluid....

We talk about what it looks like when the baby is ready to be born. How the head is down. How it pushes on this muscle called the cervix. I point to the vagina on the screen and say "Here.... see? This is the vagina. See how the baby's head is going to come down through here?"

He does.

And then he says "But HOW? HOW does that happen?

"Well... The uterus will start to have contractions, like this.." and I make my hands into a uterus shape and I contract them. "And see this?" I point at the screen. "The cervix? See how it can open? When the uterus starts contracting like this, one side of the cervix will open this way, and the other will open this way... And it makes a pathway down through the vagina. See?"

He does. But he has one more question. "HOW? HOW does that happen?"

"It stretches. It's a muscle."

"HOW????????!!"

"Well... It just does! It comes down through there. See? Right there? It comes down through there!"

BUT HOW?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?! HOW???!?!? HOW?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

And then do you know what I did? I got all exasperated because how else do you explain it? I scratched my head. And I got another idea. "Well... Hang on a minute and I'll show you."

Then....THEN.......I Googled "Childbirth, Crowning".

(And if you are reading this with your hand over your mouth in horror thinking "Oh NO she didn't!" I want you to know that "Oh YES... I did.")

And I opened up a picture -- a real live photograph that someone had the aduacity to take in the delivery room and post on the internet -- of a woman in the midst of delivering her child. There on the screen was an enormous buldging vulva (I warned you) with a small, dark, wrinkly head making it's way out of it.

I pointed at the screen and said "That's how. THAT'S a vagina, and THAT'S a baby's head making it's way out of it. Right there!"

And Gibson? He started screaming. Screaming in horror. "OHMYGOD!!!OHMYGOD!!!OHMYGOD!!!!!!!!!!!!! THAT'S DISGUSTING!!!!!! AHHHHH!!!! OHMYGOD!!!!!!!!!! IT LOOKS LIKE........IT LOOKS LIKE AN ALIEN!!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Well that's how." I told him and clicked out of Google about as quickly as I could. Gibson, for his part, turned on his heel and ran screaming down the stairs as fast as he could go.

So, I'm sure that I've now tramautized him for a few good years. And to be fair, I don't remember it being so ...well.... so graphic. I mean, I had a mirror. I saw it. But in hindsight I realized that my focus was not at all on what it actually looked like, and more on the fact that I needed to see that that child was going to come out of me before I died. So, you know.. I saw it... but I didn't really "see" it. There's a small difference of perspective there.

So if you are in the throws of discussing conception and childbirth with your child, and you are considering using Google Images as a resource? My advice to you is this: "BE YE NOT SO STUPID."**

Really. Don't.

_____________________________________________________

** Advice taken, word, for word, from hilarious blogger Heather B. Armstrong on Dooce.com. She was doling out advice on not blogging about work, but I find that it works in this pretense too. She's a funny, funny woman, who I'm sure could beat me if we had a post contest about who could use the word vagina more frequently. And though she certainly doesn't need me to promote her, if you haven't had your giggle for the day, you should go there now.

Further proof that I am an irresponsible mother......

2010-01-23T09:09:00.005-05:00

Because my work involves programs for the younger set, I was invited to a pre-school fair the other day. The fair was being put on by a local Mom's Club and had been advertised all over the community, so there was a huge turnout. The programs I run are more along the lines of "Parents Morning Out" drop-in-when-you-need-it programs, as opposed to traditional preschools, but there were enough similarities that I thought it'd be a good event to attend. And it was -- there was a lot of interest in what we do -- but that's not my point.

My point is that I stood there, in the midst of a sea of stroller pushing mothers, watching with unbelieving eyes what was happening all around me. And I'm not saying that what was happening was bad.... Just that it was so foreign to me. Mothers were walking from pre-school director to pre-school director and interviewing them about their curriculum. Seriously hard-core interviewing them. Like these pre-school directors were heads of state. They brought pads of paper and pens! And they very studiously took notes as they all talked.

"And do you have a foreign language curriculum?"
"Do you have weekly themes?" And what's your process for structuring that?"
"And what is your music curriculum like? Because dance and movement and music? It's VERY important in our household and I need to make sure you will reflect that here."
"What, exactly, does your typical day look like?"
"Are you a peanut-free zone?"
"What sorts of leadership opportunities will my child have?"
"How much reading do you do? I really want my child to be reading."
"What does your free-play area look like? Is there a kitchen? I want my son to be exposed to kitchens and cooking."
"What do your mornings look like when other parents are dropping off? Is there structure? I don't want my child just milling around in the mornings....."

nod. nod. scribblescribblescribblescribblescribblescribblescribble...............

And I stood there and laughed to myself. Because I'm not sure what it says about my parenting, but here's the process I went through to figure out what pre-school my child would attend:

"Yo'! Amy...."
"Whad' up, Kafsky?"
"Are you sending Will to preschool this year?"
"Yeah."
"Where are you going?"
(She tells me the name)
"Do you like it?"
"Love it! The director rocks. You'd love her."
"Awesome."

Then I called them up and registered him over the phone. And I'm going to admit right here in this public forum for all to see that I am so irresponsible I didn't even tour the facility.

Invasion

2010-01-06T17:38:00.014-05:00

Attilla The Hun showed up at my house on New Year's Eve, and I accidentally let him in. It wasn't really my fault because he was cleverly disguised as my sweet little niece, so I didn't recognize him until it was too late. But it was him alright, looking for new territories to ravage. And also concealed somewhere in that little pint-sized body was his vicious army, hungry for blood and poised for invasion. They're amazing riders, those viral horsemen. And they knew just how to infiltrate the enemy. Skillfully. Stealthily. On command. And as night was falling, the command came hurling from her small body in the form of two lengthy barfs in the middle of our kitchen. Those well-armed, toxic little warriors were off and running, and there was no stopping the onslaught that was about to befall us.

We fought back (valiantly even!) but to no avail. One at a time, they took us all down. There's a reason Atilla and his army of Huns have a reputation for being cruel. Rapacious.* Fearsome. Trust me y'all. It's well earned. In fact, I'd describe the aftermath of the war-zone for you just to prove my point if my own mother wasn't involved. But I won't. Because frankly, she'd kill me.

But there were a few highlights that came out of that horrible night. I will warn you that they are, naturally, based around bodily-function humor. But even though they're kind of gross, they're still funny. And of course they are all attributed to Gibson -- the poor kid -- who bore the brunt of this brutal invasion. My sweet little Gibby, who, without meaning to tends to be one of the funniest kids I know, and can somehow make me crack up even when I feel like I want to die. Which is a gift. Even if he doesn't know it yet.

And so, without further ado, I present to you:

"Sincere Questions and a Brief Conversation with Dad over the Toilet in the Bathroom at 3:00 in the Morning".

Gibson: (Understanding that he is heaving from the very depths of his small body, yet not really understanding the concept of stomach bile.) Dad? Am I barfing pee?

Gibson: (After a particularly long and suffocating heave in which his body is trying to push out substance that is no longer there.) Dad? I think my barf is trying to kill me.

Gibson: (Speaking to his own body while hanging over the toilet.) Barf? Why do you hurt so much?

And my personal favorite......

Dad: (Cleaning up the first barf that happened on the floor.) Hmmmmmmm... Looks like there's some gum in there.

Gibson: Ummmm.... It's not mine.

*********

* Are you impressed with my word? I was proud of myself when I wrote it. Here's the definition in case, like me, you need it:

1. Taking by force, plundering

2. Greedy, Ravenous

3. Subsisting on live prey.

Totally appropriate, no?

In case you are wondering, here's Atilla, in disguise:

You can see why I didn't recognize him.

Parenting Lesson #367: How to be a hypocrite

2009-12-23T08:49:00.005-05:00

Gibson: Mom? Why are words like Dammit and Hell bad to say?

Me: Well..... They're rude words. And they're just not very nice.

Gibson: But what makes them bad?

Me: (Thinking for a minute.... working the brain overtime so I can wow him with my mommy-wisdom.) I guess I don't really know exactly. (Mommy-wisdom failing me...) They're just words that people think are rude. And they aren't very nice to say. So if you use them people will think that you're not a nice boy. That's why we don't say them.

Gibson: (Looking confused.) But didn't you just say Shit?

Me: Uuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhh....... Yes. Yes I did.

The Rules.

2009-11-09T19:33:00.007-05:00

First things first.... I took down that slide show set to music because, frankly, if I had to hear "somewhere over the rainbow" one more time I was going to shove a pencil through my eardrum. I guess I thought it was really cute when I posted it. Eighty-two repetitions of the ukulele have a way of changing your tune, so to speak. So, ummm, yeah. It's gone. And my eardrums just breathed a sigh of relief. I think they could sense the danger they were in.

And you know what else I did? I dug my "Good Parent" hat out of the depths of the closet, put it on, and made a behavior chart for the kids -- complete with clear expectations and consequences for poor choices. Why a behavior chart? Well.......... we were having a discussion at the dinner table the other evening that eventually, for some reason or another, came around to the fact that the boys don't kick each other at school; That, nay, they would never even dream about kicking each other at school. Or punching each other, or shoving each other, or -- in what might be considered Gibson's signature move -- grinding their foreheads into the head of the other. "Why not?" Mike and I inquired, since they apparently don't think twice about kicking the crap out of each other at home. And do you know what they said? They don't beat each other at school because "at school there are rules and stuff".

This answer of theirs intrigued me, because I swear to everything holy, AT HOME WE HAVE "RULES AND STUFF" TOO! And I am not making that up. We do! With consequences, mind you. And I'd be willing to bet that the consequences they have to face at home are stricter than anything the school is allowed to enforce. But instead of being frustrated and staring at them all slack-jawed in disbelief, we sat back and asked some questions.

"Like what, for example?"

Well, for starters, they are expected to have Safe Feet. Feet that don't kick. And Helping Hands, which by the way, don't hit. And Listening Ears. Ears that do what they're told. Ears that actually listen. Oh! And did I mention FRIENDLY MOUTHS? Well, yes! YES! Friendly mouths. Mouths that are not allowed to label someone else with an ugly name. Mouths that are not allowed to say inappropriate words. Mouths that are expected to speak in a normal tone of voice.

And do you know what sorts of consequences are implemented if there is any infringement on these rules? They have to move their alligators! Can you imagine? Every day they start on the comfort and safety of Green, but if they break a rule they must move to the not-so-comfortable Yellow. If they continue to misbehave it's Uh-Oh-Orange. Or, God forbid, RED. And no one wants to experience the horror of Red.

So you know what? I made a chart too. That very night, right after I excused myself from the dinner table. I pulled out Landis' copy of "THE RULES" and went right to work. (I mean, why re-invent the wheel? Landis's teacher did a fabulous job, and as far as I'm concerned, consistency is good.....) I went on-line and printed off pictures of the appropriate body parts -- Eyes, Ears, Mouths, Hands, Feet -- and I copied the rules, line by line, editing from the classroom for the family. I made little stick-figures to represent each of us -- Mike and I included -- because frankly, we could stand to work on the amount of yelling that both of us do. And to be fair, the rules DO dictate that if you yell, you don't have a friendly mouth. Of course, we yell because there are two little boys who are NOT using their listening ears, but we are all a work in progress, and I digress........

Last but not least, I attached the appropriate color envelope to move our "guys" into, and showed the new chart to the boys when they got out of the shower. They love it. And you know what else? It works! No one -- me included -- wants to move their guy! We remind each other every day to "use listening ears" or to have "helping hands". And yesterday, when I forgot to use my manners because I was concentrating on something else, Landis reminded me. And when I said "Thank you" he said "Well... I waited a minute and then I thought I'd remind you because I knew you wouldn't want to move your guy for not having a friendly mouth!"

It's not without it's kinks, but for the most part we're doing well. When I heard Landis call Gibson a butt-hole in the bathroom, I went right in. "Landis, do you want me to move your guy?"

"No! Nononononononono! I'm so sorry. I know I wasn't having a friendly mouth, and I'll stop. Please don't move my guy! I will always have a friendly mouth! I will not say butt, or butt-hole, or butt-crack, or butt-cheek, or wiener, or poop, or poopy, or poopy-butt, or farts, or farty-butt, or farty-pants, or boogers, or stupid, or shut up.
Oh! And crap.
I won't say crap!"
(Eyes wide, Nods with sincerity.)

So, yeah. Like I said... it's not without it kinks, but for the most part we're doing well.

Stupid is as stupid does.... Which might mean you're drunk

2009-10-24T12:15:00.010-04:00

When I was a kid, there was this Public Service Announcement that used to play on Saturday mornings. It featured a disheveled looking dad walking into his teenage son's room holding a box in his outstretched hand. (It was years later before I finally put together the fact that it was probably supposed to be choc full of weed.) Disheveled Dad shakes the mystery box at angst-ridden son and says something along the lines of "Who taught you to do this?!" and after a few painful minutes angst-ridden son turns to disheveled dad and shouts "YOU, OK!?! I learned it from watching YOU!" At which point he storms from the room while disheveled dad stands in the doorway and adds "deflated" and "dejected" to his appearance.

Then the voice-over begins: Parents who use drugs have kids who use drugs.......

And there's a reason I bring this up...........

We have a Pumpkin Carving Party every year -- typically the weekend before Halloween -- and we usually get a small keg of good beer. (or 2). Our shin-dig is made up mostly of work colleagues and their families, but it tends to be a pretty large and diverse bash due to the sizes of the facilities that both Mike and I work in.

Everyone brings their own pumpkins -- we provide all the carving tools, tea-lights, food, beverages, etc... And at the end of the night we pass out prizes to the top 3 carvers, determined through a very democratic voting process -- except for the year that I legitimately won, but had to take a ribbing all night long because everyone thought for sure I'd rigged it somehow, since it was at my house and all..... (If you want to know more, you'll just have to come sometime....Which I highly recommend because it's really fun.)

But I tell you all of this because awarded with the prizes are specialty bottles of beer that Mike has carefully selected. They always have some sort of Halloween theme, and are usually the types of beers that you can only get at good liquor stores. You won't find them at your typical grocery.....

Landis, who is five, was helping Mike make the tags that were to go over the necks of those 3 specialty bottles, and when he was done coloring the areas of the tags that had been assigned to him, he came over to me and made a suggestion for our party. "I think we should have a beer race."

I don't know about you, but in my mind a "beer race" translates to a chugging contest, so I asked him exactly how he pictured this event taking place.
"Well...." he started, "First you invite a lot of adults over, and each one gets 2 bottles of beer. Then they take the tops off, and they drink 'em REALLY fast. And the person who finishes their beers first, WINS!" And then he grinned at me like a little jack-o-lantern who'd just come up with the best idea ever.
I turned to Mike and said "Uhhhhhhhhhh............ I think Landis just suggested a chug-off."
Mike, chuckling under his breath said "I heard."

I mean, Mike and I aren't hard-core, but we do, in fact, drink. We stock up the cooler pretty well when we go on vacation, or when we get together with extended family....
We sometimes have wine with dinner, and on occasion I come home with a bottle of decent red after an unusually hard day. And I'm not sure what this means for his future, or for studies in DNA, but I swear this 5 year-old kid has just come up with the idea for a chug-off fully on his own.

But before I could fully process the fact that my 5 year old was dreaming up the rules for drinking games in his spare time, Gibson turned around on the couch and said "Well you'd have to be careful Landis, because you could get DRUNK that way!" And since I can't remember ever having a conversation with Gibson that revolved around the word "drunk" in any way, shape or form, I'll go ahead and admit that I was more than a little taken aback. But I quickly gathered my wits, shook off the shock, and told him that he was right. And then and I asked him if he knew what the word "drunk" meant. "It means you're dumb." he explained. And then I laughed out loud because, let's be frank here, in all it's simplicity that's completely accurate.

By now I was completely intrigued because not only did he actually know the word.... he could pretty accurately define it. So I asked another question. "And where did you learn that?".

And in that exact moment, when the last syllable of the last word rolled off my tongue, I inexplicably and instantly had a flash back to that PSA that I haven't seen - or even thought about - in the past 15 years. And in that moment, I had a minor panic attack about my parenting skills - because in my experience, my kids speak the obvious, eye-opening, how-could-you-not-know-that-about-yourself?-truth. And even though in my heart-of-hearts I knew it was highly unlikely, I had this mili-second of a moment where I thought he was going to turn to me and shout "YOU, OK!?!?! I learned it from watching YOU!!"

But instead he shrugged all nonchalantly and announced that he learned it watching COPS. And also that his teacher told him. Which actually makes a lot of sense, because the last time we watched COPS, the drunks they were arresting were REALLY stupid. And apparently that was obvious, even to a 7 year old. And just for good measure here, I'll include the other life-lesson he's apparently learned from watching COPS: "Bad guys don't wear shirts."

I suppose it's a pretty good thing he didn't know us in college.

Honesty

2009-09-27T09:58:00.001-04:00

We went for an evening paddle last night. The sun was setting, the weather was perfect, and since there's a beautiful river just teeming with wildlife 15 minutes from our house, we decided to have dinner in the canoe. Sort of a floating pic-nic if you will. And truly, it was fabulous.... (Though since we're discussing honesty here, you should know that the real motivational factor here behind our Norman-Rockwell-ish family float, was that Gibson simply would not shut up about it, and refused to let me lay on the couch in peace and quiet. He continually badgered both of us, beating us about the head and neck with his constant questions. Can we go now? Will you get the boat down? Can we go now? If you get the boat down can I help you load it? Let's load it. Come on! Let's go....Let's go.... Let's go.... Can we go? Can we go canoeing? I really want to go canoeing... Can we? Can we? Can we go tonight? Can we have our dinner in the canoe? Can we? Can we? Can we? Can we go right now? Until I was all "OH MY GOD, if it will make you be quiet for more than 2 seconds then OK!!" )

So we floated and ate our dinner, and paddled around as the sun set, and it was fantastic.

And eventually, because the sun was actually setting and darkness was slowly rolling in, we called it a night, loaded up our boat and headed home. As we were driving home discussing the pleasures of our evening pic-nic, the kids started vying for dessert. So, on impulse, Mike pulled into a fast-food restaurant that serves ice-cream cones for $1.00. (I won't tell you which one, but it's name rhymes with NcBonalds)

There we were, having placed our orders for 3 chocolate dipped cones, and one just-plain-vanilla (because I somehow married a man who doesn't seem to grasp the virtues of chocolate) waiting in line behind the one person in the drive through who carefully checks the entire contents of her bag before pulling away. I can only imagine that she's seen that Lethal Weapon movie where Joe Pesci expresses extreme displeasure at having received a tuna salad sandwich, and was fully aware of what calamities might befall her in the drive-thru. And true to form, they'd forgotten her double-cheeseburger. So she's waving and honking to get the attention of the drive-through guy, who proceeds to hang out the window, 2 chocloate-dipped cones in hand, to have a 3 minute discussion with her about what may or may not be in the bag and whether or not she paid for it.

Eventually the two of them come to some sort of consensus and she slowly drives around the corner, having negotiated a deal in which the double-cheeseburger drop would take place at an alternate location so as not to hold up the rest of the line. We pull forward and drive-through window guy, now completely frazzled, hands the 2 already-melting chocolate-dipped cones into our window, which we promptly pass back to our salivating boys. Then he passes the 3rd chocolate dipped cone (for me, of course, because I don't want either of the ones he's been waving around for the past 3 minutes) into our car and closes the window. And then he straight up disappears. For a LONG time. And there we sit......waiting for the obviously forgotten just-plain-vanilla cone.

I take this opportunity to chastise Mike by pointing out that had he just ordered the clearly superior chocolate dipped cone like all the rest of us, we wouldn't be sitting here in this Joe-Pesci-Tuna-Sandwich-they-&#^$*%-you-in-the-drive-through-predicament. And then I lick my cone a few times for good measure, and also because, dang, it's melting everywhere....

The logical thing for Mike to do at this point, naturally, is to start making smart-assed comments. And I knew it was coming. Because let's face it.... part of the reason I married him was for his insufferable sense of humour. And frankly, he married me because I think obnoxious things are funny, which makes me good for his ego. (See how that works?) He starts in. He makes self-deprecating comments about himself and his inability to conform, ornery comments about the woman in front of us who frazzled frazzled-drive-through-guy in the first place, and of course, he pokes fun directly at frazzled drive-through guy.

So I have to admit that I've already got a pretty hearty giggle going on when frazzled-drive-through-guy reappears, scurrying frantically back and forth behind the drive through window -- where we've now been patiently waiting for......Oh........ I don't know, like 10 minutes? He grabs the next bag in the line of food waiting to be distributed, and speaking to someone over his shoulder, opens up the window and begins to pass the goods. And as proper customer service would dictate, half-way through this action he turns to make eye-contact with the family he's passing food to and.... SURPRISE!!!! It's us. Still waiting for the just-plain-vanilla.

Frazzled-drive-through-guy's eyes get wide with recognition as Mike raises his hand in a small wave and I take an extra big lick of my ice-cream cone. He mumbles something incoherent, closes the window and proceeds with great haste to run for the just-plain-vanilla. Mike continues to poke fun at the poor dude, making up a running dialog that surely mirrors what the guy has to be thinking, while I, naturally, am yucking it up in the passenger seat, laughing uproariously at Mike's imitation.

Frazzled-drive-through-guy dashes back to the window, throws it open, and thrusts the plain vanilla in Mike's direction.
"I'm so sorry!" he says as Mike takes the cone.
"Hey, don't worry about it." says Mike. "It wasn't a problem".
And at that particular moment, Gibson leans up in his seat in order to make sure that frazzled-drive-through-guy sees him, shifts his eyeballs in Mike's direction, and says "He was making fun of you."

His statement causes everyone to pause for a second because it's SO obvious that that's EXACTLY what's been going on, and Mike - totally busted - starts to grin. I can't control myself at this point, and I practically choke on my ice-cream as I crow with laughter, cover my tearing eyes with my free hand, and do my best to maintain an upright position -- which is nearly impossible due to the intense abdominal contractions that accompany my hysterical guffaws.

Now luckily for us, frazzled-drive-though-guy has a sense of humor, AND he's fully aware that he totally and completely screwed up our order. So much to our relief, he and Mike look at each other and share a good laugh. And frankly -- I think that frazzled-drive-through-guy needed the kind of release that a good laugh can bring, and I like to think we did him a favor......

But Gibson -- our self-righteous, holier-than-thou child -- slides indignantly back into his seat and pouts. "WHAT?!" he practically shouts. "ALWAYS tell the truth!"

Indeed child. Indeed.

Especially if telling the truth will provide you with a free opportunity to embarrass the Hell out of your father.

When they butcher the phrase, yet somehow manage to make perfect sense........

2009-09-21T19:18:00.004-04:00

"Hang on.... I'm going to go cut myself a big piece of slack."

You go, little man. Cut me one while you're at it.

WARNING: This post contains unsolicated advice regarding dog ownership,which may be offensive to those with more patience than me.

2009-09-16T09:00:00.001-04:00

So I was highlighting my hair... (because you may remember in an earlier post that my kindergartner decided his 60-something-ish teacher was hotter than me, and for cryin' out loud, I had to do something....) and after 30 painstaking minutes of trying to get the activator stuff in all the right places, I realize that it's eerily quiet in the house. So, naturally, like any responsible parent who hasn't been paying a lick of attention to anything but herself for the past half-hour, I wander out of the bathroom and start yelling the names of my children. Turns out that they're outside playing in the part of the flower-bed they've claimed for their sandbox. (On a side note, it drives Mike crazy that they play in there, stomping on the various greenery and such. But you'll note that while he claims to hate it, and makes a big stink every time they get to digging around and driving their trucks through it, he has NOT actually taken any steps toward putting in the sandbox they've been asking for for 3 years now..... But I digress......)

Since my children are accounted for, and since I don't particularly care if they play in that corner of the flower-bed, I walk into the kitchen and set the timer for 20 minutes. But something just seems amiss.....Something I can't quite put my finger on....... and then I realize what it is. No dog. And because the universe has a fabulous sense of humor, precisely when I have this realization the phone rings. It's my neighbor, Mindy, from down the street. She's at the pool with her kids and at least half the neighborhood. And so's my dog. Barking his fool head off at everybody, trying to get someone -- anyone -- to throw him the disgustingly slobbery tennis ball he's scavenged from the woods.

Apparently he's been there for right around 30 minutes -- which means that the instant he knew I was totally and completely distracted, he made a break for it. The kids get lost in their own little world of make-believe, and leave the door standing wide open as they trek in and out gathering more props for their story-line. Sammy, large though he is, can be incredibly stealthy, somehow shrinking in size and disappearing down the street like a theif making a mid-night get-away. Luckily, Mindy thinks it's funny that he's there -- barking incessantly as he tries to badger someone into playing fetch. But I know there are people there who don't, and I groan as I take stock of the situation. There I am -- highlight activator shit gooped into my hair, sporting a ratty old T-Shirt that I don't care if I get bleach on, and a pair of light colored Capri pants that totally show the navy blue pair of underwear I have on. Obviously, I wasn't planning on leaving the house anytime soon.

"Gibson!" I yell out the door. "Sammy's at the pool! Can you get on your bike and go get him?" He looks skeptically at me like he can't believe I'm about to send a 7 year old out on a solo retrieval mission. But I am, because I'm desperate. I describe my situation to my neighbor, who laughs and compares me to the crazy lady who shows up out in public in her bathrobe and slippers with curlers in her hair..... which, if I'm honest, is pretty close. "I'm sending Gibson for him, so keep your eye out, will ya'?" I ask. She agrees, and then I hear her talking to someone in the background. "Oh! Hey Rachel..." she says. "Robin is here and she says she can bring Sammy home if you want her to."

Crap.

"Ummmm no, that's OK. Tell her Gibson's on his way.... but Thanks!"
Robin* is another neighbor of mine. One I had a falling out with last summer -- over the goddamn dog and his multiple escapes to the pool. (Seriously -- for a hundred pound lab, he's one heck of a Houdini.) She didn't know me very well then, and I think it's safe to say that she'd made some assumptions about me that weren't very accurate. And though that whole situation makes for a good long story, with lots of drama and name-calling, I'm not going to tell it here. We've patched things up, the two of us, and it's just not worth cracking the lid on that can of worms. I know that her offer to bring Sammy home is just an extension of her goodwill -- further proof that we've buried the hatchet -- but it makes my stomach hurt a little all the same.

I close my eyes and rest my gooped-up head against the cupboard while Mindy keeps me posted on the situation. Gibson's there.................. He's trying to get a handle on Sammy. Looks like he forgot the leash..................... Sammy doesn't appear to want to listen. He's laying down in the grass and won't get up.....................Oh wait.......... Gibson has Sammy's ball. Sammy's getting up now. OK -- Now he's following Gibson................. No, he's not............. Wait. Yes, he is.................. They're crossing the bridge........ Headed into the woods............ Looks like they're on their way home. Should be there in 5 minutes.
I thank Mindy and hang up, grateful that she was there to give me the head's up, and also grateful that I didn't have to show up at the neighborhood pool looking like the crazy lady in the bathrobe and curlers showing off her dark colored panties.

And at the risk of offending any dog-lovers who may be reading my incessant drivel..... I'm going to go ahead and state for the record that once you have kids DOGS ARE A GIGANTIC PAIN IN THE ASS. That's right. You heard me. A pain in the ass. And every time I hear someone who has children muse about how wonderful it would be to get the kids a dog I want to hurl myself at their feet and wrap my arms around their ankles begging and pleading with them -- for the love of God! Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeease, Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease, Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease -- not to do it.

I know the idea sounds romantic. I even know the images that they conjure up in their heads when they consider it. But here's what hasn't even crossed their minds. They have yet to imagine what it will be like when they're dealing with 50 other things that the kids have going on in the front yard and the dog decides to saunter into the yard next door and casually take a gianormous horse-sized crap RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE NEIGHBOR who just happens to be out working in his flower bed. They don't consider what it's like to drop everything they were holding to yell out "Sorry Ken!!! I'll be right there to get that!!!!!!! while they frantically dig around for a plastic bag and scramble over into his yard, smiling sheepishly and trying to make polite small talk while they scrape up the enormous poo mound.

I bet they haven't given any thought to how much fun it will be when they walk in the front door, having left the house to run a quick errand, to find the entire contents of the kitchen garbage can strewn all over the first floor of the house. Two days worth of coffee grounds, onion peels, broccoli butts, the leftover scrapings from last night's dinner, empty cereal bags, moldy cheese, egg shells, breadcrumbs and anything else that may have gotten stuffed in there over the past few days...... Everywhere. Every. Where. Ground into the teeny-tiny cracks between the hardwood planks so that once they have all the big stuff cleaned back up, it takes an additional 40 minutes of scrubbing - on their hands and knees, of course - to get all the gunk out of there. And how maybe, if they're lucky, their dog will be wearing the top of the garbage can like a cone collar that he couldn't get off his head once he'd decided to go for broke.

They don't consider how much fun it will be to wrestle him down and pry the can lid off, as he yelps in pain because the opening of the trash can lid isn't all that big to begin with -- purchased specifically so he COULDN'T jam his big head into it -- and all that backwards prying is hurting his ears. And I know they're not imagining that the wrestling match would take place after they'd spent a solid 10 minutes chasing him around the house, while he dodged their grasp like a slick pig because he knew that he was in trouble, but he's a lab and the garbage can was RIGHT THERE and oh-my-god-he just couldn't help himself.

And I'll bet they also haven't considered how much fun it will be when he trots inside after consuming approximately 5 gallons of dirt -- because HEY! Why Not?!?! -- unbeknownst to the rest of the family who were busily planting a garden next to the house. And how he'll accompany that tasty meal with about 5 gallons of water, because a meal of nothing but dirt can make a dog VERY thirsty. And then, they'll find out the hard way, that 5 gallons of dirt plus 5 gallons of water is just a taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad bit more than a doggy stomach can hold. And it'll be nothing but AWESOME when pukes it all back up on the family room floor an hour later while they're playing a bowling game with the kids, enjoying a family night for the first time in a month.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume that they haven't even imagined yet how this might cause the husband of the family to scream "OH MY GOD!!!" while he runs for some towels to try to contain that gastro-intestinal disaster, while his wife stands there in horror, paralyzed by the sight of the gigantic black tsunami oozing it's way across the family room floor and underneath the kid's geo-tracks. And how she wants to move -- she really does -- but she can't, because she's still trying to figure out how that brackish puddle, easily measuring 10 feet in diameter, could ever have actually fit inside that stupid dog to begin with.

Pain in the ass, I tell you!

Oh -- We loved our dog once. We did! He even accompanied us on our honeymoon. But this was before kids - and like it or not, kids change everything. In fact, before you give me that "you-obviously-don't-love-your-dog-the-way-I-do-and-I-would-never-be-like-you-you-cold-hearted-bitch" look, I want you to know that I've been there. I've stood right in those shoes. You may find this hard to believe, but once upon a time, I stood in the middle of my sister-in-law's kitchen skeptically listening to her mother explain how once you have kids you look down and realize that your dog is just a dog. And I glanced up to see that exact look on my husband's face. And I knew what he was thinking because I was having precisely the same thoughts myself....

But HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Joke's on us. Because it turns out that she was right. At some point in between the middle-of-the-night feedings, and the rocking, and the soothing, and the diaper changing, and the laundry folding, and the bed-time-stories, and the meal preparation, and the kitchen cleaning, and everything else that goes into raising a family, he became just a dog. And one gigantic pain in my ass.

I could continue. Just go on, and on, and on, and on, but I won't. First and foremost because I have SO much material to support my case, that this post would never end. And second, because I think I've made my point.

So if you're thinking about getting a dog, by all means, don't let me dissuade you. I mean they're sweet, and lovable, and they're always happy to see you, and no matter what they love you so much, and yeah, yeah, yeah..... They're all of that. But don't be fooled into thinking that they're not a giant pain in the ass too.

I'm just sayin'............
Buyer-Beware.

And you should know that I'm not above saying I told you so.

* Name changed to protect the newly mended "hey, we like each other" nature of our relationship.

Rhyming Fun. Brought to you by the letters F and U.

2009-09-11T09:00:00.001-04:00

I know I've been writing about Landis a lot lately, but... well... he's the one providing the material these days. And lest you think I'm ignoring Gibson, don't worry. I'm not. He may be walking the straight and narrow right now, but I have no doubts that he'll do something obnoxious here shortly that I'll chronicle on-line for all the world to see...... Just hang in there.

So what was I saying? Oh yes. Landis -- Here's the deal. Lately he's been into rhyming the last word of whatever sentence you happen to be speaking to him at the moment. Any word qualifies for his new little rhyming game, and for some reason that makes sense only to him, he's rhyming them all with the letter F.

It's mildly annoying, this new Tourette's-like habit he's begun, but we go with it. Because it's not like he doesn't communicate or that he doesn't answer any questions you might be asking. He just rhymes first. And I imagine that this new little exercise will get old sooner than later and eventually he'll stop. (At least I hope he does. Good God, can you imagine his future job interviews?) But for the time-being, it goes something like this:

"Did you have a good day at school today?" Today, Foo-day! Yeah. It was pretty good.

"Do you have any homework?" Homework, Fomework! No.

"Ok -- Well get outside and play." Play, Fay! Will you help me get my bike out?

"It's time for dinner!" Dinner, Finner!

"Wash your hands....." Hands, Fands!

"Get your drinks......" Drinks, Finks!

"And come to the table." Table, Fable!

"Did you get to see any of your camp friends at school?" School, Fool! Yes, I saw Jonathan. I got to play with him at the playground.

"Oh, that's great! I heard Jonathan's teacher is Ms. Lucky." And as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized what was coming next. So did Mike. We connected silently across the table with that mildly panicky "oh shit" look as Landis replied to my statement - loudly, I might add - in his standard rhyming fashion.

And then I casually changed the subject and "Hey! More green beans anyone?" so that Gibson would not have an inkling that his 5 year old brother just yelled a serious profanity over the pork fajitas. I mean, they already get a cheap thrill from insulting each other with their arsenal of 'bad' words: Poopy-poopy butt-crack, weenus, crap, and of course, the infamous "S" words -- which every parent of young children knows are Stupid and Shut Up.

So let me take this opportunity to say Thank God for Ms. Hoskins -- and the fact that we never have to utter Ms. Lucky's name in our household ever again. At least not while we're still rhyming everything with the letter F.

Just one more way that having kids keeps you grounded

2009-09-07T09:00:00.000-04:00

We haven't had a chance to meet Landis's teacher yet. They stagger the entry of Kindergartners here in Charlotte, so they only go 1 day during the first week of school. They do all their testing, get a chance to learn the ropes a little, and then at the end of that first week they get assigned to a classroom. My understanding is that this process helps make things more even and balanced in each classroom. Gib's teacher we met at the open house -- all young and blond and perky and cute and exactly what comes to mind when you think "1st grade teacher". (I predict that Gibson is going to come home with a crush sometime in the next few weeks, because, sheesh... I would.) But Ms. Hoskins remains a mystery -- a name announced in a message on our answering machine. So after the first few days of school, I asked Landis what she was like.
"Do you like her?" Yes.
"Is she nice?" Yes, but she doesn't let them touch the pictures on the walls in the hallway.
"Well, what else can you tell me about her?" He didn't know.
"What color hair does she have?" Brown.
"How old do you think she is?" Puzzled look.
"Hang on... Let me re-phrase that. Do you think she's older than mommy or younger than mommy?" Landis cocked his head sideways and studied me for a while. Younger.
"Is that all you have for me?" Shoulder shrug.

OK -- Since prying information out of Landis is a lot like prying info out of my husband, or my brother, here's what I can gather thus far: She's a nice lady who makes them exercise some self-control in the hallways. She's got brown hair, she's maybe late 20's -- which means she probably has some experience under her belt -- and he likes her. Good enough for me.

Last week, I opened Landis's "daily take home folder" to find a letter of introduction from Ms. Hoskins. "Hello" it started. "My name is 'I'm-not-giving-her-real-first-name' Hoskins and I have been teaching for 40 years." HUH?! Wha....?! Rewind! What did that say?!?! Did that say she's been teaching for 40 years? Surely not. SURELY I read that wrong. Let's try again, shall we?

"Hello. My name is 'I'm-not-giving-her-real-name-this time-either' Hoskins and I have been teaching for 40 years."

Math has never been my strong-suit, but let's see... ummmmm... 40 plus...ummm....average age of a college graduate.....let's see here.....ummmmmmmmmm.....carry the 1....... Based on my rough calculations she has to be AT LEAST 62 years old. Which, OK -- hooray -- she has all kinds of experience and she's rock-solid in the classroom, and yadda, yadda, yadda. None of that crap matters. Because y'all, the important part here, if you'll recall, is that Landis said that she was YOUNGER than me. And may I also point out that this determination of his was made after some careful study on his part.

Now I know that I had a busy summer. I know that my mornings were early, my days were long, and that my showers were not by any means regular. I can't even remember the last time I wore make-up to work, let alone spent time on my hair. But come on........ (Sigh.......)

Shit.

I don't care if she's in her 60's. When I finally do get to meet Ms. Hoskins, she'd better be smokin' hot.

Do you have a minute? Because I have someone I want you to meet.

2009-09-03T05:58:00.006-04:00

So I got this email from my friend Lynn the other day announcing that she has officially joined the land of the mommy-bloggers. Which, I have to tell you, is really good news. To be frank, I can't believe she didn't do it sooner. I mean, Lynn is actually a writer. She went to journalism school and everything. Studied the stuff. Unlike yours truly here, who majored in ...ummmmmmm...recreation. (No. Really. I did. Want to go whitewater rafting? I can take you. Set up a top-rope climb? Check. Plan meals for a backpacking expedition? No sweat. Understand the nuances of writing like a professional? Not so much.)

I write about butts and poop and how my life revolves around the bodily functions and potty humor of two squirrely little boys. I re-tell obnoxious stories about their antics around the dinner table. (Like how my 5 year-old stabbed half a cherry tomato onto the end of his fork and announced, in a self-satisfied voice, that he had a little pecker.) I roll over and show you our dirty underbelly -- how it's all covered in dog-hair and piled with dirty laundry, and just crying out for a good scrubbing.

Lynn? She writes beautiful prose about Aztec super-grains like quinoa, and how motherhood is the work of the heart. She conjures up spectacular images with her words, and her descriptions are almost tangible as they come to life in my imagination. My favorite line so far is her depiction of how motherhood and writing go together. "The two feed one another" she writes. "snakes swallowing each other's tails, a writhing circle of struggle and consumption."

Oh yeah? Well... Fart, Fart, Butt, Poop.

What else should I tell you about Lynn? She has 4 kids. Four kids that she gave birth to naturally. That's right. All 4 of 'em. I, in stark contrast to my labor-embracing friend, was that woman who grabbed the anesthesiologist by the ears, pulled his face within millimeters of my own so that there would be no misunderstanding, and in between my deep, panting breaths every 2 minutes, barked something along the lines of "LISTEN UP CHUMP! The last time I was in here my epidural didn't work because - unbelievably - the guy who put it in didn't get it in the right place! AND LET ME BE PERFECTLY CLEAR THAT I'M NOT DOING THAT CRAP AGAIN!!! You'll put this epidural in, you'll put it in RIGHT NOW, and you'll damn well get it in the RIGHT PLACE! Kapeesh?!?"

My girl Lynn? She knew she was in labor, so she took a nap. She figured she'd need her rest if the baby was coming that day.

While I wrestled around with feelings of inferiority and inadequacy as a full-time stay-at-home-mom, Lynn relishes it. Finds purpose in it. Is fulfilled by it. Me? If I ain't bringing home at least a little bacon, I can't freakin' stand it. No matter how often Mike referred to it as "our" money, or acknowledged how much work goes into raising the boys and making the household run smoothly, I simply couldn't stand it. I don't care if I'm only bringing in ten dollars a week -- it's MY ten dollars. MY contribution. One I can see immediately. One I can deposit. One I don't have to wait 18 years for in order to determine the success of my work. Don't get me wrong -- I loved the time I got to spend with my boys. That part was wonderful. And I'm not by any means saying that I felt inadequate as a mom. Just as a partner. As a "contributing" member of the household. (And before you come through my computer screen screeching at me about how much stay-at-home-parents work and how much they contribute and how their sacrifices are invaluable I want you to know that I don't need the lecture. I know it. I've been there. I've done it. The issue is with my own ego and nothing more. I feel better about myself when I work -- for a paycheck.) My point here, is that Lynn is able to embrace it fully in a way I never could.

And regardless of our differences, I laugh at all of our commonalities.... We both really enjoy being moms. I know she totally gets how the times I want to pull my hair out by the roots are far outweighed by the times I have to hold onto my heart with both hands. I'm encouraged by the fact that she has piles of laundry so unattended that her husband's shirt molded. (I don't think we've actually hit mold yet, but we sure can work up a good wet stink.) And I love that she feels like she spends her life in the kitchen, feeding her hungry brood. Stuffing them full of love and encouragement, serving up support and clearing away the mess. Because I do too.

The difference is, she writes it down all pretty-like. So I think you should click on over and catch up with Lynn. You'll find her in her kitchen, feeding her hungry, and I'm sure she's serving something satisfying. Tell her Rachel sent ya.

Death, Entimology and Semantics

2009-08-15T10:31:00.004-04:00

The kids found a dead cricket yesterday. They were going to keep him as a pet - which , if I'm perfectly honest is exactly the kind of pet I'd like the kids to have. The dead cricket would never need to be fed or let out. He wouldn't bark in my face while I'm sleeping, poop like a horse, or pant hot dog-breath in my face. He'd never barf on my floor after consuming untold amounts of dirt and garbage, try to sneak food off the table, or eat anything out of the trash can. We wouldn't have to make arrangements for his care when we left town, and the best part would be that the dead cricket wouldn't shed all over my house! YES! Please, God, Yes! Let's keep the cricket! But after a lengthy discussion of the pros and cons of having a dead cricket for a pet, they decided instead to bury the poor little guy in the flower-bed. They laid him to rest in their carefully dug cricket grave, filled it back in with dirt, gave it a reassuring little pat, and then went hunting for some bugs they could catch alive.

Sneaking around the side of the house with their bucket, they scanned the plants for a good specimen. And they found one. They captured him while he was feasting on the sunflowers. They created a little bug-house out of an old plastic container and sat watching him for a while. After much observation, Landis decided that what this new bug needed was a little companionship. A little companionship from a dead cricket. He wanted to dig him back up.

Me: Landis, let's not dig up the cricket. He's dead, so he wouldn't really be a good companion for your new bug. Let's just let him rest in peace.

Landis: He pees?

Me: No. "Rest in PEACE".

Gibson: Peace. It means quiet.

Landis: (Nodding solemnly) Ohhhhhhhhhh......... He rests in quiet. AND he pees.

Raging Bull

2009-08-09T13:26:00.003-04:00

Let me give you fair warning. Gibson may not be for this world much longer. If you'd like to see him or talk to him before I have to take him out, now would be a good time. (And when I say "now" I mean right this minute, because if he flaps his lips one more time I refuse to be responsible for what happens next. In fact, if he even parts his lips to take a deep breath I might lose it.)

I don't know how he does it. This sweet-faced, wide eyed 7 year-old child is capable of pushing me to places I don't like to go. Pushing with his smart mouth. Pushing with his nasty attitude. Pushing, pushing, pushing - despite fair warning about what's coming next - until he can chink my calm demeanor, and my matter-of-fact answers about why there are consequences for poor behavior choices. And he's only 7.

Chink!
It's almost audible. That sound that happens from deep within my body when he tosses out his very last smart-mouthed condescending remark.

Chink!
And I can feel my self-control unwind, loosening it's grip on my tongue and unleashing the discretion I've been able to attach to the level of my voice each time I've turned to address him before now.

Chink!
Stripped of my stoicism, I am reduced to a wild-eyed snorting bull, pawing the ground and nearly exploding with rage. I know it's obvious to him what's coming next. It's obvious to all of us. Steam is pouring from my flaring nostrils, and he's close enough to see it. But there he stands, chin jutting out, defiantly, willfully waving that red cape. And even though I know better -- Even though I don't want him to know he's gotten to me, I can't help it. I lower my head and practically roar while I charge.

And immediately, I see the recognition in his wide eyes that he's gone too far. That he's pushed me past my limit. Way past my limit. And he's already apologizing, stumbling all over himself to take it back, to admit that he's completely out of line. But my forward momentum is moving, and frankly it's too late for that. Positioning my own face inches from his, index finger extended, millimeters from his nose, I hiss at him to Shut. His. Smart. Mouth. With my angry eyeballs bulging out of their sockets, I remind him in no uncertain terms who is in charge in this household. He cries fat tears and begs forgiveness as I sentence him to 45 minutes hard time on his bed. In my final frenzy, I screech at him to use this uninterrupted chunk of time to think about the consequences of the choices he makes as he defeatedly drags himself up the stairs.

And then it's quiet. The only noises in the house are the sounds of his quiet sniffling and the sounds of my slowing breath as my blood pressure returns to normal.

And, OK -- I admit it. I'm not really going to wipe him out of existence today. Maybe not even tomorrow either, because here's the kicker.... After the 45 minutes have passed I inform him that he may get up. And when I ask him if he has anything he'd like to say to me, he comes up with this: " I'm sorry mom. I really am. At first I thought that you were the one being mean and unfair, but after I thought about it, I realized that I was the one being ugly. That I DID have a smart mouth, and I know I was being an ungrateful brat. And I'm sorry."

I sat there gaping at him, and he smiled. And he hugged me. And he even giggled a little while he shot me a sheepish grin. Then, like all was right with the world again, he turned and went downstairs to play, leaving me here staring at this computer and shaking my head, wondering how we got to this miraculous spot of self-realization. Is turning me into a out-of-control Raging Bull part of the process for him? And if so, (God help me) will I make it through his teenage years without suffering a massive coronary?

When evergreens attack

2009-06-28T15:11:00.004-04:00

"Mom!

I know what that sign says!

It says if you stuff a tree into a doorway, it will try to get you!'"

Well......crap.

2009-06-02T17:33:00.004-04:00

Oh Landis..... I'm trying so hard. But I dropped your birthday cake all over the inside of the stove when I was pulling it out just now. And I think I can salvage some of it with some pudding and blueberries and whipped cream, but I feel so lousy because it's not the double-layer round cake with chocolate icing and sprinkles that I know you had your eye on.

And I owe you a birthday letter that I haven't even started.

And I said I'd be home early for your birthday today, but then things went crazy at work and I didn't make it when I said I would.

And I'm sorry.

I'm trying though... OK? I'm trying really hard.

BUT...... I did manage to get your specially requested dinner into the oven -- so we WILL have meatballs tonight! And because I was late, you did get to play with your friends at the pool for an extra long time, so... OK... I'm feeling better. You? Am I feeling horribly guilty for no reason at all? Were you ever even the slightest bit disappointed?

Sundays at our house

2009-05-18T16:41:00.013-04:00

We live in the south and we don't go to church. There. I said it. Does that count as confession? Do I need to make the sign of the cross or something? I'm not sure. I was raised Methodist -- and we didn't confess.

We're not anti-church, or anti-God, or anti-religion or anything.... I am, however, anti-drag-ass-out-of-bed-early-on-a-Sunday-morning-to fight-with-the kids-about-what-time-we-have-to-be-out-the-door-if-we-want-to-get-to-church-ON-TIME-and NO-you-are-not-wearing-that-and-OH-MY-GOD-DID-YOU-GET-DRESSED-OFF-THE-FLOOR-and-HURRY-UP-and-brush-your-hair-and-for-the-love-of-God-brush-your-teeth-and-when-church-starts-at-8:30-we-do-NOT-leave-the-house-at-8:30-and-if-I-have-to-tell-you-one-more-time-to-get-in-the-car-I'm-just-going-to-leave-you-here!

I'm also against voluntarily and systematically elevating both my blood pressure and my frustration levels on a weekly basis if I can help it. And frankly, nothing launches those numbers skyward faster than embroiling myself in a losing battle in which my 4 and 6 year old boys are required to sit still and be quiet for extended periods of time. I find that leisurely Sunday mornings spent reading the paper on the couch with the kids playing nicely upstairs beats the Hell out of smiling politely at a large group of people while I grit my teeth and whisper things like "Sit down! Sit up! Be quiet! Get out from under there! Stop whining! It'll be over when it's over! You can't hold it? Seriously? Because I'm pretty sure you pooped before we left the house this morning! Please don't touch that man's head again! I don't know why he doesn't have any hair.... He just doesn't. NO! We don't ask people things like that. He already knows he doesn't have any hair, you don't have to tell him so. We've been over this before: Men can't have babies, only women can have babies. Just because he has a big belly doesn't mean you should ask him when his baby is due. In fact, please don't ever ask anyone when their baby is due unless I tell you it's ok. OK? Now SIT STILL AND BE QUIET."

Not that I didn't get anything out of church when I was a kid. I did. In fact, now that I think about it, I'm sure it was those Sunday morning bulletins that nurtured my desire to cross things off a To-Do list. Prelude? Check. Lighting of the candles? Check. Processional? Check. Call to worship? Check. There was something very satisfactory about crossing off all that we'd accomplished -- knowing that with each crossed off item, we were closer to the end.

At hymn singing time, I practiced my harmony. My bother practiced his "Bob Dillon". He also did a really good Neil Young impersonation, and he even had my mom down-pat. He could belt out her "operatic" style -- assuming here that operatic is actually a word -- in a fantastic falsetto. Seriously, he was pretty good. He still is, so if you live near Eaton, Ohio you should stand near him in church. Though I'm not positive that his wife lets him get away with it anymore, since she doesn't find him to be nearly as funny as I do now that I'm not living with him.

I also honed my deductive reasoning aptitude with wild games of Hangman. You'll know I was raised in the mid-eighties if you can solve this hangman puzzle:

If I recall correctly, he was a regular solution to the game. I mean, really.... He WAS the coolest.

Another skill I picked up at church was the ability to strategize. Do you want to know how I sharpened my strategic know-how, each and every Sunday? The box-building game. I learned it from my best friend, Brooke, and now that I think about it, I'm not even sure if that's the proper name. We never really spoke it out loud -- we just passed the paper and pencil back and forth in the pew, each of us drawing our lines, one at a time, trying to outmaneuver one another and create as many boxes as we could. For whosoever believed that she could create the most boxes would not perish, but be the everlasting champion.

(You'll note that I gave her more boxes in my example because I want to be as authentic as possible -- and she always kicked my ass. Her "strategery" was better than mine.)

I also learned how to be resourceful. One particular Sunday I thought I'd figured out a great way to beat the system, and the perpetual boredom of that hour long service. I smuggled the latest Nancy Drew into the choir loft under my burgundy polyester robe. I thought I was brilliant -- it was a foolproof way to both pass the time AND be quiet. Two birds with one stone! And things were splendid until I caught my mom glaring at me from across the church. (She has a phenomenal evil-eye so it's worth noting that her solitary arched eyebrow can stop you cold in your tracks. Ask any of her former students.) Apparently I was not very covert. I mean, who would guess that being hunched down in the pew with the book propped up on my knees would be a dead-give-away that I wasn't paying rapt attention?

Brooke and I also proved that we had quite a knack for dexterity during those long church services. We were masters of the skillfully placed spit-ball, minus the spit. We'd take turns rolling very small pieces of paper into teeny little paper bombs, and then, in a display of expert marksmanship, we'd launch them off the balcony railing in an effort to see who was the most adept at accurately hitting the target below us. The target, naturally, was the rack of an anonymous woman* sporting the most enormous ta-ta's we'd ever seen. Not only did they extend straight out, they also stood straight up, and frankly, they were just begging to be used as a paper-ball-trampoline for our entertainment. We hit the majority of our shots, but our success was short-lived. Eventually, we were banned from the balcony. Our parents forbade us to sit up there ever again. At least not together.

So maybe I can't remember exactly why Gepetto** was swallowed by the whale, or why Joshua was so intent on winning the battle of Geritol***, but I do think I walked away with the important stuff. It's the stuff I try to pass onto my own kids. Be kind. Love one another -- not just when it's easy, but also when it's hard. Be tolerant and respectful of everyone's differences, knowing that variety and diversity make our lives richer. Judge not. Offer grace and a helping hand to everyone -- and especially to the ones who need it most. Say you're sorry. Practice forgiveness. Trust. Have faith, give of yourself, and do the best you can.

This is not to say that I have all those lessons nailed; That I exude grace under pressure, or that I'm tolerant of viewpoints that are one hundred and eighty degrees from my own. I can freely admit that I don't always have the most grace in that regard. But I work on it every day. We all do. Even when we're chillin' on the couch on Sunday mornings reading the paper instead of getting dressed for church. I'm at peace with our choices, and I know God understands. After all, She has children too.

* * * * *

* Let me take this moment to extend my apologies to this poor woman, who must have had to muster up all the inner-strength she had in order to stay in her seat and pretend there was not a steady stream of paper raindrops cascading down in front of her face and bouncing heartily off her chest. She would have been well within her rights to march up the stairs and throttle the kids who thought there was nothing funnier than watching little balls of paper spring up off her boobies. Lady, if you're out there, I'm sorry. But, dang, that was funny.

** Just kidding, mom. I know it was Jonah.

*** Mrs. Ertle let us sing it like that, so that's how I remember it.

House

2009-04-14T16:35:00.003-04:00

Here, let me set the stage for you:
The neighbor kids are over, and just a few minutes ago they were all playing upstairs with the bedroom doors shut. I was (and still am) sitting at the desk right outside the bedrooms uploading some recent pictures onto our computer. One of the doors just swung wide open and Gibson came out of the room with a ring of old house keys in his palm. He slung the door shut and blazed onto the landing, surrounded by this air of purpose -- sort of like he was on a mission.
"What'cha doin' Bud?" I asked.
"We're playin' house." He replied. "So I'm goin' to work."

Which made me laugh because I guess that is a lot how "House" goes around here these days.

"Oh!" he paused mid-step and spun on his heel. Then he walked back into the room mumbling "I forgot to feed the kids and the dog......"

The Scientific Method

2009-03-28T16:16:00.004-04:00

I have pink toilet bowls. Not that they're supposed to be. They're not. In fact, they're supposed to be white -- your standard toilet bowl color. But mine are covered in about a quarter-inch of pinkish funk.

I know. Gross.

You may, at this point, be wondering A.) what in the world has caused this disgustingness, and B.) why in the world I would broadcast it to the public at large. Well, we in the Kafsky household, are in the middle of a colossal scientific experiment. An experiment that may just blow the minds of geneticists world-wide. Because you see, Internet, it would appear that I'm the only person in this household who knows how to flush. I have no idea why this is. Perhaps the inability to flush a toilet lies on the Y chromosome. Perhaps you have to be in possession of a uterus to actually be put off by urine fermenting in a toilet all day. And perhaps it is because I'm in possession of that double X chromosome that I'm driven not only to flush, but also to actually scrub a toilet once it starts to become unsightly.

Given the likelihood of the possibilities, I decided to conduct a real, true scientific experiment. That's right. The real deal. I'm using the scientific method, and I plan on reporting my findings to the United Scientists of America. Or maybe just to my other mommy-friends. We'll see.......

In order to be authentic and concordant with facts, we are doing this sucker by the book. Here is your exclusive inside peek at the scientific method at work:

1. Ask A Question:
As the sole possessor of a uterus, am I the only human being in this household who is bothered by funky toilet bowls to the extent that I will clean them?

2. Construct a Hypothesis:
Because I am an eternal optimist, I will hypothesize that those in my household who are in possession of a Y chromosome -- and thus not in possession of a uterus -- will, if given ample opportunity, take on the cleaning of the progressively funky toilet bowls in question. (I mean surely - FOR THE LOVE OF GOD - another member of my household will notice the filth and see fit to clean them.)

3. Test Your Hypothesis by Doing an Experiment:
I shall ignore the condition of the toilets in question for an extended period of time -- let's say 3 weeks so they have ample time to get good and disgusting-- what with all the non-flushing and marinating in urine thing they all have going on. During this time period, while I shall not initiate any cleaning, I will do my part by continuing to flush as usual.

4. Analyze Your Data and Draw a Conclusion:
Analysis: At the conclusion of the assigned 3 week time period, there continues to be a quarter-inch of pinkish slime coating the inside of all 3 toilet bowls in our household. There has been no attempt on the part of anyone in possession of a Y chromosome to rectify this situation, nor has there been any significant evidence that they have even noticed that they pee into filth. I, as the conductor of this experiment, find this to be completely baffling, being that the possessors of the Y chromosomes STAND UP TO PEE, and thus STARE INTO THE TOILET BOWL 18 TIMES A DAY.
Conclusion: Those in possession of a Y chromosome - and thus no uterus - seem to be incapable of detecting when, exactly, a toilet bowl is in serious need of a good scrubbing. Indeed, contrary to my stated hypothesis, given plenty of time and ample opportunity, they seem to be completely oblivious to filth in the bathroom. And if not oblivious, certainly not motivated to clean it.

5. Communicate Your Results:
Me: "I cleaned the toilets today because I couldn't take it anymore."
Mike: "Yeah..... They were pretty disgusting..."

Nobel Peace Prize -- Here I come............

When Facebook reunions go awry.....

2009-03-23T10:31:00.005-04:00

I love Facebook. Love it. In the first year that I'd created my account, I spent a good chunk of time checking in every single day in any spare minute I had. My husband made fun of me, but I was enthralled. What was everyone up to? Who might show up in my in-box next? It was perfect for a small town girl -- the equivalent of rounding the grocery store isle and coming face to face with someone you grew up with, but probably haven't seen or spoken to in 15 years. If you have a Facebook account, you know what I mean.... Every time someone new pops up it's like: "HOLY COW! JOE SCHMOE!!!! What are you doing here? How have you been? What have you been up to? Where do you live? Are you married? Do you have any kids?" And you spend a few Facebook sessions chatting, or posting on each other's walls, looking through their pictures and piecing together the past few years. Stumbling into all these old friends and acquaintances was a blast -- and I ate it up. And then one day, while surfing through all my "friends" I made a fantastic discovery. A girl I went to school with lived right here in Charlotte! And not just anywhere in Charlotte...... Really close! No more than a fifteen minute drive. I immediately pointed this out to her in a wall post, and we went to work making plans to try to get together.

As it happens -- because we all have busy lives -- it took us at least 3 tries over a 2 month span to actually pull it off. But one sunny Sunday, we managed to connect at Outback for lunch. Mike was working, and her significant other was out of town, so of course we each brought our kids -- all boys. Mine ages 6 and 4. Hers, age 3. It was a fun - yet mildly chaotic - reunion, as it tends to be anytime kids are crowded around a public table. We did our best to catch each other up on the past decade and a half, in between placing orders, making bathroom runs, and corralling young children bored by our banter. After about an hour at the restaurant, we'd managed to have about 15 minutes worth of a conversation.

"Is there a park near here?" I asked. I felt like we were just getting started, and I wasn't really ready to wrap it up. We debated for a while about where the best place to go might be, and then I finally said "You know, I live close to here. It's a beautiful afternoon, why don't we pick up some beer and hang out at my house. We can hang out in the backyard and the kids can play." We agreed that it sounded like a good plan, we got into our cars, and she followed me to my house. We spent the afternoon indulging in a few cold ones, catching each other up on our lives, and gossiping about high school. The kids played in the yard, climbed trees, and pretended to be spies -- crawling around us on their bellies. It was fun.

It was an unseasonably warm day and one O'clock turned into three O'clock, which turned into five O'clock. I invited her to stay for dinner. "We have plenty" I said. "Y'all are more than welcome to eat with us. And you can meet my husband." We moved into the kitchen so I could put the pots on the stove, get the pasta started, and sautee onions and garlic for the sauce while we chatted. When Mike called to say he was on his way home, I filled him in on our afternoon, and then told him that I'd invited my friend and her son to stay and eat with us.

A few minutes later Mike came in the door and I introduced him to my friend from high school. He shook her hand and told her it was nice to meet her. She returned the greeting, then turned back to our conversation. We'd been talking about a guy we'd grown up with, and she'd been telling me that she'd always had a crush on him. We'd been giggling about it right before Mike came in, and the conversation steered right back to where we'd left off. Except that the conversation took a turn I wasn't expecting. "I always thought he'd have the biggest d*ck!" she spouted. "I mean, I totally would have F*&#ed him."

"WHAT!?" I turned and looked at her, and then shot a surprised look over at my husband. He turned and left the room. And then I laughed -- sort of nervously -- because I was so incredibly uncomfortable with what just happened. And did I mention that her 3 year old son was sitting on the couch 10 feet away? Well, he was.

And that right there should have been the first indication that this entire evening was about to go straight into the shitter. That everything was about to go terribly, horribly wrong. But in my eternal optimism, I reasoned with myself that it was just a slip -- I mean everyone has one now and then, right? And that surely she realized how inappropriate her comment was. Perhaps it was an attempt to be funny..... And when your jokes fall flat, you quit telling them, right? Right?

She followed Mike outside, and I got dinner on the table. I set the kitchen table for the adults, and set the table on the back patio for the kids. I thought they'd like to eat out there, and having them out of ear-shot would settle my nerves. But, of course, once we all started eating they came inside. "We want to eat with you!" they announced. I could tell that Mike didn't like the idea, but he was silent about it. Me? I didn't particularly like the idea either but I also didn't want to create a big scene. I mean the kids were oblivious to the rising tension -- as was my friend -- and I wanted to keep it that way. I figured that we'd shuffle some chairs around, shovel food into everybody, and then get them out the door to put an end to the rapidly deteriorating evening.

But the pasta was hot. Way too hot for the kids. I knew it would be, because in my haste to get this all done and over-with, I'd accidentally spilled the red-pepper flakes. The recipe calls for a few, but there were lots. I'd scooped out as many as I could, and added some more broth to try to even it out, but to no avail. It was on fire. And the kids were all complaining about it.

"You know.....It's OK. You don't have to eat it." I said. "Maybe just eat the tomatoes......" But even that wasn't working very well. "It's HOT!" they all protested. Her 3 year-old started crying a little.

"It's not that bad! Just eat it! Just eat it you pu$$y!" she yelled at him. Mike's head snapped up. I stared at her in disbelief. Did she just call her 3 year old something completely vulgar at my dinner table?! And then, to my utter dismay, and apparently just for good measure, she repeated herself. "STOP IT!" I said. "STOP SAYING THAT!!" Then, she stood up from the table, stared at her little boy, and cocked her fist back like she was going to hit him. He cowered a little, and she laughed, because you know, it's absolutely hilarious to pretend like you're going to punch your child.
"Eat it!" she said. "Shut up and Eat it you little pu%^y!"

Mike pushed his chair back from the table, and said in the quietest most steely voice I've ever heard "I am taking our kids to get ice cream, because we are getting the Hell out of here. Call me when this mess is cleaned up." I nodded in complete agreement and the two of us jumped up from the table. "All done?" I asked, as I swiped plates and dumped them in the garbage. "Here, let me get that for you..." In less than 5 seconds I had cleared the table, scraped the plates into the trash can, and stacked them by the sink. Mike leaned over my shoulder, "Rach," he said into my ear "You can't let her drive..... She's hammered. She's completely out of control. She'll kill somebody. And she can't drive with her little boy..."
"Don't worry..." I whispered. "I won't let her get behind the wheel.... Just get the kids out of here. I'll call you as soon as she's gone."

Mike swept the kids out of the house, loaded them into the car, and disappeared down the street. I went back into the house and then out the back door to find my friend, who had wondered out of the house in her stupor. "Let me call Brian." I said. "Let me have him come and get you." She sank down on the back step. "Please don't call him." she begged. "Please....... He hates me."
"He doesn't hate you....." I tried to reassure her.
"Yes he does." She cried. "He hates me for who I am...." And then she dissolved in tears right there on the back step.

I did my best to console her, and then dug the phone book out of the closet to start calling cab companies. After a few calls, I found someone who was in our area and who agreed to schedule the pick-up. In the meantime, she took a phone call from her boyfriend who I can only assume accused her of being out and drunk, because she protested again and again, and then insisted over and over again that she was just sitting at home. I wondered how she thought she was going to pull that off.

I checked my watch - it was 7:00pm - and speculated about how long it might take the cab to get here. I cleaned the kitchen while she wandered aimlessly out into the back yard. And as I loaded the dishwasher and counted the minutes dragging by, I heard her yelling at her little boy. She called him profane names because he was whiny, because he was tired, and because he wouldn't stand up. Names, by the way, that all my neighbors could hear through their open windows.

I took her keys and moved her car out onto the street. Then we stood together in the front yard and I explained that I'd called a cab -- that it would be here any minute. "You just can't drive, OK? You can get your car tomorrow......." She thanked me for calling a cab, and then tried to sit down on the edge of the flowerbed to wait. But instead of sitting down, she fell over. I helped her up, and we sat for a minute until the cab pulled up in front of the house.

Her son was understandably worried about getting into the cab with a strange man. He cried, and squirmed, and tried to get away from the unfamiliar car we were trying to put him into. She struggled with him, and he cried harder.
"Can you open the other door?!" I asked the driver. I'm sure I looked desperate. I was. The driver clicked the button and told me it was open. I crawled through the back to help her son calm down and help him sit in his seat.
"Hey buddy", I forced a smile at him. "It's OK. This man is going to take you to your house. He's going to drive you home." He stared at me with his earnest little brown eyes and stopped crying. I smiled harder. "I'm going to buckle you into this seat belt, and this nice man is going to drive you home. OK?" He nodded. "It's going to be OK, alright buddy? Everything is going to be OK." He nodded, and smiled, and that's what did me in. Because I was telling this child that everything was going to be OK, when I was pretty sure it wasn't. I mean, he'd get home safely.....that much was true. But I felt pretty sure that there was no way on God's green Earth that everything was going to be OK.

They pulled away and I walked back into my house as drained as one person can possibly be. How did she manage to drink so much without me realizing it? How did I manage to be so caught off guard? How did I not recognize that she was getting so out of control? But honestly, it was like a switch flipped the minute Mike walked in the door, and this whole other person emerged from her body. It was horrible. And the fact that her 3 year-old was caught in the middle of this horrendous experience? It was too much.

I called Mike to tell him she was gone and he told me that they hadn't ordered yet, so I went to meet them. The boys were thrilled about being at the ice-cream store, and chattered excitedly about which flavor and topping they were going to get. Mike put his arm around me, and I stood there running the last hour through my mind and trying hard not to cry in public. It took me days to shake it off -- to get rid of that awful pit in my stomach. In fact, I'm not really sure I have.

As it stands now, I don't log into Facebook as often as I used to. And these days, when I do, I do it with a little cringe. It's lost it's luster. The excitement I once had about re-connecting with people I grew up with has been replaced by a feeling of trepidation. Instead of being fun and carefree, I wonder what kind of can of worms I might be unintentionally cracking the lid on.

So if I see you on Facebook, I might chat you up a little. Perhaps I'll even send you an email. But don't be offended if I don't invite you over for a beer.

And this is how you prove it.......

2009-02-17T17:47:00.005-05:00

I'm not entirely sure what's going on in the cosmos lately, but the boys are constantly picking at each other over the most utterly mundane things -- and the tattling, the nit-picking, the non-stop arguing over who is right......well.....it's making me crazy. The latest in the long line of arguments happened after the bath last night.

Gibson, in all his self-righteousness insisted that Landis did not wash his neck thoroughly enough.

"YES I DID!" Countered Landis. And to prove he was right, he turned to me and demanded that I smell it. So, in order to keep the peace and put an end to the argument, I did. And it smelled just fine -- like whatever bar soap they have in there -- which I reported back to Gibson. "His neck smells fine. Now brush your teeth."

"Well, he didn't wash under his armpits at all!" yelled my oldest -- who, might I add, should be identified here as the main instigator.

"YES I DID!" Countered Landis. And to prove once again that he was right, he turned to me and demanded that I smell them. So, in order to keep the peace and put an end to the argument, I did. And they smelled just fine -- like whatever bar soap they have in there -- which I reported back to Gibson. "His armpits smell fine. Now brush your teeth."

"Well maybe he washed his armpits, but I know for a fact that he didn't wash his butt!" Gibson shot back.

At which point a thoroughly exasperated Landis countered "YES I DID!!!!" at the top of his indignant little lungs. And without further ado, he turned to me, dropped trow, bent over and demanded that I smell it.

Now, I don't know about you..... but I gotta' tell ya'........... as a parent, I've done some pretty gross things; Things I never thought I would do in a million years. And frankly, I'm so tired of all the bullshit and the fighting, that I'd be lying if I told you that I didn't briefly consider taking a whiff of that shiny little hiney, patiently waiting high in the air for my sniff and my verdict, just to shut them both up. But in the end, I declined. Because the arguing and bickering may be making me nuts, but I ain't interested in keeping the peace THAT badly.

And on this day, I managed not to pick a fight.

2009-02-15T12:27:00.004-05:00

You know, Internet, this whole "going back to full-time work" thing is really putting a crimp in my blogging style. At work I've got, like, deadlines and stuff. And when I get home, my husband wants me spend some time with him instead of typing on the computer. I mean, where are his priorities? Geesh....

But he's at work today, and I'm at home with an entire house to clean and a couch full of laundry to fold, and lots of dust and dog hair staring me down............. So.....TA-DA! It's posting time! You know.... Priorities, right?

Anyway...........Here's a little tid-bit I wanted to share with you. And before I get started, I will present to you my bona fide disclaimer: Mike has really stepped up to the plate where the household chores are concerned. With both of us working full-time, he's been doing laundry, cleaning the kitchen, and taking the initiative on all sorts of things that fell under my "domain" as the stay-at-home-parent. He's doing a good job and I'm officially and publicly acknowledging it. OK? OK.

And now, with my pesky little disclaimer out of the way, I shall proceed with my story........
Mike cleaned the heck out of the upstairs the other day. The boys rooms were spotless, all the toys on the landing were put away, the beds were made and the bathroom was clean. That takes some serious time and effort, and I know that. I do it ALL THE TIME.

But Mike was huffy because two days after he'd spent his afternoon cleaning and organizing and making things nice, the boys had gone upstairs and played with their toys. I forget why he'd gone up there, but he came back down grumbling and frustrated that he'd spent all that time cleaning up after them, and they'd gone upstairs and messed it all back up! The poor man was so annoyed that you could practically see the hair standing straight up off the top of his head.

So I listened to his grumbling, and I nodded sincerely and said "Yeah.... I know....... It's really frustrating." And then I gave him a reassuring little pat on his back and left the room. Because if I didn't I would have added: "It's a little like how I bust my behind every single day to do the enormous amounts of laundry that you guys create. I mean, I get it washed and dried and sometime put back away, and you guys go right back in and WEAR THOSE CLOTHES! AGAIN!

And every freakin' Saturday I have to get my behind to the grocery store because we're almost out of food. For cryin' out loud, I spend all this time planning meals that fit into our budget, and spend all this money buying it, and you guys just turn around and eat it. You EAT IT ALL. And you eat ALL THE TIME.

And how I keep vacuuming the floor, and yet you guys insist on coming back inside! From outside. Where there's dirt. And dried up leaves. And grass clippings. And whatever else you drag back in. And the dang dog has the nerve to come inside and shed -- SHED -- right back on my floors!

And the last time I scrubbed the toilets, at least one of you had the audacity to actually go right on in there and POOP IN IT! I mean, COME ON! I just spent my time cleaning it. Do you really have to use a toilet?! Can't you go outside to the neighbor's yard or something? And at the very least boys, can you please actually HIT THE TARGET?"

But I didn't say that. I didn't say any of it. I just left the room and had my own private little laugh instead. Because, Internet, I am a good wife. And I know how to choose my battles.

I was just wondering.....

2009-01-30T06:30:00.003-05:00

What is the appropriate reaction to have when your four year old randomly announces from the back seat of the car, that no one has to worry because he does NOT have any poop in his pants. I mean, doesn't that go without saying?

A lesson in phonics

2009-01-24T07:52:00.007-05:00

Gibson is learning to read. And to spell. Which is going to be a problem in the near future because Mike and I always resort to that top-secret-spelling-code that all parents use to avoid a super-charged reaction from the kids before we know for sure that whatever we are about to suggest is actually an option. You know what I mean.... You look across the dinner table and ask "Do we have any c-o-o-k-i-e-s?", or ask casually at breakfast "were you planning on g-o-i-n-g h-i-k-i-n-g with them today?" No parent wants to get their kids completely jazzed about a possibility that's not really going to happen.

So last night, in the car, when I asked Mike if he thought we should get a movie, I spelled it. And I can only assume that what the boys heard was something to the effect of "Should we go get a blah-dee-blah-blah?" Well........let me tell you, that got Gibson's attention, and he went right to work trying to figure it out. "What did you just spell?! What did you just spell?!" Then he knit his little brow and tried to sound out the letters of our top secret code word.

This is new for him. Usually, if we ask him to sound something out, he just blows us off and walks away, slumping his shoulders and muttering something under his breath about how he doesn't really want to. So it probably goes without saying that we were excited when he wanted to try it; That he was actually breaking a word down without any prodding from us.

Slowly, he figured out the 'M' and was working on de-coding the 'O'. Inspired by this sudden burst of self-confidence, Mike tried to help him out. "Do you know what kind of sound a long 'O' makes?" he asked. And from the backseat, it was Landis who answered:
"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh".
Landis is only four, so I was shocked that he actually knew what a long 'O' was. More than shocked, I was impressed. Landis is a whiz, and I am continually taken aback by how smart he is.
"Great!" said Mike. "Now do you know what sound a short 'O' makes?" Again, the answer came from Landis. His reply?

"Oh."

And as his answer began to sink in, I started laughing -- Then laughing harder. And finally, I pulled the car into a parking lot because I was laughing so hard I was crying and I couldn't really see where I was going or what I was doing. And if I caused an accident, I didn't think the police officer responding to the call would find it nearly as hysterical as I did. "How did I manage to cause a ten-car pile-up? Well you see officer, my husband asked if anyone knew what sound a long 'O' made.........(Snort, giggle, snort, snort) and do you know what my son said? (Snort, giggle, gasp) he said OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! (snort, gasp, giggle, giggle) Get it? (giggle) Do ya GET IT?! (snort) It's a LONG Oh!!!!!!" (This is the part where my legs collapse as I lose the ability to stand, and instead fall down and roll around in parking lot, guffaw-ing like a mad-woman).

I mean, let's face it. The poor guy would lose his patience with me -- and rightly so -- as I bent over and laughed uproariously, grasping at my stomach and slapping at my thighs. Plus, I don't think that a "laughing hard" defense would hold up in a court of law when I'd get arrested for disorderly conduct and/or get myself a "driving while impaired" citation. And then maybe he'd drag me downtown and have me tested for drugs, because he wouldn't know me and wouldn't know that in my case this sort of unruly behavior is fairly normal. That I, in fact, find lots of things to be downright hilarious.

So, um yeah... anyway........ I pulled into the parking lot a tried to get ahold of myself.
Which I did. Eventually. But even now, as I type this, it continues to crack me up. I'm sitting here re-living the conversation, chuckling quietly, and typing away with a huge smile on my face. And thank God I'm alone, because if anyone saw me, I know they would wonder if I had gone completely off the deep end.

So how about you? What has happened to you lately that made you laugh until you cried? Or made you wander around for days with a giggle just under the surface of the smile plastered across your face?

The Holy Trinity

2009-01-19T18:33:00.001-05:00

It's supposed to snow tomorrow. I don't really believe it, because if you know anything about the local news in Charlotte, you know that they love nothing more than to REPORT HOW THE WEATHER IS GOING TO CAUSE DEATH AND DESTRUCTION TO YOUR FAMILY AND WREAK HAVOC ON YOUR LIFE IN UNSPEAKABLE WAYS. Seriously. It's ridiculous.

But Gibson has heard all the weather reports, and he knows that snow is a possibility. And he's dying for it. In fact, he said a little prayer in the backseat of the car today. It went like this: "Please, please, please let it snow tomorrow. (Raising eyes Heaven-ward) Santa, God, and Jesus? Come on! I know you can do it!"

(** Edited to add: Hey! Whadda ya know!? The kid gets a snow day. Who says prayers go unanswered? **)

Have you been hanging out with your college friends again?

2009-01-12T19:52:00.008-05:00

I don't know if your kids do this, but mine like to sing songs they hear on the radio and substitute or insert words they think are funny. They're the usual suspects -- "potty words" like butt(s), poo, poop, poopy, wee-nus, etc.... So I hardly batted an eyelash when they started singing back and forth -- each trying to out do the other -- while they worked on their snowman projects at the kitchen table. They'd exhausted their regular list of funny words, and Gibson paused from his project as he tried to come up with something else to insert into the song they were singing.

And then I saw his face brighten a little, and with a triumphant little glow he crowed his newest version of the song back across the table to Landis. He was clearly proud of his word selection; It was funny sounding, but not one they think about very often, as it doesn't have that "potty" connotation they are always hoping for. But it had to do with a body part -- butts to be exact -- so I can only assume that this is where the connection came in.

And so, Ladies and Gentlemen, without further ado I present to you the lyric that Gibson came up with. It's sung to the tune of "I like to move it, move it.......". Please feel free to sing along.
I like to spank it, spank it!
I like to spank it, spank it!
I like to spank it spank it!
SPANK IT!

Go ahead. See if you can go the rest of the day without singing that. Without singing that exact version. I dare you.

Landis was sitting at the table too, though he was looking wistfully off into the distance lost in his own thoughts. Quietly, he said "What if there was a race? A naked race. And you could see everyone's butts as they ran by." Then grinning wickedly he looked straight across the table at Gibson and added "A naked race would be fun. We'd laugh and laugh because everyone would be running and you could see everyone's butts." And then he threw his head back and cackled. And folks, I swear right then and there I could see the future.

"All right boys," I sighed, "Let's reign it back in. You'll be in college soon enough."

Twas the night before Christmas........

2008-12-26T18:09:00.010-05:00

Twas just before Christmas -- eight-thirty at night
the kids were still up, their eyes were still bright.
We'd had our big dinner -- roast pork and cranberries --
The tableside chatter was lively and merry.

We baked cookies for Santa; A plate we were fixin'
for Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen.
And for Comet and Cupid and Donner, of course!
And for Blitzen and Rudolf (who eats like a horse!)

Then finally (Finally!) the kids were in bed
and visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
Mike went to the kitchen and made a night cap
and then stockings we stuffed and the presents we wrapped.

The wrapping took hours, and midnight drew near.
Our cutting and taping was into high gear!
And when we were done, I wandered to bed.
I fell on my face and I slept like the dead.

And then at some point in the still of the night
We awoke to a sound and a terrible fright!
From up on the stairs there arose such a clatter
Mike sprang from the bed to see what was the matter!

Up on the landing, with a wheeze and a whoop
our poor little Gibson was fighting the Croup*.
He coughed, and he barked, and he gasped and he choked
like for 99 years he'd breathed nothing but smoke.

"Dad!" Gibson yelped, staring Mike in the eye.
"Daddy! I think that I'm going to die!"
Mike scooped him up. He knew just what to do.
We'd had this before. Out the front door he flew.

He sat Gib outside. Let him breathe the cold air.
But our Christmas Eve temp was incredibly rare.
Sixty Degrees! Oh My Lord, it was balmy!
But when you need COLD, well.. it wasn't too calming.

So Gibson continued to gasp and to wheeze
while I was in bed, catching up on my Zzzz's.
Not Mike. He was on it -- so lively and quick!
He had up his sleeve another fine trick!

He altered his course, his movements, they flashed.
He ran through the house! To the bathroom he dashed!
He turned on the shower and sat Gibson down
he watched him breathe loudly and said with a frown

"You stay here little buddy, and try to recover.
I have to go downstairs and wake up your mother."
More rapid than eagles, his footsteps they came.
As he ran down the stairs, he was calling my name.

"Rachel!" he said, "Gibson's a mess!
He can't catch is breath, and I think that unless
he starts to get better, we might have to go!
Which hospital's closest? Tell me...Do you know?

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the second floor bathroom I flew,
with my stress-level rising, and my blood pressure too!

He sat on the toilet, a miserable elf,
and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
He was dressed in Pj's, his hair damp from the steam
which made the whole sequence seem like a bad dream.

His eyes, they were focused. His face was not merry.
His chubby white cheeks were as red as a cherry.
His poor little mouth was as round as an "O".
He breathed in. He breathed out. The air started to flow.

We watched him suck air in and out through his teeth
and the steam, it encircled his head like a wreath.
"He's better!" said Mike. "I think he's improving!
He's out of the woods! He can get his breath moving!"

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
soon gave us to know we had nothing to dread.
He gave us a nod, and then wiped off his nose,
and pushed himself up -- off the toilet he rose.

We gave him some meds, tucked him into our bed
and then I snuggled in to prop up his small head.
I lay there beside him, awake and afloat.
It was like a kazoo was lodged into his throat.

Somehow, after while, it calmed down to a whistle
and my sheets were as soft as the down of a thistle.
We all drifted off before dawn was in sight.
Merry Christmas to all! And to all a Good Night!

* Any condition of the larynx or trachea characterized by a loud bark-ish sounding cough and difficult breathing. (Doesn't that sound like FUN!!?)

Apparently, it's good news all around......

2008-12-23T11:30:00.003-05:00

Guess what, Internet? I got a full-time job! No joking. After four blissful years of stay-at-home-parenting (read: working your ass into the ground 24/7 and not getting paid for it) I am returning to the world of full time work. Which certainly doesn't mean that I'll get a reprieve from working my ass into the ground... it just means that I'll actually see some revenue for it. Hooray!!!!!!

This is not to say that I haven't enjoyed my stint at a stay-at-home mommy. I have. It has truly been an experience like no other, and for the most part, it's been wonderful. Four years ago, when Landis was born and Mike and I made the decision to stay on this track, we knew that it would be a big financial sacrifice. And it has been. (Folks, there have been months that have been, ummmmm, welllllllll.......let's just say "tight" and leave it at that.) But we also knew that we were lucky to be able to make this decision, since so many families don't have a choice. So we scrimped and we pinched and we budgeted ourselves down to the very last penny. We made enormous sacrifices, but we were glad to do it because we knew that the boys would appreciate the trade off.

So when I learned that I was getting this job, I sat Gibson down to talk about the changes that could happen in our household. I explained that I was going to go back to work. I explained that this meant that I wouldn't be home for them all the time. And I explained that, depending on how it all worked out, they might need to start attending an afterschool program or that we might have to have a babysitter in the afternoons. I was a little worried that a monumental change like this might rock his world -- That he might be a little apprehensive because mommy wasn't going to be there for him every day when he got off the bus. I was prepared to ease his fears, calm him if he was distressed, and I braced myself so I could readily address his concerns.................

I shouldn't have bothered. Because after I spilled the news, his big blue eyes lit up like Christmas candles. He danced all around the kitchen in sheer delight and said: "That's AWESOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Can we have Garrie?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!"

(Sigh......................)

Bathtime fun

2008-12-17T14:41:00.005-05:00

Last night at bathtime, I left the boys alone to soap up and shampoo while I went upstairs to grab PJ's. It's no big deal, as they are really self-sufficient and can execute a body scrubbing and hair washing without any problem. (You'll note that I said "can". By that I mean they are perfectly able. And let's be clear here: I am by no means implying that they ever actually DO it on any sort of regular basis. However they are indeed perfectly able.)

Before bathtime, I'd looked both of them in the eye and stressed that we were in a bit of a hurry. I told them I'd need them to get down to business. No playing around, no toys. Just a quick scrub-down and shampooing. And believe it or not, they were actually doing it -- with no reminders from me. They got in, they scrubbed, and they didn't mess around at all! I was so proud of them for how well they were listening. The entire process of bathtime went so much faster than I thought it would -- and with considerably less water on the floor -- that I had to dash for the PJ's because I was the one who wasn't ready.

Wanna guess what they did while I was gone?

Go on........

Guess.

No guesses? OK. I'll tell you.

Apparently, while I was gone, they were taking the opportunity to have a brotherly stand off. A water-fight of sorts. Folks, they were WHIZZING ON EACH OTHER!!!!!! That's right. You heard me. They were whizzing on each other in the bathtub. Mike walked in and found them standing face-to-face, with weapons drawn, in full assault.

The issue of actually peeing on each other aside, this leaves me with 3 questions:

1. How do they even have that much urine in their bodies when I made them both pee before they ever got in the tub?
2. Why are boys like this?
3. Why did they wait to do it until AFTER they were clean?

I will be eternally grateful to anyone who can give me answers to these questions. In fact, I will put you in my will of you can give me the answer to question number 2.

One Big Happy Family of Monkeys

2008-12-07T17:08:00.008-05:00

So everyone keeps asking me how my Thanksgiving was. They all knew I was hosting twenty of my in-laws at our house over the extended weekend, and my standard reply has been "It was great! A little like unleashing wild monkeys in my house, but yeah.... it was Great." And after a while, I realized I'd made that reference so often that I thought I should look on-line to see if there was any information out there about what it's actually like to unleash wild monkeys in your house. Not only did the Internet turn up a plethora of info on this exact subject, but it turns out that it IS in fact similar to just what we experienced at Thanksgiving -- and well, if I'm honest, what we experience at any holiday in which we all get together under one roof.

Take for example the snippet that says "Monkeys are messy. They can't really be effectively toilet trained and sometimes engage in distasteful activities involving their feces and urine." For the record, my washer and dryer just simultaneously shouted "Ya THINK?!?!?!" And then I think I heard one of them give a disgusted snort. Though to be fair, they are still grumpy from being abused non-stop over the 4 day weekend. Don't get me wrong, they're used to getting a regular work-out, but it's nothing like the punishment we bestowed upon them over the holiday -- And distasteful disposal of urine and feces were just the start of it. Those poor appliances are still trying to catch their breath, but at least they aren't panting anymore.

Oh -- and how about this little addendum: "Aside from the toileting messes, monkeys can be extremely mischievous and destructive, especially if bored." Ummmmmm, yeah...... Mischievous. Did I mention how many kids were in and out of the house all day long? And how our front yard was littered with so many random objects that it looked like the Clampitt's had moved to town? Or how there were articles of clothing hanging from the trees? And the random climbing rope hanging between two trees that may or may not have been used as a home-made zip-line?

The article goes on to point out that monkeys are unpredictable and may turn aggressively on anyone, including the person to whom they are the closest. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA........!!!! Does anyone else think this is hilarious when applied to holiday get-togethers? Oh my... Oh my... Hang on.... I have to compose myself...........

"A wide range of diseases can be passed from monkeys to humans." Or, as we discovered, from children to children and/or children to adults! Hooray!

"Monkeys are expensive to house and feed, and some require specialized diets that can be time consuming to prepare." Not unlike preparing a Thanksgiving feast for twenty that includes a 20 pound turkey, various options for the vegetarians, and options for those with a gluten/wheat allergy.

"A significant commitment of time is needed just for routine care and cleaning up after a monkey" As proven by the solid week it took me to get my house back in order. Oh who am I kidding? It's still a wreck.........

"But more importantly a monkey needs a large amount of social interaction and attention from the owner." Amen, Brothers and Sisters. Isn't that what makes it all worth it in the end? Isn't that exactly why why we do it all in the first place?

So, it appears that my comparison was right. Our Thanksgiving was great. It was chaotic and lively and boisterous and lawless and EXACTLY like setting wild monkeys loose in our house. And I'm excited to do it all again in two weeks -- at my sister-in-law's.

The Sunday Night Chronicles

2008-11-24T12:26:00.009-05:00

9:00pm -- I stretch, yawn and push myself up off the couch, announcing that I'm going to bed because I'm incredibly tired and would really like to get a good night's sleep.

9:30pm -- I brush and floss, put on my PJ's and pad out to the family room to tell Mike goodnight.

9:40pm -- I burrow under the covers and curl up with my book. I read two pages and start to doze........

11:30pm -- I snap awake worried that I've overslept my alarm. I sit up and look at the clock. (Sigh....) I put my book on the nightstand, turn off the lamp and go back to sleep.

12:15am -- Landis shows up bedside, announces that he's getting in and directs me to scoot over. I peel one eye open and tell him to go around. He argues, and insists that I scoot over. Being in no mood for a debate, I inform him in no uncertain terms that I am not moving. I give him two choices: Go around and get in on other side, or go up to his own bed. He cries and says he does not want to sleep next to Gibby. I peel other eye open and tell him that Gibby is not in this bed, that Gibby is, in fact, in his own bed, and that if he does not stop crying he can march his little bootie back up to HIS OWN BED too.

12:17am -- Landis finally quits crying long enough to realize that he has the entire other side of bed to himself, quits arguing, goes around and climbs in.

1:34am -- I snap awake, convinced I've overslept alarm. I look at the clock, (Sigh.....) and go back to sleep.

2:36am -- Landis rolls over and decides that the most comfortable sleeping position for him would be DIRECTLY ON TOP OF ME. He sighs deeply in his sleep and says "Mom, you play the tuba." "OK" I reply, glancing at the clock and wondering exactly how many minutes of sleep I've managed to get thus far. "I'll play the clarinet........." he says. "OK." I reply. ".......AND the accordion." he sighs. "Whatever floats your boat..." I tell him, and I gingerly work my way out from under him, scoot him back over to the other side of the bed and go back to sleep.

3:11am - I have a dream that it's 5:19am and that I've overslept my alarm by almost an hour and a half. I dream that I'm running, running, running..... Trying to call someone -- ANYONE -- to help me fix it. I bolt upright, lunge at the alarm clock and realize I'm dreaming. I roll over and wonder if waking up every hour to an accelerated heart rate actually qualifies as a decent night's sleep before dozing off again.

4:00am -- The alarm goes off. I hit snooze.

4:04am -- The snooze alarm goes off. I lay there contemplating how dangerous it would be for me to just.....close....my....eyes.............for...............one..............more...............................minute................

4:09am -- I jerk my eyeballs open, throw the covers back, and climb out of bed.

Sick

2008-11-22T12:22:00.001-05:00

Gibson ran a fever for a few days -- a mystery fever than came with no other symptoms. No chills, no sore throat, no upset tummy, no achiness. It was just a fever -- but it was high enough for us to decide to keep him out of school.

All day long, for 2 days straight, we had the same conversations:
"Can I play with Alex?"
"No. You have a fever. You need to rest."
"Can I go outside?"
"No you have a fever. Why don't you lay on the couch and rest?"
"Can I ride my bike? I feel OK."
"No. You have a fever. Why don't you watch cartoons and rest? Your body needs to rest."

Finally, nearing the end of the second day, I said "Gibson, why don't you go upstairs and clean up your toys? You've been playing like crazy and you've made a huge mess up there."

To which Gibson flopped down on the couch with his arm draped over his eyes Scarlett-O'Hara-Style and replied, "Mom! I can't! I have a fever and I need to lay down on this couch and rest."

Have kids? Get a life insurance policy.....

2008-11-21T11:13:00.005-05:00

My son is trying to kill me. I'm convinced of it. There can be no other explanation for the recent events that have taken place in the wee-hours of the morning in our otherwise peaceful household. I'll present my case and you can draw your own conclusions.

Let's start with Wednesday morning. Some of you know that I open the Y a few days a week. That being the case, I roll out of bed at 4:00am. (Well, OK......I hit snooze at 4:00am. I roll out of bed at 4:10.... but it's all the same at that hour, isn't it?) I get myself dressed, take steps to address my bedhead, and brush my teeth before I tip-toe out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. The house is still and silent, and my movements are calculated in order to make sure I don't inadvertently wake anyone up. The refrigerator door is opened slowly and silently, my breakfast is put quietly into my bag, and I wrap my keys in my fist so that they don't jingle against one another on my way out the door. On Wednesday, I stopped at the hall-tree to grab my winter jacket, because it was literally freezing outside. Twenty-three degrees to be exact. I unhooked my coat and slid my arms into it, and then bent to pick up the bag I had silently placed on the floor. As I did, a sharp and punctuated sound came out of the dark stillness above my head. It came from the upstairs balcony and it rang out like a shot. It said "MOM??!!" and I am here to tell you, I almost had a heart attack and died right there on the door mat. So after I'd gotten up off the floor, regained my composure, stopped convulsing, and checked my pants, Gibson and I had a conversation about what I was doing, where I was going, and whether or not daddy was still here. (On a side note, the way that kid worries about us leaving him forever, I'm pretty sure he was abandoned in a past life......) Eventually he determined that all was OK, and went back to bed. But me? I was WIDE awake. Who needs coffee in the morning when you can have a near-death experience instead?

Now, let's cut to last night. Gibson kind of had a rough one. I think he sometimes has nightmares -- and he sleeps like a rock, so it's hard to get him to snap out of it. I'd gone up to his room a couple of times to try to soothe him, as he was half crying and kicking around in bed. It took a few tries, but I'd finally managed to get him settled down and had gone back to bed for the 3rd time that night -- completely exhausted and just hoping I could get some uninterrupted sleep until morning reared it's ugly head. But at some point in the wee hours of the night, Gibson had woken up and wandered downstairs to our bedroom. Mike heard him coming -- which is a freakin' miracle in itself -- and was in the process of getting out of bed to see what he needed. This means that when Gibson tottered into our room, instead of quietly walking over to the bed and waking us up like he usually does, he came face-to-face with a six-foot-nine-inch figure looming over him in the dark. So he did what any normal six year old would do........ He screamed. And I don't know how you react when you go from a dead-sleep to a blood-curdling scream in your face at 3:00am, but I can tell you what I did. I shot straight up out of bed, and clung to the ceiling with my nails while I convulsed and had a mini-stroke. Oh yeah -- and I screamed too. Which, if I remember correctly, made Gibson scream again. And poor Mike, huffy because of the reaction his "help" had garnered, was all "Jesus Christ!! Would you two just SETTLE DOWN!?!" And then he steered Gibson out of the room.

So I think it's pretty clear that the kid has it out for me. He's discovered my weakness and is determined to exploit it by showing up at random moments in the dark of night and literally scaring me to death. And I don't know what he hopes to gain by knocking me off, because he's going to be sorely disappointed in the life-insurance policy.

Doing Homework; A Lesson in Responsible Parenting

2008-11-16T21:27:00.000-05:00

Look who hasn't been doing her "homework" lately! But, hey, I warned you that might happen, right? I explained that I wasn't very good at that whole "turning assignments in on time" thing, didn't I? I would like to point out that I did, however, excel at posting for eight days straight. That might be a new world record for me -- both for posting AND for turning in homework assignments.

And when it comes to homework, do you know what else I'm not very good at? Remembering to make Gibson do his. Yes, yes.... He's only in Kindergarten, but they do have homework every night. It's easy stuff -- and really not very time consuming -- but the general idea is just to get the youngsters used to actually doing it. And please don't tell anybody, but I think it's safe to admit to you that I'm falling down in that department. Apparently, even as a grown up and mother, I still have issues with completing it in a timely manner.

Here's how it usually works: Gibson gets off the bus and I tell him that the very first thing he needs to do is his homework. But then he's hungry and needs a snack. And then after he's eaten he gets distracted -- usually in the form of Landis, and sometimes in the form of the neighbor kids. And then I get distracted -- usually in the form of laundry and/or dinner prep. I mean, let's face it.........two people who may or may not have ADD issues are not very good at keeping one another on task.

So after about 4 days of me forgetting to actually see to it that he even starts his assignments -- let alone complete them -- I catch a glimpse of the homework calender taped to the fridge. (Especially eye-catching is the signature line at the bottom -- where you, as the capable and dutiful parent, put pen to paper and sign it when you pack all of it into your son's backpack to be turned in at the end of the month.) It's at that precise moment, when I realize that the scam I've been running (you know, the one about me being a responsible parent) is about to be exposed.
GAAAAAAAAACK!!! Gibson!! You have homework to do! FOUR DAYS WORTH!!!!!! Get your notebook!! Sit down! Here! Take this pencil!! Write your numbers 1-20! Write the alphabet in uppercase letters! Practice your phone number!!! Draw four pigs! Count their ears!!!!!
And Gibson, who is only supposed to have about 10 minutes of homework a night, flounders around in about 30 minutes worth. To his credit though he gets it all done, and with little complaining.

Apparently, the lesson I am teaching my son is this: Never do today what you can put off until tomorrow. And then freak out when the dead-line is approaching. Which is certainly an improvement from my own school days where my motto was: Never do today what you can put off until tomorrow. Dead-line, Schmead-line.

And then he kissed me......

2008-11-08T12:34:00.003-05:00

Today Gibson and Landis were playing the "Kissing Game" in the backseat of the car. Yep. That's right. The Kissing Game. And I have to admit that when Gibson proposed that they play it, I was more than a little taken aback. (Gibson = Hey Landis...Wanna play the Kissing Game? Landis = Sure! Me = Wha.....?!?!)

I adjusted the rearview mirror so I could see them. "Just exactly how does this Kissing Game go?" I asked. "Like this!" replied Gibson. Then he proceeded to lean across the backseat as he puckered up his lips, made smooching sounds, and smacked Landis in the back of the head. Landis responded in kind.

I'm not entirely sure why they think that's kissing, but I swear they didn't learn that from Mike and me.

So all I can say is this: Those two are either going to have to really work on that kissing technique of theirs, or they're going to have to find themselves some really freaky girlfriends. Let's all pray for the former.......

"Bee-ing" Good.

2008-11-07T19:31:00.006-05:00

Gibson brings home a "Bee-havior" report every day from kindergarten. It's a good system, really. Here's how it works: Each of the kids has a bee. If a student is "good", meaning he lives up to the classroom expectations, his bee stays in the hive with all the rest. However, if a student breaks a rule, his bee gets ousted from the protection of the hive. At that time, in order to bring home a smiley face in the Bee-havior report, the rowdy-rule-breaking student must try to win back his place in the hive by proving that he is, indeed, a hard worker and knows the classroom expectations. (I like to imagine that the little worker bee has to grovel to the Queen. He flies into the hive, escorted by the royal-guard-bees and pleads his case..... "Your majesty. I'm sorry for not doing my share of the pollinating and honey-producing..... I can do better, my Queen, if you'll just see fit to give me another chance........... I'll work hard. I promise. Please do not banish me to the net. Perhaps her majesty would like a few extra buckets of honey....?")

If the wayward bee can win back his favor with the Queen, then his previous mis-behavior is expunged from his record, and the little bee brings home a smiley-face in his "Bee-havior Report". However, if he is unable to win back his rightful place in the hive -- let's say, for instance, that he just can't quit talking to his neighboring bees -- then instead of a smiley-face, the number of the classroom rule our little bee has broken is written down in it's place. (Just for the record, Gibson brings home a lot of #2's. That means that he is not "bee-ing a hard worker" because the only thing he's actually working on is wagging his tongue. And, by the way, that roar of laughter you may have just heard is the collective cackling of each and every one of the teachers I ever had in my education career. I imagine that they are all in hysterics over the fact that I am already SO GETTING WHAT I DESERVE. Yes, I can hear you -- even all the way down here in Charlotte.......)

What, you may ask, happens to the little bee who not only can't win back the favor of the hive, but also continues to mis-behave? Well, those poor little bees end up in the "net". It's a sad and lonely place, that net. And if you find yourself wondering if our little bee has been to the net before, I'll tell you that yes, in fact, he has. But that's a story for another time. What I want to tell you about today are all the smiley-faces our little bee has been bringing home. His goal was 2 in a row. And we've gotten there. We've gotten there a couple of times. But last week...........whew-doggies!...........we had a good run on smiley faces. Our little bee had come home with his SEVENTH smiley-face IN A ROW!

"Gibson!" I said to my son, "You are doing amazingly well, and I am so proud of you! I'll tell you what...... If you are able to bring home 10 smiley-faces in a row, I'll take you to Chuck-E-Cheese." Well, if you've known a 6-year-old-boy in your lifetime, you'll know that I'd just promised him the Garden of Eden. So the next morning he left for school determined to get smiley-face number 8. And when he got off the bus in the afternoon, he ran to the house shouting "Mom! Mom!! I got ANOTHER smiley-face!! And you're going to laugh, because my teacher drew a funny smiley-face in pencil! Wait until you see it!" I was thrilled for him, because this, my friends, this was a huge accomplishment.

I dug around in his backpack and pulled out his "Bee-havior Book". And there it was. His pencil-smiley-face. And he was right.....it did make me laugh...........

In need of some distraction

2008-11-06T15:08:00.005-05:00

Sunday was one of the most beautiful fall days I've seen here in Charlotte, so we took a drive out to Crowder's Mountain to do some hiking. And not only was it a perfect day for a hike, it was also a chance to see the leaves at their most colorful. So off we went. The hike is a couple of miles long and mostly uphill, but the boys were amazing, so we made it up the mountain in just shy of an hour. Crowder's Mountain is almost like a huge rock fin jutting up out of the ground, so when you get to the top, you can alternately hike and rock scramble to get from one side to the other. It's fairly wide in spots, but the edges are steep -- and in some places sheer cliffs hundreds of feet high. I'm pretty relaxed about what my kids do when we are outdoors, but in this one instance I thought I might have a stroke from my stress level. Luckily, Gibson made a suggestion that helped distract me and kept me out of panic mode. If you look closely in the reflection of my sunglasses, you can see what had me totally and completely on edge..........

Results

2008-11-05T17:13:00.001-05:00

Wow!
Amazing. Incredible. Astonishing. Awesome. Marvelous. Unbelievable. Wonderful. Astounding. Fantastic.

Way to go America! I couldn't be more proud of you.

But California? Shame on you. Shame. On. You.

41 weeks pregnant

2008-11-04T16:33:00.003-05:00

November 4th. Election day, 2008. And I feel like I felt when I was past my due date.

Have you ever been pregnant? Did you deliver on your due date? Or even early? If so, you can disregard this entire blog post because you'll have no earthly idea what I'm talking about. But if you've ever been pregnant AND continued to be so way past your due date, you'll know exactly what I'm getting at.

I was a full week "late" delivering each of my children. It would be an enormous understatement to say that it was exasperating. Especially with my first, because at that time I was naive enough to think the doctors knew what they were talking about when they assigned me that completely arbitrary date. So you can imagine that once my due date had come and gone with nary a movement in that stubborn uterus of mine, I spent every waking moment going "Now? Now? Now? How 'bout now? No? Maybe......NOW! Nope. Now? Now? Now? Now? Now? Now? Now? Now? Ooooooooo! Ooooooooooo! Maybe Now! Hmmmmmm.... No. Now?"

And even though it was insane -- and I was fully aware that it was -- my anticipation was so great that it was impossible for me to wait patiently and let the process work. And let me tell you, that sort of anxious and antsy behavior makes for some LONG and torturous days. Not to mention a slightly annoyed husband.

Having weathered that emotionally and mentally painful week, not once but twice, you'd think I'd have learned my lesson. That perhaps I would be better about embracing the process. That I would be calm, composed, even easy-going as we await the results. But...ummmmm.......not so much.

So......... Do you think we'll know soon? Now? Maybe now? How 'bout now? No? Now? Now? Now? Now? Maybe now......

The Daily Blog

2008-11-03T15:07:00.010-05:00

So my friend, Janice, whom I believe I've mentioned here before, has recently informed me that November is "National Blog Month". And perhaps this news is only exciting to those of us with our noses pressed up against our brightly lit screens, typing out the intimate details of our lives to share with our friends, our families, and any poor sap who happens to pass by. Or maybe it's not true at all, and it's all a big joke on me, but I'm excited nonetheless.

Now, to my understanding, in order to participate in National Blog Month, one most post something every day. I think this sounds like fun, but seeing that I'm already 3 days behind, I'd like to propose an informal "rule bending" of sorts. Let's say that I'll participate, but that I'll do so in my usual half-assed way. It will be a bit like the way I used to do my daily homework: Partially-done assignments turned in 4 days late......if ever. Turned in frequently enough and complete enough to ensure that I wouldn't fail, but certainly not frequently enough or complete enough to ensure me the "A" that I was capable of. (Which, as a quick aside, makes me think I should say it's truly a wonder that my educator/mother still has her hair. Really.) So, does this arrangement work for you? It does? That's fantastic, because I have to tell you, I'm great at half-assed.

So since I need to go ahead and post something to get credit for today, do you wanna' hear how long Landis sat on the toilet today crying about how nobody would wipe his butt? No? Not today? Are you sure? Because it was a REALLY long time....... Well, that's OK. I can save it. And besides, I'll see you here tomorrow.

Snapshot

2008-10-30T06:57:00.003-04:00

At 4:03pm yesterday afternoon:

I put Landis in the shower because he stunk. He stunk because apparently he had to fart and, SURPRISE!, he shit his pants.
My sister-in-law called to see what I was up to.
My dog was barking incessantly because I wouldn't let him in the house. I wouldn't let him in the house because he'd run away to go swimming in the pond down the street and was soaking wet. And because he was soaking wet, he stunk like smelly-wet-dog. And he was on his leash so he wouldn't run away again. And he was pissed about it and wanted me, and everyone else in the neighborhood to know it.
Landis was calling me from the shower every two seconds so I could come and look to see if his butt was clean yet. It wasn't.
Five random neighbor kids were running around in my front yard playing some sort of game that involved baseball bats.
One neighbor girl was inside my house crying in an incredibly high pitched, ear-splitting voice about how scared she was. She was scared because she'd climbed the tree in the front yard, decided that she was up too high, and then was worried about getting down. Apparently she did get down, but then decided to come in the house and share the story of her terrifying ordeal.

I'm sure my sister-in-law thoroughly enjoyed our conversation -- at least the snippets of it that took place as I alternately checked Landis's butt for the 18th time, glanced out the front window and wondered if I should put a halt to the baseball-bat game, wondered how soon it would take the baseball-bat game to result in an injury, wondered if that injury would require stitches or an ER run, weighed the odds of the possible injury against the relief of having occupied kids, tried to reassure screeching, crying neighbor girl, and yelled out the back door to my smelly wet dog while I prayed that he would just shut up for two seconds so my neighbors without kids and/or dogs didn't feel compelled to call the police.

If I took a snapshot of your day yesterday afternoon, what would it look like?

Makeover!

2008-10-29T16:11:00.005-04:00

You know what I like to do? Cut my hair. Or color it. Or grow it. And then maybe highlight it. And then......well........hmmmmmmmm...... Maybe cut it again. So you know I can't leave my blog alone either. What do you think? Do you like my new look? Maybe I'll change it again next week.................

** Edited to add: "Hey look! I changed it again! I can't decide if I like it with a darker background or a lighter background........ One of these days I'll make up my mind. In the meantime, bear with me and feel free to give your input."

Apparently we've been discussing this a lot.....

2008-10-24T20:54:00.002-04:00

Yesterday Gibson was taking turns wearing each of our various Halloween masks around the house. He spent some time as a mummy, as a skeleton, as a scary old man, and then as George Bush. (No, the scary old man mask and the George Bush mask are not one and the same, though I'll admit that I consider the latter to be much more frightening than the former.......)

He wandered into the kitchen and over to where I was standing. "Mom," he asked, "Is this Barrack Obama?"
"No" I snorted, stifling the desire to be a smart-ass to my 6 year-old. He was asking a sincere question, and he deserved a sincere answer without any editorializing on my part. So I did the best I could. "That is definitely not Obama."
"Oh." He replied, peeling the mask off his face. He studied it for a minute, contemplating his options. "I guess it must be John McCain........"

I hear the secrets that you keep, when you're talkin' in your sleep.

2008-10-22T17:38:00.001-04:00

My apologies to my loyal readers -- the few of you living out there in the blogosphere, checking in on the regular antics of the Kafsky family. I've been slack with the posting lately. Not for lack of material, mind you. It's just that I've been gone for a couple of weeks with wedding shin-digs and traveling, and the like. Did you miss me? Did you miss our regular chats about bodily functions and potty humour? Good, because today we're going to talk about butt-cracks. Specifically stinky-butt-cracks, and my four-year-old's compulsive love for talking about them ALL THE TIME.

You know, I thought I knew what I was in for when I had boys. I had a brother. I knew what he was like -- always asking my mom to make him penis-butter and jelly sandwiches. Or calling people "peacocks" because he thought it was heeelarious. He could also burp the alphabet and make great fart noises under his armpit. (A skill my 6 year old has honed to perfection and delights in showing off to his peers. I know this because we got a note home about it. It said something to the effect of "Gibson had to move his bee out of the hive today for making fart noises under his armpit during class." [Sigh.....] I'm beaming with pride. Can you feel it?)

But I digress.... I believe we were discussing butt-cracks. It's Landis's favorite thing to talk about. And he's discovered that he can use this phrase in a multitude of situations. Is humour called for? Stinky-butt-crack! Is the mood more serious? Stinky-butt-crack! Perhaps sad? Stinky-butt-crack! Maybe he's angry. Stinky-butt-crack! He's even been known to call me a stinky-butt-crack under his breath when he's in trouble. It's an insult I pretend not to hear since he does go out of his way to say it quietly, but also so as not to have to string him up by his toes from his bedroom ceiling. (How's that for a time out, you little stinky-butt-crack?) And just to illustrate my point about how often we have to hear this phrase, I'll share this story with you. Last night, around 10:30, Mike went up to make sure both boys were all tucked in before we went to bed. He adjusted Landis's covers, turned out his night light, and tousled his hair a little -- because really, he's so cute it's hard to resist. And how did our sweet little angle respond to this display of tenderness? He rolled over in his sleep, sighed a sleepy sigh, and right on cue, he muttered those 5 little words we never thought we'd have occasion to hear while he slept: "It's a stinky-butt-crack!"

The compliments of random strangers have led to this....

2008-10-11T20:31:00.007-04:00

If you are looking for me on Saturday mornings, you can find me at the grocery store. I love to be there before 9:00 a.m. It's my idea of a perfect day. Sad but true, I enjoy it. And one of the reasons I enjoy it so much is because most Saturdays I don't have to bring the kids along. But today was an exception. Mike had to work, and he had to work early, which meant spending the morning dragging kids along behind a shopping cart. But life can't be all bliss all the time, so I didn't really mind. They've been fairly good recently, and I had high hopes for our trip today. And for the most part, they were good. Except when I forgot to get the oatmeal out of the cereal isle. We were all the way down by the cheese when I realized it. "Stay here." I instructed. Landis was pushing the cart, and it just seemed so much easier to make a quick run by myself. (He's not very proficient with the maneuvering thing....) So I ran quickly to the cereal isle. But they didn't listen (seriously now, why in the world did I think they would?) and they both showed up in the isle, having deserted our cart back with the cheese. "Dudes!" I hissed. "Get back there!"
"I was scared!" yelled Gibson -- whose new thing is to imagine that I'm abandoning him forever anytime I take two steps away from him. "Heaven help me..." I muttered as we made our way back to the cart.

And I don't know how it goes in your house, but in mine, God forbid that one child have any sort of advantage over the other -- even a 2 step advantage toward an abandoned grocery cart. So they picked up the pace, and then threw elbows, and then had an argument over who was the first one to the cart. An argument that had them squarely in the way of an innocent bystander trying to get her hands on some dairy products. When I caught up to the little hooligans, I told them to apologize to the woman for being so rowdy and getting in her way. Gibson, embarrassed, refused. Landis just looked confused. "Apologize." I insisted. "Now."
"It's OK", she said. "They're fine. Really. They're just being kids. It's fine. I promise."
I thanked her for being so understanding. Not everybody in Super-Walmart is so forgiving of their antics at 9:00am.
I turned back to the cart.
And then Gibson chimed in.......
"Yeah, Don't worry mom. We're so cute, no one minds........."

Super Freak, Super Freak, I'm Super-Freakaaaayyyyy

2008-10-10T06:23:00.014-04:00

Halloween is in full-swing in our house. And I mean FULL-SWING, people. I was fortunate enough -- depending on your perspective -- to marry a man whose love for this particular holiday is so deep, it's almost demented. And though he's been banned from transforming our home into a Halloween factory until after my birthday (September 22, just so you know) that doesn't stop him from standing out in the garage for weeks prior, licking his lips and dreaming of the day when he'll get to unpack ALL THOSE BOXES.

And so, promptly on September 23rd, he went to the garage, and returned with box after box after box after box, to begin the weeks-long ordeal we refer to simply as "decorating". Having been raised in this environment, you know the boys are just as nuts about Halloween as their father. And as the boxes streamed in from the garage, the clapping, dancing, shouting and jumping in circles was in high gear. Their anticipation was palatable, and trying to contain them until everything was in the house was a little like standing at the base of a waterfall and trying to hold it back with your hand. Impossible. Eventually, we gave in and let them start unpacking. The cardboard was ripped open, packing materials were flying, bats and ghosts were everywhere. Rubber masks came out, chains, dancing skeletons, witches cauldrons, the works......... The frenzy..... Oh, the frenzy.

And then, the last box. Gibson was the one who got to it. He tore open the top and peered in. Squealing with delight, he paused to take in the glory of what he'd discovered. "It's her!" he shouted. "My girl! My little cutie! MY HALLOWEEN GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!!!" He reached gingerly into the box and carefully extracted his treasure. And suddenly, there she was in all her well-worn, much-beloved splendor: The Dancing Bride of Frankenstein.

We had gotten her as a gift, back when Gibson was 2, and to be frank, she really wasn't Mike's type. He considered getting rid of her. She was just a little too campy for his taste. But he was busy decorating, so he'd put her on the fireplace hearth to get her out of the way. Which is where Gibson found her. And then spent the entire rest of the month alternately staring at her, dancing to her pre-recorded "superfreak" song, and looking up her dress. (A pattern that hasn't changed in the last 4 years.) He'd carry her around the house, sleep with her at bedtime, and still, she persevered. It was, and still is, true love. And in the name of good Halloween spirit, I'd like to share her with you. So here she is. Considerably worn, and worse for the wear, she's like a Halloween version of the velveteen rabbit - minus the scarlet fever. God help us if she ever comes to life.

Happy Halloween!

I think her effect on men is universal.

2008-10-06T15:36:00.009-04:00

Landis was half-heartedly looking over my shoulder when I signed onto the computer this afternoon, and as it was coming to life, a picture of Angelia Jolie popped up in the lower left-hand corner. "Whoa!" he said, his picture-coloring coming to a complete and total halt. "Who's THAT!?" So I told him her name. He leaned in for a closer look. "Well, I think I love her." he told me. He studied her picture a little longer and then he looked at me. "I think I want her to be my mommy."

Wait. Does my four year old wish I looked like Angelina Jolie? (Which, by the way, would make two of us.) Or does he actually want her to be his mommy, effectively cutting me out of the picture completely? I mean, with all the kids she and Brad have, I'm sure they wouldn't notice one more.... It could work. And though he's blond-haired and blue-eyed, he could get away with saying they'd adopted him from Finland or something. But seriously now.... He's FOUR-YEARS-OLD. And he was totally and completely enamoured of Angelina Jolie with one glance. Head over heels in love, and ready to give up his own mother for a chance to belong to her.

I do his laundry daily. I read him his favorite books every night. I cook his dinner, make him breakfast and pack his lunch. I kiss his boo-boos, dry his tears, and snuggle him when he's feeling sad. I laugh at his jokes. I take him camping. I let him climb under the covers with me at 4:00 in the morning, and I don't even complain when I end up with his butt in my face. But apparently none of that matters. My son is ready to trade me in because I don't look like Angelina Jolie.

Dear Washington,

2008-10-02T06:51:00.005-04:00

Let me get straight to the point. I have had it up to my eyeballs with you and your atrocious behavior, so sit your asses down and listen up. You are adults. Did you know that? Did you know that you are adults? Because you behave like children. Spoiled brats, to be precise. And every time you show up on TV whining and crying and bickering and pointing fingers, I think I might have to gouge my eardrums out with a fork. Seriously people, if I have to hear one more instance of you whining about how you didn't like how you were spoken to, and how nothing is your fault, or how it's always someone else's problem that you can't seem to get your work done, I'm going to go get the wooden spoon.

Here's a news-flash for you: YOU ARE GROWN UPS! START ACTING LIKE IT!!!!! But since you insist on behaving like children, I'm going to address you in a way that you can understand. You clearly need Momma to lay down the law. Now get your asses back in that room, and don't even think about coming out until you've worked it out. All of it. And I mean it. DO YOUR FREAKING JOB. Don't even consider showing your faces outside that door until you think you can behave in a civilized manner, because I can't take it anymore. Your asinine partisan antics are about to push me past my limits. And if I have to come up there.......... so help me, God..............you're going to wish you'd found a way to solve this yourselves. I wouldn't tolerate this kind of immature bickering and bullshit behavior from my 4 year-old, and I'm sure as hell not going to tolerate it from you.

Yeah I'm free........ Freefallin'

2008-09-29T09:00:00.000-04:00

Last night I dreamt that I steered a pirate ship off a huge water fall. A massive waterfall. Hundreds of feet tall. And did I mention that my entire family was on board at the time? They were. But I'd noticed that we were drifting aimlessly down the river, with no one at the helm, which meant that we kept running into the shore. And I was worried about what that would do to the ship. So I took the wheel and I pointed that sucker away from shore -- straight downstream. Directly, as it turns out, over an enormous waterfall.

The free-fall was long and terrifying, and the entire time I was falling I couldn't take my eyes off the behemoth rocks littered around the base. They were everywhere and I didn't know how to avoid them, seeing that I had no control over where I might land. And then it occurred to me that even if I landed safely, the boat might smash to smithereens with my husband and kids on board. All I could do was hope. So I squeezed my eyes shut. And I hung on to hope. And I braced myself for impact. And somehow, I missed those rocks. I missed them all. Instead, I plunged deep into the water. So deep, in fact that I wasn't sure if I'd be able to come up for air. But somehow I managed. And when I broke the surface of the water, gasping for air and rejoicing that I'd made it unscathed, I noticed that, against all odds, the ship had landed safely too. It sat, herculean and majestic, rocking gently back and forth in a quiet pool. I threw my head back and laughed out loud, unable to contain the wild grin that split my face.

You think this means it's all going to be OK in the end?

Take me out to the ball game.

2008-09-28T16:59:00.004-04:00

Ugh....... Ugh. Ugh. Ugh! Gibson wants to play baseball, and he's apparently quite serious about it. And as much as I want to, I fear that I'm not going to be able to put him off any longer. When he made this announcement over the summer, I promptly dismissed it by saying "OK, honey. If you want to play baseball, I'll sign you up in the fall..." knowing full-well that this was another of his imaginative, yet short-lived whims, i.e becoming a zombie, getting a gig on Dancing with the Stars or playing soccer. But this baseball thing.... it seems to be hanging around. A few weeks ago he brought it up again. Last week when he asked me if I was checking into it, I lied. Then yesterday at dinner, he asked me if it was fall yet. And later he said "I can't wait for baseball to start!" Geeeesh.... I'm starting to feel bad about leading the kid on. So I guess we're destined for little-league.

Not that I have anything against youth sports. I don't. I have a background in outdoor education and adventure recreation. I'm all about playing. But for the time-being, I do have something against leaping out of bed and running ass all over town to practices and games and practices and games and practices and games and practices and games. Look folks.....here's the nitty-gritty. I'm selfish. I'm going to go ahead an admit it. I love our leisurely Saturdays, with nothing on the agenda but an early morning trip to the grocery store. And even that chore is not really required. (We've got some flour, some cheese and some extra-brown bananas. I'm sure I can whip up something..... ) I just happen to enjoy that time-frame. Early. Alone. And I also enjoy coming back in the door to my kids still in their PJ's, and Mike drinking a cup of coffee on the couch. No deadlines, no places to be, nothing to do. It's Saturday morning bliss.

Maybe I enjoy these Saturday mornings so much because I know they won't last. The inevitability of extra-curricular activities will seep into our lives, just as it does to everyone else. I can clearly remember my own mom bringing me dinner at school because as soon as the bell rang I had gone straight to basketball practice and then to practice for the High School Musical. (Yeah, that's right. I was high-school-musical before high-school-musical was cool.) But at least I was a teenager and not a six-year old.

Picture Day!

2008-09-26T21:18:00.002-04:00

Look who's lookin' cute as a button for kindergarten picture day!

Say what, now?

2008-09-25T11:14:00.004-04:00

Here's a little something you should know about me. Just like any number of people I meet in Charlotte, I was born and raised in Ohio. It was a small town just north of Cincinnati, called Lebanon. My husband is from Ohio, too. Though he's actually from Cleveland, which is about as opposite from Cincinnati as you can get. Cincinnati is conservative, Cleveland is more liberal. Cincinnati - more white collar, Cleveland - more blue collar. Cincinnati has a big Appalachian influence, Cleveland seems to have more of an Eastern European influence.

The dialects in both cities are vastly different too. Because of that Appalachian influence, I grew up carrying "UM-brellas", purchasing "IN-surance", and walking on the "CE-ment". And in some areas, you could even catch "feesh" in the "crick". My husband, on the other hand, grew up visiting his "GrrrreammAAAhhhhh" and all the women in his family wore "brAAAAAAAAhhhhhhhhs". (Wow. Those are hard to write out phonetically. Just say the words "Grandma" and "Bra" as nasally and drawn out as humanly possible and you'll be close.) In Cleveland they also do a lot of "Oy-Vey!"-ing, which is a phrase I never heard in any of my formative years. So you'd think that the dialect of our offspring would be somewhere in the middle, right? Well.... actually....... No. They were both born right here in North Carolina and have the sweet southern charm to prove it. Especially Landis, who at the ripe old age of four, has somehow adopted the thickest Good-'ole-boy accent I have ever heard. And because it entertains me, I've compiled a list of all the words he's said recently in a handy little poem -- Spelled phonetically, of course, for your enjoyment. It pretty well sums up a day in our life.............

Mom! I think the dog needs hay-elp!
I'm pretty sure I heard him yay-elp!

I think I landed on his hay-ed
when I jumped down from the bay-ed!

How 'bout some butter spread with jay-a-lee
to go inside my hungry bay-a-lee?

And by the way, I've spilled my may-elk
onto those sheets. Hope they weren't say-elk!

I have no socks, I'm missin' tway-elve
because I threw them off the shay-elves.

No, I don't know what's making that smay-elle!
MOM! It's not nice to say "WHAT THE HAY-ELLE?!"!

I'm gonna run straight up that hee-el.
And then I'm gonna stand real stee-el.

Hey mom, is this a kay-mic-cul?
Hey look at me! I found a nickle!

And look what else I found! A shay-elle!
It looks just like the letter ay-el!

Gibson hit me in the gut!
I'm gonna' whup him on his butt!

Did you get all that? It's true. All of it. The ironic thing is that Gibson's accent isn't nearly as thick as Landis's, and he's two years older. So where does the Lan-Man get it? Who knows. But as we listen to him talk, day after day, Mike just shakes his head in dis-belief with a bemused smile on his face. "Kid," he says. "No one, and I mean no one, would believe that your great-grandparents were straight off the boat from Poland."

Oy-Vey!

All the things you've ever wanted to know about me.

2008-09-17T18:00:00.001-04:00

So I've had this survey sitting in my in-box for a really, really long time with every intention of filling it out and emailing it back to the friend that sent it to me. I know there are plenty of people who receive them, groan loudly and hit the delete button, but I actually think they're kind of fun. At a minimum they make you examine yourself a little bit..... And since I can't get my act together to just fill out and return the email, I thought I'd take a cue from my other friend, Janice, and just post the answers right here on my blog. So here goes......

Do you like blue cheese? Love it. Love it. Love it.
Have you ever smoked? Doesn't everyone at least try it at some point during the college years? Though these days there's almost nothing I find more disgusting. Really people.... It's gross.
Do you own a gun? Only if you count plastic Nerf-like ones that shoot foam balls.
What flavor do you add to your drink at Sonic? I've only been to Sonic once -- and then it was for ice cream.
Do you get nervous before doctor appointments? No.
What do you think of hot dogs? I forget how much I like them until I have one.
Favorite Christmas Movie? Dr. Seuss's animated "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" always warms my heart. But my other choice would be the one with the Red Rider BB gun. A Christmas Story? Is that what it's called? Hilarious! I watched it last year for the first time in a LONG time, and it's even funnier watching it as a parent.
What do you prefer to drink in the morning? I don't like coffee at all, but I'll drink anything else with caffeine. Unsweetened Tea, Crystal Light, and yes -- Diet Dr. Pepper.
Can you do push ups? Yes. Slowly and in good form. And back when I was a raft-guide I could do them one-armed. I was ripped.

What's your favorite piece of jewelry? I have a couple of necklaces that I really love, but I think I'm going to go with my wedding ring.
What's your favorite song that starts with a C? Can't let go, by Lucinda Williams
Here's the scenario: Your basketball team is up by 3 with 10 seconds to go in the championship game. The other team has the ball. They are a good shooting team but haven't been in this game. You know they will want to try to tie the game with a three. Do you foul or take your chances and let them shoot? I wouldn't foul. I'd play phenomenal Defense and let them take their chances.
Who would play you in the movie of your life? Jennifer Gray, pre-nose job.
Do you have A.D.D.? Totally. And I find that it serves me well as a mother.
What's one trait you hate about yourself? Let's not say "hate". Hate is such a strong word, isn't it? Especially in reference to oneself.... Let's say "find frustrating". There, now. Isn't that better? The thing I probably find most frustrating about myself is that I have a hard time keeping my cool in escalating situations. My husband, Mike, can look completely unfazed on the outside and continue to speak in a logical way with a level, non-shaking voice, even if he is raging on the inside. Even if the other person is being either such a complete ass, or an unbelievable moron that all he really wants to do is reach across the span of airspace between them and choke the life out of him or her. He can stay calm. Collected. Not me. Oh, I can control it for a few minutes. In the beginning, I can keep shoving it back down, even as it tries to bubble up and spill over -- but not for long. First my face will give me away because it will start to get red, and my features will start to get tight. After a while, when I try to speak in a normal voice it comes out all strained. And then, if I try really hard to stay under control, my eyes water a little, which really pisses me off because then it looks like I'm trying not to cry, when really I'm just furious. Ooooooooooooo! I HATE that.
Middle name? Before I got married it was Lynne. After marriage I changed it to Haynes, as I didn't want my maiden name to get lost in the shuffle.

Name 3 thoughts at this exact moment. Hmmmmmm......at this exact moment? Three thoughts? I wonder what I should write?
Name 3 things you bought yesterday? You want me to stop at 3? I did our weekly grocery shopping yesterday, so how about I tell you all the things I bought in three's instead? Like 3 gallons of milk, 3 loaves of bread, 3 blocks of cheese, 3 bags of apples, etc...etc....etc....
Name 3 drinks you regularly drink? Water, Iced Tea, Diet Dr. Pepper (though not nearly as much as I used to.)
Current worry? Heaven's sakes! Where should I begin? How about the state of our country for starters? It gives me an ulcer. Or how about the fact that so many Americans seem willing to get behind a VP candidate who, aside from a dynamic personality, has little to offer. A person whose Foreign Policy experience can be wrapped up in the sentence "Well, you know George, Russia is really close to Alaska." GAAAAAAAAAACKKKKKK!!!!!!!!! It's so baffling! Hello?!?! Do you know that we're at war? For cryin' out loud, I have more "Executive Experience" than she does. If knowing how to juggle work and a family qualifies you, then SIGN ME UP! I, too, can sit at my kitchen table and work out a budget. Hey McCain, want me to be your running mate? I'm clearly more than qualified. And on the same note, should it also be a worry that the VP candidate garners more attention and support than the ACTUAL PRESIDENTIAL candidate does? Doesn' t that speak to something? So perhaps I should also worry about why so many Americans have their heads up their asses? (Pant, pant, pant, pant...... see answer to "Trait" question above. God -- I think I need a valuim.)
Current hate right now? Our crack-like addiction to oil.
Favorite place to be? In the outdoors playing with my kids.

How did you ring in the New Year? Ummmm......... I can't exactly recall, so it was either fairly calm, or it involved way too much booze. I'm going to go with the former. I think we had a slumber-party in the family room to watch the ball drop, and if I remember correctly, we missed it because we were all asleep on the floor by 10:30.
Where would you like to go? Who's paying?
Name three people who will complete this. I'm not sending it out, but if you read it, feel free to post comments.
Do you own slippers? Yes -- big huge green down booties.
What shirt are you wearing? A staff shirt.
Do you like sleeping on satin sheets? I've never done it, but I can't help thinking that I would turn over at night and slip out of bed.
Can you whistle? Yes, but only by sucking air in, not by blowing out. Weird, I know.
Favorite color? I always say blue, but we have a lot of green in our house.
Would you be a pirate? Would I get to wear and eye-patch and drink beer?
What songs do you sing in the shower? Anything in my range, and usually the last thing I heard on the radio. (And Erin, you should know that I also have conversations with imaginary people in the shower. I think it's how I brainstorm ideas and/or work out issues. I'm not sure but I think it's because the shower is the only place I have a minute of peace....)
Favorite girl's name? I've always liked Olivia, but of course have never gotten the chance to use it!
Favorite boy's name? We settled on Gibson and Landis, and since then I haven't given it a lot of thought.
What's in your pocket right now? I don't have any pockets.
What's something that made you laugh recently? Are you kidding me? What doesn't make me laugh?
Best bed sheets as a child? I don't remember any specific bed sheets, but I had a sleeping bag that was exactly like a roll of lifesavers -- foil on the ends and everything. It was great.

Worst injury you've ever had? I broke my leg once from walking out in front of a car, but actually, the time I sledded down a dam spill-way and landed face-first in a concrete run-off trough might take the cake. Knocked me out cold for a minute, and left me looking like I'd gone 10 rounds with Muhammad Ali. Or that perhaps I was the victim of some serious domestic abuse. No joke. When I went out in public, people would stare with their mouths hanging open when they thought I wasn't looking.
Do you love where you live? Completely
How many TVs do you have in your house? One. And it's not a wide-screen-flat-screen-plasma-do-ma-jiggy. It's a regular TV. And we don't have cable (gasp) or Direct TV (GASP!). I know.........., I know........
Who is your loudest friend? I don't think I have any friends who are louder than me.
How many dogs do you have? One. One-big-giant-total-pain-in-my-ass-but-somehow-still-totally-lovable-enough-that-I-don't-kill-him-even-though-he's-cut-it-close-a-few-times-yellow-lab.
What is your favorite book(s)? That is an impossible question. My list would be a mile long.
Favorite Sport Team? I'll go with the Carolina Panthers
What song do you want played at your funeral? I've always said it should be Don't worry, be happy. I suppose I'll stick with that unless something better comes along.
What were you doing 12 AM last night? I was dead-asleep.
What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up? Uggghhhh....is it 4:00am already?!

So there you go. Answers to all the burning questions you had about me. What do you think? Do we have anything in common?

Unnecessary

2008-09-10T06:36:00.005-04:00

Yesterday, I escorted Landis out of the car and into his preschool with a large pack of paper-towels tucked neatly under my arm. What? You don't carry paper-towels around with you everywhere you go? What if something spills? Or what if his face gets dirty? Or his hands? What if he needs something to put his snack on? Wait.....Did I even bring him a snack? Probably not. I can barely remember to bring my head with me, let alone pack a proper snack for my children. But I wasn't schlepping those paper-towels for any of those reasons. Heck, I don't even care about any of those things..... (Spills and dirty faces? Pah-shah.......) I was bringing them because they were on the supply list. And in case you are as clueless as I was in regard to the way preschool works, I'll explain. Each child in Landis's classroom - or more appropriately, each child's parents - are supposed to supply, among other things, one roll of paper-towels per month. Considering the fact that I am such a slack-ass that it took me two weeks to remember to actually BRING the paper-towels to school, I thought it would be best for everyone if I just bought a big pack. A big huge pack. And then I could get away with bringing them on a whim. I mean, remembering to bring them in monthly? I forgot the poor kid's lunch yesterday for cryin' out loud. Oh, I packed it the night before. It was ready to go. I just left in in the refrigerator when we hustled out the door. Yep. I made 6 trips back and forth from preschool yesterday. FUN!

Anyway.... We were making our way through the parking lot, and I handed Landis the paper-towel pack saying, "Here buddy. I'm carrying a lot of things. Why don't you carry this."
He must have been feeling extra generous that morning, because he did so without complaint. He was quiet as we walked together, and I could tell he was lost in thought. Finally, he spoke.

L: "Mom............ I don't have to go to the bathroom."
Me: "You don't? OK."
L: "I mean, I don't think I'll have to go to potty today. You know? I don't think I'll have to go poopy.
Me: "Ummmmm......OK.........."

He held out the large pack of paper-towels.

L: "So I guess I won't be needing these........"

Road Trip!!

2008-09-03T06:50:00.012-04:00

Our August was busy. Busy, busy, busy, busy, busy. It's like we ambled along, drifting slowly through the first 2 months of summer, and then sat bolt-upright and said "Whoa! If we're going to go anywhere this summer, we need to get in the car and take off right now!!" And then we spent the remaining four weeks driving around the Southeast non-stop. Over to the mountains? Check. Up to Ohio? Check. Out to the beach? Check.

Yes, indeed. We covered it all.

That being said, we obviously spent a lot of time in the car in August. Have you spent an outlandish amount of time in the car with 2 small boys lately? No? That's unfortunate for you. You're really missing out on some good quality fun. What? You don't believe me? You should. Here, let me give you a few examples..............

One of my favorite back-seat activities is one I like to refer to as the "Window Wrangle". You may have played it when you were a child. It goes like this:
He's looking out my window! Don't let him look out my window!
I can look out any window I want to!
No you can't!
Yes I can!
No you can't!
Yes I can!
No you can't!
Yes I can!
Look out YOUR OWN window!!
No.
Yes!
No.
Yes!
No.
MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!! (crying) He's looking out MY window!!!!"
(Repeat for 10 minutes.)

I mean, seriously..... Doesn't that sound like a blast?! It makes me feel all happy inside just thinking about it. It's a hoot. A laugh a minute. Truly, it is.

Another of my favorite road-trip activities involves both boys trying to "rest" in order to make the time go a little faster. I like to refer to it as the "Hindering your Head" game. That particular little back-seat exercise typically goes like this:
I'm laying my head there!
No you're not! This is where I lay MY head!!
Nuh-unh!! It's where MY head goes!
NO IT'S NOT!! MOVE YOUR HEAD!!! MOVE IT!!
(Smack, slap, scuffle, scuffle, shove, smack, cry, tattle......) MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMM!!! He hit me! Did you hear that? He hit me!!
Well he hit me!!
Well he's laying his head in MY spot!!
No I'm not!!
Yes he is!!
No I'm not!!
Yes he is!!
No I'm not!
Yes he is!
(Repeat endlessly.)

It's music to my ears. Who needs a relaxing afternoon reading a book, or getting a massage, when you can go on a road trip with these two instead? I find these little back-seat antics to be thoroughly refreshing in every way. So refreshing, in fact, that I never once even think about swiveling around in my seat with my enraged eyeballs practically popping out of my head to hiss at the boys between my clenched teeth that they'd better find a way to FIGURE IT OUT because if I have to come back there and fix it for them I can promise that MY solution is going to be terribly unpleasant for both of them.

Nope.

I never have to do anything like that.

Or, perhaps you've experienced my personal favorite: The Surprise Smackdown. You know........ It's the one where one child lays in wait, pretending not to be bothered by the other one at all. Not in the slightest. In fact, he pretends to be completely preoccupied by something else. And then, without warning and when you least expect it, he strikes. He lunges across the span of the back seat:
Smack!
Smack!
SmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmack!
SmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmack

SmackSmack!SmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmack

SmackSmackSmackSmackSmack!SmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmack

SmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmack!
Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!

This one is Mike's personal favorite too. And if you don't know Mike, then you don't know that his patience-level is about one millisecond long. Which is, I guess, the driving factor in why he married me. I can put up with a lot of obnoxious shit for an exorbitant amount of time without completely blowing my stack in a "wow-that-poor-person-is-way-too-intense-and-needs-to-be-medicated" sort of way. And as much as I love him, I can't really say the same for my dear husband...... Which makes us a good balance I suppose.

So on our latest 3-hour tour, after we'd been through the Window Wrangle, and the Hinder-your-head game, I figured that I'd done enough threatening through my teeth to thwart any attempt at the Surprise Smackdown. But who was I kidding? In a quiet moment, one of them lunged. The smackdown had started, and I watched Mike getting wound tighter and tighter and tighter until I thought he was going to explode. And when it got to the point that he'd absolutely, in no uncertain terms, had enough, he peeled both eyes off the road and swerved around between the yellow lines so he could explode at the boys: "If you two do not straighten up this minute, I'M going to come back there and start smackin' you around!" (Because really -- let's be honest here....... what parent hasn't stooped to threatening their children with physical violence 3 hours into a road trip? Seriously. Show me a parent who hasn't had to go there and I'll show you a parent who's kids aren't verbal yet.)

Anyway...... You know you've raised some well-mannered southern boys when, upon this outburst by their father, they stop what they're doing, sit straight up and respond: "Ummm, Dad? Don't you mean to say 'I'm going to come back there and put a whuppin' on boaf y'all!'? before they collapse on top of each other, hiccupping for breath in between their gales of laughter.

Yeah.... Hardy, hardy, har, har........
Don't laugh. We might be coming to your house next.

I'm in love.....

2008-08-29T19:59:00.006-04:00

Not "in love" in the traditional sense, but "love" in more of a "How the Grinch stole Christmas" sort of way. Does that make any sense? Let me explain.... Do you remember, near the end of the movie, how he was leaning against the mountain, having stolen all the Who's toys, and boxes and ribbons and bows?

He took everything out of every who's house, and even stole the last crumb -- too small for the mouse.

And that bastard, he took all of the food for the feast.

He took the Who hash and he took the roast beast.

And then there he was, leaning against that mountain top, grinning his nasty little grin, just waiting to hear the cries of anguish from those Who's down in Who-ville -- the tall and the small -- when they realized that Christmas wasn't coming at all. But those Who's, they came out of their homes undeterred. They held hands, and they sang, and they had hope and happiness. And that Grinch he just couldn't get it -- until he GOT it! Hope. Happiness. And then his small heart, 3 sizes too small, actually grew 4 sizes that day! Remember? Remember how it got so big it broke the heart-measuring thingy?

So I guess I'm not really comparing myself to the Grinch -- with all the thieving and grouchiness -- except to say that my heart, made so hard and cold and tiny by the unbelievable arrogance and incredible ineptitude of our current administration, grew four sizes last night. Because last night, Barack Obama stole it. This is not to say that I didn't always like him. I did. But now I love him. He has renewed in me a sense of hope and optimism for this country that I haven't felt in a long, long time. And for the first time in almost a decade, I actually think that yes, we can.

Our day yesterday

2008-08-27T07:41:00.010-04:00

Lookey here who started Kindergarten yesterday! Real, true, this-is-the-year-that-we-really-mean-it, kindergarten.

It's going to be a good year.
I can tell already.

I know it, because when they did the intake testing they asked Gibson all kinds of questions. Questions like "Do you know when your birthday is?", and "Do you know what your name is?", and "Do you know how to spell it?" To which Gibson replied "JULY 6TH!!!", "GIBSON!!", and "G-I-B-S-O-N!!!!!" I think they also checked to see how many letters and numbers he knew, and frankly, he has a much better grasp on all of that than he did last year. His self-confidence just got a major boost, and I can't even begin to tell you how proud he is of himself. He positively glowed as he recounted his testing questions and showed us his "homework" at the dinnertable.

Oh yes. It's going to be a good year.

Regardless of what he thinks, there IS a difference.

2008-08-25T17:00:00.001-04:00

We're Baaaaa-aaack!

Back from our fantastically glorious week-long trip to the Outer Banks. (Sigh......) The perfect weather, the scrumptious seafood, the fabulous laziness that comes about from reading for hours in a chair while you dangle your toes in the surf and your children scramble up and down the beach....... it's all so hard to peel yourself away from. But alas, all good things must come to an end eventually, right?

So here we are, back in Charlotte (Ha! I just typed "Charloote" and it struck me as very funny. Charloote. Ha ha ha......) As I was saying, here we are back in Charlotte, ready to kick off another school year. We came home to a clean house -- thank you very much -- and were able to get most of our necessities done on Saturday; Lawn mowing, grocery shopping, battling with all the other half-assed-slacker-parents scrambling to get their hands on the last of the school supplies.

And seeing that we were fresh off of vacation, Mike suggested a Sunday afternoon trip to Carowinds. You know, sort of a last-hurrah before school officially starts. So we went. I was expecting crazy crowds, but amazingly enough it was pretty reasonable. We were able to walk right onto lots of rides, and any wait we had was relatively short. So even though we hadn't planned to, we closed down the park. And as our evening was coming to an end, we were trying to decide which rides to ride as the last official rides of the summer. Of course, the boys were arguing about who wanted to ride what, what order we should ride them in, and which way we should go. Gibson was vying for the action-adventure theatre (which I will admit is pretty cool. You get to watch a spongebob movie in huge red 3-D glasses while the seats move around underneath you. It really is like being in a pineapple under the sea.) and Landis was rallying hard for Boot's Balloon Race. I personally don't mind Boot's Balloons, but Mike......... Well, let's just say he calls it "Barf's Balloons". Apparently he can't go around and around in flying circles anymore. And I think he's officially apologized to my parents for making fun of them when they wouldn't ride the Merry-Go-Round. But me? I can take it. In fact, I like it. So I stepped in with a brilliant plan -- I am, after all, THE MOTHER. "How about this?" I proposed. "What if daddy goes to the action-adventure theatre with Gibson, and mommy goes on Boot's Balloons with Landis? Then..." I said, addressing Mike and Gibson, "when your movie is over you can come and meet us in kiddie-land." Everyone agreed that I was indeed brilliant, and before they walked away Mike gave me a look of gratitude that said "You are the best thing since sliced bread, and I promise you a 30 minute foot rub this week, since you have selflessly saved me from an inevitable meeting with the bushes". OK, actually he just turned and left with Gibson, but I know that's what he meant and I intend to collect.

So, Landis and I got over to Boot's Balloon Race, and lo' and behold, there was almost NO LINE! And you know what this means, don't you? It not only means that we got on the ride immediately, it also means that we rode it MULTIPLE TIMES! As soon as the little buckets would come back down to earth from their dizzying flight, Landis would exclaim "LET'S DO IT AGAIN!!!" and we'd run around and get back on. The funny thing was, Boot's Balloon Ride had a funny smell about it. One I couldn't quite put my finger on. Though after we'd been slung around a few times, I decided that it smelled a little bit like a sewer. Like, perhaps the building next door was a bathroom that had seen a little too much use that day.

"Gross." I thought. "I wonder if that bathroom always gives off such a funky smell..? How can the people working here all day stand it?"

And then Mike and Gib showed up, and since Mike had to wait in a shop next door so he didn't even have to watch(*) the balloons go 'round and 'round, we thought it best if we headed over to our very last ride of the evening. It was a huge swingy-platform-thingy, and the four of us sat side by side in our own little row. We buckled in and away we went. It swung us up and down, and back and forth, and then up and over and up and over. It was fun. And then it stopped. And then I smelled that funky sewer smell again.

"That's weird...." I thought. "It smells a little bit like a sewer over here too..... It's almost like that smell is.... following..... me......around......."

And then I understood. That smell was following me around. In the form of my youngest child. I sniffed the air as I looked down into the smiling crystal clear blue eyes of Señor-Stinky-Sewer-Pants sitting directly to my left.

My child who gambles and loses.

God love him.

Please, please tell me that one day he'll be able to tell the difference between a fart and a turd.

(* Wimp, wimp, wimpy, wimpy, wimp)

Don't drink the water

2008-08-11T06:35:00.012-04:00

Last year I wrote a post about my mother-in-law, and her insane ability to torment herself with disturbing thoughts. In that particular post, I did my best to explain her train of thought as I understand it; How she creates these scenarios in her mind that are indeed disturbing, yet highly unlikely. And also to explain that as improbable as they are, she believes in them whole-heartedly. Like somehow whatever "worst-case-scenario" she can conjure up is not a remote possibility, but instead the most likely outcome. And this weekend I had a conversation with my husband that proves that the proverbial apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Let me explain.......

We'd gone over to western North Carolina to take the boys rafting. We were planning to camp, but if you've ever been near the Nantahala, you know that it can cost upwards of $30.00 for a 5x5 piece of dirt with loud (and sometimes drunken) neighbors occupying the 5x5 pieces of dirt on either side of you. Being that we were only planning on residing there for an evening -- and realistically didn't have to pitch a tent since the weather was going to be so nice -- we opted instead to "stow-away" on a piece of property near the put-in. I don't want to give too much away regarding this little gem we found, except to say that there was a building on it. And due to a small light left burning, once it started to get dark you could see in. There was an office on the top level -- with a kitchen in it.

Now, one of the problems with stowing-away is that you have to do some primitive camping -- and by that I mean there is no access to water and/or bathroom facilities. But we're fine with that. Our breakfast (cereal and milk) required no water, none of us have any issues with whizzing in the woods, and (if you'll pardon my crassness) any other "bizness" we had could be taken care of in the morning at the put-in. (A put-in with flush toilets I might add.....) But you know, I was thirsty. And I'd forgotten to fill up my water bottle before we left civilization. So we walked down to the previously mentioned building and scouted around. Guess what we found? Water spigots! Two of them. One on the west side of the building, and one on the front. Hooray! This meant I wouldn't have to ration what was left of my water. I knelt down and started to turn the spigot.

Mike: "I wouldn't do that if I were you. How do you know that water is potable?
Me: "There are spigots -- coming out of a building."
Mike: "So? That doesn't mean it's drinkable."
Me: "Ummmm.......Mike? I don't really consider myself an expert on the subject, but I'm pretty sure that they don't waste time and money on plumbing for non-potable water."
Mike: "It could be coming from a well you know......"
Me: "So what if it's coming from a well? Lots of people get their water from wells. Most of my family grew up on a well."
Mike: (Pause) "Well.... it could be coming from a well that hasn't been tested......"
Me: "Mike, they have a kitchen. I highly doubt that there are 2 separate water sources coming into this building. Clearly, they use the water. I'm sure it's fine."
Mike: "I'm just sayin'......"
Me: (Sigh)

I bent down, filled up my water bottle, and took a swig.

Mike: "You're drinking poison water."
Me: (Nodding) "Spoken like a true Kafsky."

A Guessing Game

2008-08-06T14:46:00.007-04:00

Me: (Filling Gibson's plate with food.) What else do you want buddy?
Gib: (Pointing) I'll have some of that Gopher.
Me: (Pointing) Is this what you're talking about?
Gib: Yeah, that.
Me: Why are you calling it "Gopher"?
Gib: 'Cuz that's how you eat it. (Imitates eating motion.)

So, just for kicks, let's play a little game. The rules are easy:

100 extra-credit-super-sized-bonus-points (and maybe a small prize) go to the first person* to correctly identify the food item he was talking about.

(*No fair guessing if you were standing in the kitchen when this conversation went down. Mom, I think this means you.)

In which I would like to crawl under a rock and hide

2008-07-28T07:06:00.006-04:00

What am I going to do with Landis? His "potty-humor" -- which I'm not sure is an appropriate title for it, since it also consists of body parts and bodily functions -- is totally out of control. I understand that because he's 4 it's age appropriate, or perhaps I should say that I understand it's developmentally appropriate for him to be constantly talking about poopy and butts and weenuses. It's just that he looks like he's 6, so the general public thinks he should have a little more sense about him -- and frankly, so do I. Not that I don't expect it to some degree. I do. He is, after all, my second child. My second boy. I knew what was coming down the pike. It's just that he seems to have a knack for busting out with it at the most hideously inappropriate times.

These days, the thing that he thinks is the most hilarious in all the world is his butt-crack. (Butt-crack!! Butt-crack!! Butt-crack!!!!) He uses any opportunity he can to work it into a conversation. For example, the conversation we had at the lake the other day went like this:
"Mom, can you fix the strap on my life jacket?"
"Which one?"
"The one that's in my BUTT-CRACK!!"
Which, to be fair, maybe isn't the best example. He did actually use that term appropriately since, after all, the strap he wanted me to adjust WAS well up into his butt-crack. But let's take, for instance, that time when he worked it into a conversation with a little girl in the child-watch. Apparently, as they were eating their snack together at the table, he turned casually to face her, batted his big blue eyes in her direction, and waving his banana around in the air, announced loudly to this innocent and unsuspecting child that he was going to stick it in his BUTT-CRACK!! And then he proceeded to laugh like a hyena. I'm not so sure she found it to be as hilarious as he did. I, on the other hand, did not find it to be hilarious at all. Instead, I stood rooted to my spot in horror as I listened to the staff member recount the story, which she finished by saying "....so we came down on that pretty hard." "Ummmmm, yeahhhhh.....of course you did." I managed to stammer, as I looked around for a rock to crawl under. Banana in the butt-crack. What will this child come up with next?

Well, it turns out I didn't have to wait long to find out. Because 2 days later, at a member-appreciation cookout we attended for the Y, he was on -- in full-form. We'd already eaten, and were sort of milling around and gabbing with the other members. A gentleman whom I'd never met was squatted down talking with Landis. This man been putting his baby in a stroller, and being that Landis loves babies, his actions had captured Landis's interest. I could see them talking about the baby and I watched them out of the corner of my eye as I chatted with another member. There were quite a few people wandering around, so the air was buzzing with lots of banter. But as it occasionally happens, it seemed as though everyone had a lull in their respective conversations at the same time. And at that precise moment -- as a wave of quiet calm washed over the crowd -- Landis leaned forward and began to speak in a loud clear voice. Eyes sparkling with excitement, and in a voice loud enough to be heard by everyone in attendance he announced to this perfectly nice gentleman: "I'm about to kick you in the NUTS!!!"

All heads swiveled in our direction. I took stock of the situation as quickly as I could. Too many people knew us for me to pretend he didn't belong to me, so my Plan A -- pretending that I had no idea who this appallingly rude child was -- was foiled. Time to enact Plan B. I smiled at everyone, the brightest, most high-wattage smile I could manage -- fully worthy of a place at the Miss America Pageant -- and then turned and began clawing frantically at the base of a nearby boulder to see if it was actually possible for me to hide under a rock until everyone went home. Alas...... I couldn't make enough progress in 20 seconds to stuff my entire body under it, so I sucked it up, publicly acknowledged that I was his parent, and went to deal with it.

I approached the gentleman, -- who was not only standing up, but had also backed himself up a few feet in what I could only guess to be an effort to keep his nuts as far out of the range of the 4-year-old standing in front of him as possible -- and apologized for my son's atrocious behavior. Then I made Landis apologize, which he was reluctant to do until I whispered some ~~life-threatening words~~ words of encouragement into his ear. Then I hustled both the kids to the car and got out of there before either one of them tried out their particular brand of "humour" on any other unsuspecting person polite enough to make small talk with them.

Exasperated, I explained to Landis that it's completely inappropriate to talk like that -- especially to someone you don't know, and especially in public. I told him that no one thinks that kind of talk is funny -- which I'm not sure he fully believed since at least four of my friends could hardly stand up they were laughing so hard. Did he get what I was talking about? He nodded, but I don't know. I never really know what actually sinks in. I turned back around in my seat, sighed, and drove away wondering to myself "Where in the world do they pick up this stuff?" I have no idea. I swear they don't get it from me, so you'd better not point your finger in my direction or I'll kick you in the nuts.

Now serving stir-fried snake

2008-07-14T20:19:00.003-04:00

It's been so dang hot around here, the only thing that sounded even remotely appetizing for dinner tonight was a big fat salad. Well.............. that or Popsicles. And frankly, the Popsicles almost won the coin toss. Less prep, less clean up, less hassle, and -- let's face it -- tastier. I almost did it too, but then I took a few minutes to imagine what the rest of my evening would look like after I got the boys all hopped up on 20,000 grams of sugar apiece, and I immediately got to chopping lettus. The hitch in my salad plan was that my husband, who is 6' 9" and has the metabolism of a hummingbird (bastard) needs something of substance for dinner in order to not lose weight. (See? Bastard.) So I dug around in my fridge to see what kinds of hearty additions I could throw in.

To my spinach and lettus combo, I added a few chopped hard boiled eggs, 1/2 an onion sliced thin, some sauteed mushrooms and some bacon. That oughta do it, don't you think? I added some dressing to it, tossed it around, loaded up the plates, and we sat down to eat. Here's what Gibson had to say about my salad masterpiece after his first 2 bites:
"Mom......... Ummmmmm.......... I don't like this meat" (pointing his fork at a sauteed mushroom) "It tastes like snake."

Apparently, my eldest son doesn't enjoy eating snake meat. And frankly I can't imagine why. I bust my behind to catch the critters -- crawlin' around on my belly under the house and the shed, baggin' 'em in an old pillowcase -- and skinnin' 'em sure ain't no picnic. Especially when they're still wrigglin' around a bit, which they tend to do when they've just had their heads removed with the sharp end of a shovel. I mean, I'm hear to tell ya...... preppin' those suckers for a meal, and figurin' how I'm gonna disguise it in the main course is hard work! And here he has the nerve to just up and announce at the dinner table that he don't like snake? Now what am I going to do with all that snake meat I got stashed out back in the smokehouse? And all that snake sausage I been storin' in the freezer? It's not like we ain't been eatin' it in various dishes since he was 6 months old, and this is the first time I've ever heard tell of him complainin' about it........... What gives?

I'm gonna hafta' re-work my dinner plans for the rest of the year if he up and decides tomorrow night that he also don't like coon.

A letter to my oldest son

2008-07-07T20:00:00.000-04:00

Dear Gibson,

Hi there. It's me.............. your mom. I know that your birthday isn't today, so let me just go ahead and apologize upfront for the fact that I am late in delivering your letter. You see, you've been gone for a week visiting your Grammie and Grampy up in Ohio, so your father and I.................. Well................... We've been having a BLAST! In all seriousness child, I can't even remember the last time we had so many evening plans. The whole week you were gone it was night after night after night of fun things to do! Early in the week we had a leisurely dinner out at a restaurant, and we were there for an hour and a half! Can you believe it? We ordered, ate, and drank our bottle of wine at a snail's pace. And not once did I have to tell anyone to get out from under the table. Good God -- It was GREAT! And on Saturday we didn't even get home from watching fireworks until 11:00! So even though it's been on my agenda this week to finish your birthday letter, you'll have to understand that I've been too busy "dating" your dad again to actually get around to finishing it. (And while I'm sure that statement will gross you out for years to come, someday, when you're married and have kids of your own you'll look back and get it completely.) Not that you'll even notice -- or care -- that I was late in my posting, seeing that you are so busy playing, yourself.

You turned six yesterday and I'm sure that Grammie and Grampy made it an extra fun day for you. I've heard bits and pieces -- about you making new friends, playing at the pool, swimming in the pond, going putt-putt golfing, "helping" Grampy build a clubhouse by misplacing each and every tool he needs, and keeping your uncle in stitches with your antics -- so I can't wait to see your face and hear all the details of your visit when you get back home tonight.

I want you to know that it's amazing to watch you grow into a kid -- not a "little kid", but a regular, grown-up kind of kid, with more mature thoughts and feelings than I thought possible in a 6 year old. And it surprises me every now and again, when I catch small glimpses of the person you'll become as an adult. Not that you don't act like a typical 6 year-old -- you do -- it's just that sometimes I see these reflections of a grown up you in the things you say, or the expressions you make, or the way you clear all the plates from the dinner table without even being asked. My own heart swells a little when I see you taking such pride in the more mature tasks you are able to accomplish, and I love the satisfied glow that radiates out of you when you know you've done something well.

You are a sweet, sweet child. Sweet in the way you care about people and their feelings, and also how adeptly you can express your own. You talk frequently in terms of your heart, and how it feels -- like how sometimes thunderstorms make your heart feel scared, or how snuggling with your Lovey makes your heart feel happy. You wear your emotions on your sleeve, and even though I sometimes find it frustrating that you are so quick to be moved to anger and/or tears, more often than not it's a winsome quality. You find excitement and joy very easily, and your ability to be quick to laugh also brings laughter to those of us around you.

There is an innocence about you that is so wonderful and endearing that I wish I could do a better job of putting it into words. Your big blue eyes, coupled with your complete earnestness sometimes make you hilarious -- without meaning to be. And when I collapse in laughter at something you've said that was completely genuine (but totally crazy), it hurts your feelings. So I'm trying to do a better job of reigning it in, because -- let's face it -- even though I'm not in any way trying to make fun of you, I'm laughing at you and not with you, and you know the difference.

Just recently, you've gotten a good handle on your letters and numbers. It's happened all of a sudden -- like you turned 6 and something clicked -- and I'm so happy for you. Because if I'm perfectly honest, I truly thought it was possible that you'd make it through another year of Kindergarten and still not quite have those basics nailed. But I think you've finally got it. You can count to 100, though you do still get 6 and 9 confused, and for the first time since you started going to school you can recognize all the letters of the alphabet. It's fantastic, and I'm proud of you for it. However, not so long ago you used to tell me that you loved me "51", since that was the biggest number you could conjure up. You thought it was the most massive thing in the world. And as proud of you as I am for learning that maybe 51 isn't the biggest number out there, I'll miss that.

You have a captivating personality and seem to have been born with the ability to charm and engage anyone. And that has been the case for as long as I can remember, even when you were a baby - even before you could talk. You always drew people in. I watch you strike up conversations with random people, often complete strangers and watch you capture their interest as you share your stories with them. It's a gift.

Your energy level is frequently through the roof, and you have a hard time being still -- especially at the dinner table, which exasperates your father to no end. You are always springing up out of your seat to act out part of the story you are telling, or to refill your drink, or to shout out the back door to the neighbor kids. Sometimes I think the top of his head is going to explode when you've gotten out of your seat for the 5th time in four minutes, or when the rest of us are all done eating, but the food on your plate has hardly been touched because you've been so busy yapping. It's my fault, I suppose. I passed you quite a few of my traits -- and that super-short attention span and non-stop yakking are just 2 of them. Ironically, those are the things that make me lose my patience with you. I don't presume that it's really fair, but Landis is wired more like your dad and so in that regard I am more tolerant of his antics than I am of yours. And yet, it's because you are so much like me that you really know how to push my buttons. I try to be conscious of it -- after all, who better to understand where you're coming from than me? Nevertheless, sometimes I think I get bent out of shape with you because you reflect back to me that things I find frustrating about myself. So I'm promising you that I'll do better to try to retain my composure and overlook some of your shenanigans, like I do for your little brother, OK?

A few weekends ago, we were floating out on the lake in our huge raft -- rowing around between all the wave runners and water skiers -- and you were jumping off the raft and swimming and basically having an all-around great time. At some point in the afternoon, when you were sitting in the front of the boat taking in all your surroundings, you looked at me and said "I love being a kid!" Then after a pause you amended that statement to add "I love being a KAFSKY kid!" And I want you to know that I love that you are a Kafsky kid too. Because you were my fist-born, you changed my life in ways I could have never imagined, and you certainly bring more joy to it than I could ever adequately express. So welcome to another year. I can't wait to see what's in store for you, and I hope you have a wonderful birthday.

I love you,
Mom

Forgive me Father, for (maybe, it's possible that) I've sinned.....

2008-06-25T05:57:00.005-04:00

Oh Internet, I think I need your guidance. Parenting is hard. It's hard for so many reasons. And mostly I feel like I'm decent at it, but yesterday........ Well..... Let's just say I may have made a questionable decision. But I'm in such a quandary! HELP ME.

Here's the low down: Gibson -- who is almost 6 -- Whizzes the bed with nightly regularity. And even though he doesn't like to, he wears pull-ups also with nightly regularity, which saves me from a non-stop barrage of smelly wet sheets and perhaps saves my sanity too. He's been otherwise potty trained since he was 2 and didn't ever really have many daytime accidents. And because he sleeps like a log -- a slumber so deep it takes 8 to 10 good shakes and a really loud voice to rouse him -- I KNOW he can't help it. I would never dream of punishing him for it.

Now let's cut to Landis, who is four and has also been potty-trained since he was 2. Contrary to Gibson, Landis has fantastic bladder/bowel control, never had any accidents and only pee'd his bed twice in two years. He doesn't sleep as heavily and gets up to go when necessary. I'm not really sure why I'm giving all this background information on the boys nighttime potty habits, except to say that they've been competent at going by themselves for a long time, with the exception of Gib's bed wetting --which I hope he'll eventually grow out of. No, the issue I'm struggling with is that Landis has recently taken up pooping in his pants.

Not a full-on load, mind you, but a pretty healthy start. Why, you may wonder, is a kid who has been going to the bathroom proficiently for 2 YEARS, pooping in his pants again? Well, it would seem that lately he just can't seem to be bothered to actually take the time to stop what he is doing and GO. He's into holding it. Holding it so long that, frankly, he can't quite hold it all. And he refuses to go until he ABSOLUTELY HAS TO, which usually means that by that time, he's pooped in his pants.

Now, Internet, the first few times this happened I was really nice about it. And what I mean by "first few times" is somewhere in the ballpark of 6 to 10. Who wants to get his or her child in trouble for what is seemingly an accident? Not me. I know that sometimes these things happen. But they keep happening and happening and happening. And it's not just the poop - though that's what I find to be the most aggravating -- it's that he waits to pee too. I'll look over at him as he's engaged in some activity, doing the universal pee-pee dance, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and ask him if he has to pee. "No." he replies. And as he does so, I begin to see a wet spot appear on the front of his shorts. Just a small one -- the size of a quarter -- but a pee spot all the same.
"Landis!! YES YOU DO! I can see you starting to pee in your pants! Get in there and GO!"
He stomps off in a huff to use the facilities, aggravated that I would insist that he pry himself away from what he was doing to actually take care of business.

And I think I got to the threshold of my patience when, on one particular occasion after the scenario described above had played itself out, he returned to his previous activity STILL DANCING.
"Landis! Did you go potty?"
"Yes."
"You did?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you still dancing?"
"I have to go poopy."
"THEN GO!!!!!"
"No. I can hold it."
"No you can't! This is why you're pooping your pants! If you have to poop, then for God-Sakes, GO POOP! Quit trying to hold it until the very last possible second!"
Again, he stomped off in a huff because I had the audacity to actually make him go to the bathroom BEFORE he let one go in his pants.

After numerous attempts at just talking with him and trying to get him to understand that he needs to go the first time he feels the need to go, I finally told him that if he pooped in his pants again he was going to be in trouble.

So last night, as we were taking a bike ride to the park, he pooped his pants again. Of course, he didn't tell me right away so he proceeded to ride on it for 10 minutes. Then we played on the slides and the swings, and since I wasn't near his butt, I couldn't smell him. But after about 15 minutes of playing he announced that he had to poop, so I grabbed our stuff and we started walking toward the bathrooms. It was then that I realized he was walking a little funny.
"Oh no..... Landis........ You didn't already poop your pants, did you?"
"Ummmmm...." He felt around the back of his pants with his hands, checking his butt thoroughly. "I don't feel a big ball..........."
"OK, well then lets hurry."

We got into the bathrooms and I helped him with his pants only to make a fabulous discovery. Not only had he pooped already, AND ground it all over his butt, he also WASN'T WEARING ANY UNDERWEAR!! And his pants were lined with netting, so you can draw your own conclusion as to what that looked like. I seriously thought I was going to kill him. He couldn't ride home naked, and it didn't even matter at this point if I even cleaned it, since he was going to have to grind it all over his butt again on our ride back home. So I did what I could for him in the park bathrooms -- cleaning everything to the best of my ability -- and told both boys that since Landis had pooped his pants we were going home.

And when we got home I punished him.

And now I feel a little guilty about it.

On the ride home I told him that he was in trouble and I gave him 2 choices -- a spanking or a cold shower to get his butt clean. He chose the cold shower. And he cried the whole time like I was torturing him -- and while it probably doesn't qualify as torture.......well, it certainly wasn't pleasant.

So now I feel guilty about making a 4 year old stand in a cold shower, but I am COMPLETELY FED UP with the pants pooping. He's normal, and regular, and hasn't had a lick of trouble pooping in the potty for 2 YEARS! I've had it up to my eyeballs, and I'm officially at my wit's end. Internet? Was that OK? Has anyone else had to deal with this? I'm in bad need of some good advice, because this parenting thing? It's hard.

Been workin' so hard. I'm punchin' my card......

2008-06-23T05:55:00.006-04:00

Well, Hello there! Long time no see, eh? What have you been up to? Me..... well...... I've been covered in an itchy, bumpy red rash that has so completely covered my entire being that I may actually go and see a doctor today, but that's a story for another post.

Besides scratching obsessively, you know what else I've been up to? I've been working out again. Ever since I stopped that atrocious coughing, and can actually take a deep breath without hacking up a lung for 3 minutes as a direct result, I've gotten myself back in the gym. It's been great because after those 6 weeks of non-stop coughing, I forgot how good you feel after a solid workout. In fact, I was feeling so good that I thought I'd take a class that has generated some serious buzz at our facility. It's called cardio-funk, which -- as you can probably imagine -- involves a lot of gettin' down. So it has all this buzz because it's a serious workout, but also because it's a freakin' blast. Not to mention the fact that it's taught by a very attractive guy who can dance like a pro and - in my perception - is totally straight. (Ladies............? Care to come try the class and maybe take a peek?)

So I tried the class for the first time, and let me tell you, we definitely did some serious gettin' down. Some hardcore cardio funkin'. We got down to some old school Michael Jackson, we funked out to some great hip hop. We channeled our inner Tina Turner to Proud Mary, and shook it like a Polaroid picture. We let the dogs out, and we did the entire routine to Footloose. And it was during the routine to Footloose that my friend Erin -- who was thoroughly entertained by the fact that we were partaking in this class -- got Gibson out of the childwatch and held him up so he could have a peek at what was going on. "Do you see your mom in there?" she'd asked him. And you can bet your sweet bippy that he did. He watched like a hawk and soaked up as much of the song as he could so that later he could tell me all about it.

"Mom! I saw you dancing today!"

"You did?"

"Yeah! Erin held me up and I got to look. I saw you."

"Did you like it? Was it fun to watch?"

"Yeah! And I liked the song you were dancing to."

"Which one?"

"Loose! You're loose! Everybody thinks you're loose!"

"Ummmmmmmmmmmm.......(this is where I bite the inside of my cheek and stifle the intense need to roll around on the floor holding my sides and laughing hysterically).......actually, I think the words are: Loose, FOOT loose, Everybody cut foot loose."

"No..... I heard it. It goes: Loose! You're Loose! Everybody thinks you're loose!"

So now he's learned a new song that he loves to sing -- frequently. And even though I make attempts to correct his lyrics, I mostly just let him sing it the way he wants. Because explaining to a 5 year old that perhaps it's not appropriate to sing about how loose someone is just opens a whole new can of worms, doesn't it?

Guilty

2008-06-11T07:31:00.012-04:00

Gibson had his official last day of school yesterday, and frankly, I think I might be more excited about it than he is. Of course it's possible that being that I've been through 18 years of schooling, and he has really only been through one, I might have a better concept of summer vacation than he does. In any case, let me just say a "THANKGODHALLELUJAH" that I won't be speeding up the highway twice a day, every day, 30 minutes each way anymore.
Ever.
Forever.
(Amen!)
And let me just go ahead and get another "HALLELUJAH!" regarding the demise of that little commute, since gas prices will no doubt be 5-freakin'-bucks-a-gallon by the time summer is over, and frankly, that would have just broken our backs. Next year, the G-man will be riding the bus to school. (PRAISE THE LORD!) And that particular school happens to only be 3 minutes down the street. (AMEN!) It will pick him up AT OUR DOOR! (SING IT SISTER!) And drop him back off there too! (SWEET JESUS!) I am so filled with gratitude for that big yellow mass of transpotation salvation that the first time it stops in front of our house, I might just run out the door, climb the steps, and kiss the driver square on the mouth. That's right, I said ON THE MOUTH. I'll do it too. You watch.

But I digress...... The whole reason I even sat down to write this post was to tell a funny story about Gibson, and what happened when I was picking him up from school the other day. (Did you know I'm not going to have to do that anymore? A bus is coming to my house next year. Seriously. Twice a day every day. HALLELUJAH!!!!!)

What was I saying...? Oh yes...... Funny story......
So I went to Gib's school to pick him up, and all the kids were lined up in the hallway by the front doors the way they are every day. I was walking toward the school and the dismissal teacher saw me coming, so she stuck her head inside the door and said "Gibson! Go!" as she gave a little jerk with her thumb over her shoulder. I milled around as I waited for the G-man to emerge and in the meantime she dismissed a few more kids. "Jordan! You can go. Shaia! Devon! Go! Calvin! Go!" I watched as all the other kids came out the doors to their waiting parents when they were called. But no Gibson. I wondered where he was. Eventually she took notice that I was still standing there. Waiting......

She looked at me with some confusion. "Are you still waiting for Gibson?" she asked me. I told her I was. "I called him," she said. "I wonder why he didn't come out?" She stuck her head back in the door. No Gibson. She asked the inside teacher if Gibson went back to his classroom. The inside teacher said No. She looked at me, I looked at her. We both knew he had to still be in the school somewhere.....we just couldn't figure out where.

So where had Gibson gone? Well, it appears that when she stuck her head in the door and told Gibson to "Go", he went..................straight to the principal's office. Now I ask you, what was that child doing right before she dismissed him? Because if that wasn't the mark of a guilty conscious, I don't know what is.