Preparedness

Something I actually caught myself praying for yesterday as I surveyed my barren pantry:

"Lord, if the end times are near and something devastatingly catastrophic is about to happen in the world that will bring America to its knees and forever change our way of life....please let it be right after I make a trip to Costco."


________

Mad Science

I am convinced that if I were ever unfortunate enough to fall unconscious while at home during the day, my children would surely kill me.

Here's how:

• Luke would straddle my abdomen, jump up in the air, and slam his bony little bottom (along with 34 pounds of his body mass) directly onto my diaphragm.

• Evie would do the same thing on my face.

• Luke would shout "WAKE UP, MOMMY!" directly into my ear and attempt to force one of my eyes open by gouging his finger into it.

• Evie would stand next to me and calmly kick me in the head.

• They would both step on various sensitive body parts as they walk around and over my prone figure.

• My hair would get pulled, my mouth would get probed, and my face would get slobbered on.

• Something would get bitten.

• If they were strong enough, they'd probably send me tumbling down the stairs.

How do I know this, you ask? Well, let's just say that curiosity got the better of me the other day and I decided to experiment.

At least the bruises are finally starting to fade...



________

Curse the Calculator

I sat down to do some math today and figured out that, over the past three years, I have spent 267 hours looking for sippy cups.

That's over eleven full days and nights of walking laps through my house, overturning couch cushions and digging around in toy boxes. Eleven days of scouring the cupboards, the pantry, the bookshelves and the bathrooms. Of making hysterical phone calls to my husband (who only ever seems to know where the shoes are). Of interrogating toddlers under harsh lighting and following one dead-end lead after another.

To come up with this startling total, I estimated an average of 15 minutes a day spent looking for those little buggers. A modest figure, I assure you. And I had to force myself to stop at three years, when what I really wanted to do is look ahead and see how much time I'll spend searching in the future...until my last child learns to use a real cup (without spilling) or goes off to college, whichever comes first.

Eleven days! I still can't get over it. If Israel can win a war in seven days, imagine what I can do with eleven!

I could learn a foreign language or write a short novel. I could drive across the country and take in all the sights, or stay at home and actually finish one game of Sodoku without cheating.

If I spread that time out a little more, I could sleep in an extra two hours every morning for the next five months. Or spend 45 minutes a day for the next year sculpting my abs and trying to get my butt to look a little less like a set of deflated watermelons.

But no, I have to spend that time on my hands and knees with my face pressed to the cold tile floor...trying to spot every nook and cranny that a six inch tall sippy cup could squeeze into.

How depressing.

But then, that's what happens when you play with math.


______

Mr. Coffee

I've decided to give coffee a chance. I do this at least twice a year (when I'm feeling particularly crummy) but it never seems to catch on.

Coffee...one of the cornerstones of American culture and quite possibly the glue that binds us together as a nation. Coffee...the thin veneer of civility that separates man from beast, the working class from the convicts.

Coffee...my husband's one true love.

I'm not sure when Chris' love affair with coffee began. I tend to think of it as something that's learned, an acquired taste. Usually under the stress of exams or swing shifts, or even peer pressure. How can somebody honestly like their first taste of coffee?

But Chris claims that he was born loving it. He tells me stories of eating coffee beans as a small child and nagging adults for sips. I have my own theory that, as a baby, he got separated from his parents (while they vacationed in Columbia) and was raised by a pack of wild coffee plants.

For whatever reason, though, he is thoroughly hooked. In fact, I'd venture to say that the health of our marriage relies heavily on his continued supply of coffee. Which is just one more thing for me to worry about now that Obama has been elected and the end of the world is surely near. Forget canned goods, bottled water, and ammunition....where can I get a half-ton of French Roast??!!

The only thing that makes Chris happier than sipping at this precious liquid, is the idea that maybe someday his wife will cross over to the Caffeinated Side and join him. And why shouldn't I? Everyone else in my family is there....happily scalding their tongues and stimulating their bladders every day!

Chris is convinced that it will bond us as husband and wife in a way that nothing else can. He's promised me a level of energy beyond my imagination, a reason to smile each and every moment of the day, and the ability to stay up late into the night with little or no consequence the next morning.

But I've noticed the down side. I've seen Chris push the limits and function on such a small amount of sleep that his personality falls unconscious. I've seen my mom vibrating when she's sitting still. I've seen a house full of grown adults get mood-swings and migraines just because someone was accidentally giving them decaf.

I've seen hordes of people, waiting in line at an over-priced coffee house while the economy goes into the toilet.

You'd think all this would be enough to keep me from this vile brew, but alas, it is not. The truth is that I would be addicted to coffee just as much as the next guy were it not for one very important thing...

It's taste.

A kick in the mouth would taste better to me than a sip of coffee. Rubbing alcohol would feel smoother on my tongue and a handful of dirt would leave me with a better aftertaste.

And don't think I haven't tried to disguise it! I've tried milk, sugar, fake sugar, flavored creamer, I've even mixed in copious amounts of hot Cocoa. The one time I got it just right, I realized that I had only included a teaspoon of actual coffee.

This time around, Chris thinks I should consider it a means to an end. Like a "plug your nose and choke it down if you want to feel better" type of medicine. The idea being that I'll learn to like it as time goes on.

I think I would be more likely to grow a beard and join the circus, but I hate to hurt his feelings.

So here I am, giving it the old college try...though I am perhaps doomed already since I never actually finished college.

Maybe coffee would have helped.


_______________

Grandpa

Let me tell you about my grandfather. God made him eighty-eight years ago, and then promptly broke the mold.

"This one will be a collector's item," He said with a smile.

I could tell you all about his life, his accomplishments, his adventures, and his great love. But would that truly show you the kind of man he was? I'm afraid not. I'm afraid that nothing I put into words would adequately express what an amazing person my grandfather was. And so, I stare at my blank computer screen, completely at a loss.

How can I fit a life so...large...into one small blog entry? How can I condense the breadth of his character into a few paragraphs?

Perhaps a story.

When I was a teenager, I was staying with my grandparents for a month during the summer, as I had done for several years. One day during my stay, I made a foolish decision. In a fit of teenage rebellion, I acted on an impulse and did something I shouldn't have. Nothing earth-shattering, mind you, but enough to get the local law enforcement slightly annoyed.

Of course, Grammy and Grandpa found out.

I was completely devastated. For the first time in my life, I had disappointed the two people on the planet that I would have done anything NOT to disappoint. I spent the entire afternoon crying in my room, a self-imposed exile. I wondered how I would ever look them in the eyes again.

I was still going strong when I heard someone coming up the stairs. I didn't even bother rolling over to see who it was. Who else would be coming to deal with me besides Grammy?

When the bed shifted with a new weight, I sniffled and snorted and closed my eyes in shame...and then I felt it. A cool, work-roughened palm resting against my flushed cheek. A hand much too large to be Grammy's.

Grandpa.

He spoke then, telling me in a gentle voice that I had been upstairs long enough and I needed to come down and eat some dinner. But it was his unspoken words that healed my broken heart that day.

"We love you."

"We forgive you."

"Come be with us again."

Everything I felt in his tender touch. In the courage he demonstrated by facing an emotionally wrought, hormonal teenager alone.

I've always wondered why he decided to climb those stairs that day. Why he would willingly enter something that was so clearly grandmother territory. Maybe Grammy was busy with with dinner and sent him up to fetch me. Maybe it was something else entirely.

All I know is this...no one could have done it better.

I did come down that evening, not long after he left. And my grandparents looked at me like they always did, with warmth and love...as though nothing had changed.

But it had. I felt different that day. Broken and reformed, changed for the better.

My grandpa defined unconditional love for me. In that small moment so many years ago, he showed me a greater image...that of a loving Father, waiting for His lost child to come home.

And I did.

Now, I'm an adult. A wife and a mother, no less. And I've just been told that I won't see my grandfather again on this side of Heaven. This person that had so much life, that continued to influence and encourage me in every possible way, that loved me and saw my worth when I was incapable of it...this amazing man is now going to be relegated to my memories.

It is woefully inadequate, but it's all I have. So I will cherish each one, taking it out of my mind like a dusty photo-album. Opening the pages and reliving each scene like it's the first time around.

I can see him sitting at the table in the morning, wearing a pair of comfy sweat pants and a plain white t-shirt, looking down at his open Bible in deep concentration. I see him curled up on his side, taking a nap on the living room floor like it's the softest of beds. I see him on his knees, his legs folded under him, sitting back on his feet...looking boyish and happy as he shows me his old vinyl records. Or wearing a pair of beloved overalls, one gloved hand resting on the steering wheel of his tractor as he waves at me with the other.

I can feel his impossibly soft hair, my fingers stroking over it when he pulls me into a tight hug. His strong, yet gentle hand as it clasps my own for mealtime prayer. I can even feel the smooth grain of the wood he has skillfully formed and stained and made into something truly beautiful.

I can see his handsome face, enhanced by the years rather than diminished. I see his shoulders hunched up with laughter, that certain smile he has when he's up to no good, and the way his eyes light up when he realizes Lawrence Welk is on.

I can see the way he looks at my grandma, like there's no place on the earth he'd rather be than at her side.

But clearer than all of these, is the image I have of him right in this very moment....

I see my grandpa, tears streaking down his face, as he falls into the arms of his Savior.

And I think I can live with that.

I will desperately miss you, Gramps. I'll miss everything about you. I'll even miss you for my kids, who won't get the pleasure of truly knowing you in this life. I'll miss the feeling of contentment I get when I'm near you, and the way you make me laugh without even trying.

I'll miss you, but I will see you again. And that gives me a peace that passes all understanding.

So I'll cling to that peace now, I'll take it with me to bed and wrap myself in its comforting embrace. And maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be a little easier.



____________

Oldest Trick in the Book

How you know your son watches too much Bugs Bunny...



(Luke examines Mommy's hand)

"Oh, Mommy has a boo-boo."

"No honey, that's just a freckle."

"No, it's a boo-boo."

"It's a freckle, Luke."

"NO! It's a BOO-BOO!!"

"Freckle!"

"Boo-boo!"

"Freckle!"

"Freckle!"

"Boo-boo!"

"Yes, it's a boo-boo."

Can a three year old look smug?



_______

And the Dish Ran Away With the Spoon

Erma Bombeck, a well-known humor columnist and my personal hero, wrote several articles revolving around the mystery of her missing socks. She would put a matching pair in the dryer, and only one would come out....every single time. She had several theories, of course, from alien abductions to "sock heaven," but none of them could be proven. I strongly suspect that, when she passed away over a decade ago, the mystery still plagued her.

In my household, socks are not the problem. We've got socks coming out of our ears. Dozens of them.

Some are ancient and so stretched out that they slide down your ankle and gather in the toes of your shoes as you walk. Others have holes so big you have to examine them carefully before you can figure out which end to put your foot into. And still others are new looking and in good shape....but neither Chris nor myself ever purchased them and we're certain no one gave them to us.

Of course, out of all the socks overflowing from our closets/hampers/couch cushions, we only have three pairs that actually match each other. But that's only a problem if you let it be.

Chris doesn't mind wearing mismatched socks.

"Who's going to see them?"

And he's right. No one will.

It's not like they're even a different color. We're a family of sock bigots, you see....only white socks are allowed to come through our front door. And among those that have spontaneously regenerated, white seems to be the preferred color as well.

So really, the differences in our socks are quite subtle. Some have gray soles, while others only have a gray patch at the heel and toes. Some are completely white, but have a thin gold band at the top. Some are identical, except for the color of the word "Hanes" across the bottom. And some are merely stitched differently.

This doesn't bother Chris at all. When he folds laundry, he doesn't even look twice at the pairs he's matching up...let alone when he's actually putting them on. But it drives me insane.

I refuse to fold a pair of mismatched socks, however minor the difference. I'll wear them, but I won't fold them.

I'm not sure how much of that is my mild O.C.D., and how much is my deep-seated (yet completely subconscious) hatred of folding laundry. But either way, as I said earlier, socks are not really the problem in my house.

Chris and I have been married for eight and a half years and, in that time, we've discovered a disturbing phenomenon. We have never purchased a set of bowls, knives, glasses, or silverware that didn't slowly disappear over time. We always have coffee mugs, of course...I suspect the caffeine makes them immortal.

But still, not a week goes by in which I don't end up scouring my cupboards for a mixing bowl that I swear I saw a few days earlier. Or, better still, I pour milk over my cereal and spend the next hour searching for a clean spoon...only to discover that we have four dirty ones in the sink.

FOUR!! Who has four spoons???

In this economy, many couples sit at their kitchen table and wonder where all the money went. Chris and I sit and wonder where our steak knives could possibly have gone.

Why must we suffer like this?

To be fair, the mixing bowls can probably be explained. We usually use them for leftovers and shove them to the back of the fridge. Then, six months to a year later, we need the room for groceries so we use a pair of salad tongs to remove the fogged up, foil-covered bowl.

Then we spend the next thirty minutes trying to remember what the heck we put in the bowl to begin with until, finally, one of us gathers enough courage to peek inside. Sometimes we can figure it out, sometimes we can't.

Sometimes it growls at us, but we can never seem to catch it on tape.

I usually tell Chris to put it on the back porch and run the hose in it for a good soaking, after which we completely forget about it until the water evaporates and the leftovers get sun-baked into the plastic. Then we throw it away.

On rare occasions, I deem it a lost cause and we throw it away immediately.

So I guess it's no wonder that we have a shortage of bowls. Even the glasses can be explained, given a large enough time period. Glasses break, after all.

But still, that doesn't explain the eating utensils!

I have never, ever sanctioned the disposal of silverware and it's not like a stainless steel spoon can break. And, with small kids in the house, we've kept an extremely close eye on our knives.

So where are they going? Utensil Heaven? Or maybe there's a black hole in the back of my dishwasher that magnetically pulls the silverware in and leaves all the coffee mugs behind. I find it hard to believe that a burglar would ignore the electronics in my house and quietly filch the cutlery instead.

And all of the dishes seem to be accounted for so there goes Mother Goose's theory.

Actually, I'm ashamed to say that I've long suspected Chris of smuggling them to work and losing them there, but he insists that he's innocent. I want to believe him, but what other explanation is there? I hardly leave the house anymore, let alone pack a lunch to bring...so I know it's not me. And I have yet to find any of them littered among the kid's toys.

I'm completely stumped and it's driving me crazy. Here I am, left to chew on this mystery until it's a bloated mass in my mouth and I can neither swallow it nor spit it out. How did Erma handle it for so many years?!

No way, I refuse to let this beat me! When I die someday, it's not going to be with the fear that Heaven is actually run by missing spoons and I'll get turned away at the gate.

No, I have what Erma didn't have. Technology.

Video surveillance is impractical, but GPS technology is advancing every year. It won't be long before I can attach something completely inconspicuous to the handle of my steak knife and be able to track it anywhere on the globe.

All I have to do is bide my time. Until then, I'm going to start looking for a way to put a digital lock on the silverware drawer.

And perhaps I can start storing the knife block upstairs in our gun safe...


______________

Never Again!

Tara and I were at the mall last week when I decided to take Luke, Honor, and Connor to the bathroom.

The public bathroom.

Alone.

And I will go to my death bed trying to figure that one out, believe me.

I blame Tara, really. I think I may even have grounds for a lawsuit. False advertising!

I'm not sure who came up with the idea originally, but I clearly remember having second thoughts.

"It'll be fine, Steph. They can even use their own stalls."

"Really?"

"Oh, sure! And that bathroom is hardly ever busy."

Lies!!!

First of all, it was like Grand Central Station in there. Apparently, the bathroom in the food court (which was closed for construction) had the only other toilets within a ten mile radius. It felt like a page from Where's Waldo, only without the distinctive red and white stripes to help me out. It was a small miracle that I managed to come out with as many kids as I came in with...and don't think I wasn't counting heads right up to their reunion with Tara.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It all started out innocently enough. In fact, the bathroom was empty when we first went in. I immediately went to the large stall at the end because, hey...if having three pre-schoolers in a public bathroom doesn't qualify you as handicapped than I don't know what does.

I sent Connor in first and told Honor to use the stall next door. Poor Luke was clasped tightly between my thighs as I held open the doors and stood guard. It was a bathroom, after all, and practically oozing germs from every tile.

Connor's pants were barely down when Honor called for me. I shoved Luke in with Connor and went next door.

Honor was standing next to the toilet with her panties around her ankles. She was gesturing wildly at the toilet and saying something about it flushing. I looked inside and couldn't tell if she had gone, but there was a large "pee-puddle" on the front of the seat.

"Did you go, Honor?"

But she kept whimpering and pointing to the automatic flushing mechanism behind the seat. You know, the voyeuristic kind that flush when they see your pasty backside?

There was some toilet paper floating in the bowl so I assumed she just wanted me to flush it. I hit the little manual override button.

Big mistake.

Honor freaked out and started crying. I later found out that she's terrified of those automatic toilets since they have the annoying habit of getting a little too eager and flushing on you while you're in the middle of your business.

I tried to comfort her while grabbing some toilet paper and wiping up the "puddle." I was about to put her on the seat when I noticed it hadn't flushed all the way.

Clogged!

Meanwhile, I had no idea what the boys were doing so I decided to consolidate my efforts and put everyone in the big stall together. I shuffled Honor over and was just about to go in, when an elderly woman entered the bathroom pushing an even elderly-er woman in on a wheelchair.

You've gotta be kidding me!

Of course I felt guilty for commandeering the only handicapped stall in the room, so I started to ask the ladies if they needed it. Before I could, though, the less elderly woman parked the older lady in the middle of the room and went into a stall alone.

Oh.

It occurred to me briefly that she might still need to take the older woman into a stall once she was done, but my conscience was momentarily satisfied so I jumped in with the kids and locked the door before I could change my mind.

Connor had already finished.

"Good boy, Connor! You're turn, Honor."

I knew enough from Tara to not bother with the tissue seat protectors. They either annoy or frighten Honor, I can't remember. Probably both.

I set her up on the seat and she went quickly. Thank heavens the dumb thing didn't flush.

Luke was next, only he couldn't seem to go. Not into group peeing, I suppose.

Then it was my turn. There was a reason, after all, that I agreed to this in the first place.

I started to unbutton my jeans when six little eyes caught my attention. They were all staring at me. I felt like an art exhibit...in a rather seedy gallery.

Should I send them out to wait for me? What if some creepy stranger grabbed them up?

"Um...turn around, guys."

They immediately started spinning in circles and laughing.

That'll work.

Unfortunately, spinning leads to dizziness...which leads to putting little hands on dirty walls or falling onto dirty floors.

I made a mental note to scrub their hands at the sink until they bled.

I finished my business in record time with as much modesty as I could manage, only faintly wondering if I was now the "weird aunt" for peeing in front of impressionable young kids. Of course, I would surely have gotten that title eventually, so no harm done.

When we left the stall, the woman in the wheelchair was gone. Who'd have thought an old lady with her crippled mother would be more efficient a public bathroom than I was?

We took turn washing hands, with Connor and Honor going first. A woman standing next to me, who looked to be in her early twenties, smiled and commented on how cute the kids were. She asked if they were all mine.

I blew my tangled hair out of my face, straightened my wrinkled shirt, and tried to relax the muscles in my face.

"Good heavens, no."

I told her that only one belonged to me and that the other two were my niece and nephew.

She smiled and started to reply when suddenly the lights went out. Before I could even register what had happened, they flicked on again.

I looked over and saw Honor and Connor standing on the chairs near the entrance, playing with the light switch.

Who on earth puts an accessible light switch in a public bathroom?!

"Cut it out, guys."

They both sat down immediately and I smiled politely at the woman while hurriedly drying Luke's hands off.

"Do you have kids?"

"Oh, no," she replied quickly.

And now she never will.

With that, our adventure ended. As I hustled the kids out the door, Connor made one last grab for the light switch.

"Don't even think about it, Bucko."

He snatched his hand back and gave me a sweet smile. Once we were out, Honor and Connor (and Luke, the little traitor) ran down the hallway to their mom, who was probably wondering what on earth had happened to us.

I nearly fell on my face and kissed Tara's feet when I saw her. Because, truth be told, she wasn't lying to me at all when she said it would be easy.

For her, it would have been.

She's a supermom, you see. Able to manage four young children in a single bound!

I don't know how she does it, honestly, but she is amazing with kids. Even when I add my two, she takes it all in stride and doesn't miss a beat. I've never seen a more capable and loving mom, truly. She plans her children's daily schedule with an organization that makes my brain melt. And she is always seeking to stimulate them, mentally and physically. Meanwhile, my kids watch TV all day and don't yet realize that the big glass window in the back of our house is actually a door that leads to the yard.

Tara somehow manages to keep track of her kids at home and in public, even when each of them is taking off in a separate direction. And when all six of our children are running around in a crowded play area at the mall, I know she can tell me where my kids are the moment I ask.

Mostly, though, Tara is patient. Even when she's frustrated, it's never on the scale of a normal human being. She delights in her children, for different reasons every day. And when most women would be curled up in a ball, sobbing hysterically, Tara is catching up on the laundry.

She is amazing.

And humble. I'm sure to get an argument from her about all this, but it's the truth.

You are a role model to me, Tara....about as close to Proverbs 31 as any of us can ever hope to get. Thank you for being such a wonderful mother to my beautiful nieces and nephews, whom I couldn't possibly love more. And thanks for being such an amazing friend and sister.

I love you, Tara. I really do.

But if you ever suggest that I take the kids to a public bathroom again, I'm going to kick you in the shins.


___________

Boys

Every evening I put on three pairs of socks, two pairs of heavy jeans, a thick sweater with a pillow stuffed underneath, a ski mask, and a construction helmet.

And then I hold Evie down and brush her teeth.

I still end up with bruises the next day. Not to mention the ringing in my ears from her screams of bloody murder.

The other night, Luke and Daddy overheard the racket from the next room.

"Uh-oh, Luke. Evie's being bad."

Luke grins mischievously up at Daddy. "I'm being bad too."

"No you're not."

"Yeah, I'm being bad too."

"If you're being bad, then you need a time out."

"No time out!"

"You're not bad, Luke. You're good."

"No, I'm a boy."

"Yeah, you're a good boy."

"No, Daddy, I'm a LITTLE boy."



************


Daddy and Luke were playing with the new Thomas Train set today. Luke bumped his train into the back of Daddy's.

"Hey, get off my tail," said Daddy.

Later on, Luke was playing with the trains by himself. He was making different voices for the two engines, one high pitched and one deep and growly.

Suddenly, High-Pitched Train ran into the back of Deep and Growly.

"Hey, get off my penis."


.......and Mommy, who was sitting nearby, nearly choked on her drink of milk.



______________

Lullabies for the Memory-Challenged Mom

Lullaby, and goodnight,
Go to sleep little baby.
Lullaby, and goodnight,
Go to sleep my little girl.
Lullaby and goodnight,
For I lo-ove you so.
Lullaby and goodnight,
For I luh-huh-huh-huv you so.



Hush little baby, don't say a word.
Mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird.
And if that mocking bird don't sing,
Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring.
And if that diamond ring don't.....shine,
Mama's gonna buy you a....diamond mine.
And if that diamond mine don't pay,
Mama's gonna....send you to school all day.
And if that school house kicks you out,
Mama's gonna go in and use her clout,
To make them treat you with respect,
And never will they dare neglect,
My sweet baby girl, Evie.
And they.......won't.......oh, I give up.



I love you, a bushel and a peck,
A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.
A hug around the neck, and a bushel and a peck.
A bushel and a peck, and a bushel and a peck.



_______

PUSH!!!

WARNING: This following blog entry contains phrases, descriptions and thinly veiled euphemisms that, while clever, do push the limits of good taste. Proceed with caution.



Evie had a brush with constipation a few days ago. Both of my kids have always been daily poopers so this was some uncharted territory for me.

I could tell she had been struggling with this particular "matter" (snort, snort) for nearly two days because every time Chris or I changed her diaper, it would tease us a little and then run giggling back inside.

It was toying with us.

Finally, on day two before nap time, Evie came up to me holding her butt.

"Poop!"

This was it. The moment of truth.

I laid her down and opened her diaper to see that the process had indeed begun. But it was stalling.

I felt like a birthing coach...about two decades too early.

"Push, Baby! Come on, PUSH!"

Evie started whimpering and squirming.

"Remember your breathing, Evie! Hee-hee, hooo. Hee-hee, hooo."

She grunted and squirmed some more, then started to cry.

"I see it! Here it comes!!! Push harder!"

But the progress had stalled again. I briefly toyed with the idea of using forceps but decided that the situation was not nearly that desperate.

"You're almost there, Honey. Just a little more!"

Evie had finally had enough and started to struggle against my hold. Apparently, that exertion was all it took and, finally, it was out...and out, and out, and out some more.

"You did great, Evie," I soothed as I cleaned her up. "It's over now."

It was an emotional release like no other. Evie grinned and took off running while I sat there, swiping at my tears for several moments....until I realized they were being caused by the nearly visible waves of putrescence emanating from the folded up diaper sitting next to me.

Note to self: Poop stinks. And poop that plays mind games with you stinks worst of all.



__________

Bedtime Routine

"Okay, Luke. Let's sing ONE song together, okay? I'll let you choose ONE song and that's it. Then you have to go night night, okay? So what's the ONE song that you want to sing? Just pick ONE song."

"Sing Jesus-Love-Me-Deep-and-Wide-Bible-Wise-Man?"



________

Luke's New Game

How index fingers play together....



"Hi, Mommy Finger!"

"Hi, Luke Finger."

"Come on, Mommy Finger. Let's play!"

The fingers "walk" into the play room where Mommy Finger stands on a spinning toy and starts to lose her balance.

"Oh no, I'm gonna fall!"

"I save you, Mommy finger!"

Luke Finger grabs her up before she hits the ground and curls around her in a warm embrace.

"Gig a hug."

Eager for adventure, the two fingers decide to enter a shadowed, cavernous toy together.

"Dark in dere! I scared."

"I'm scared too, Luke Finger!"

The fingers hear an ominous growl that sounds vaguely like a two year old boy. Luke Finger stiffens in fear.

"Oh no, a bear!"

"Run for your life, Luke Finger!"

The fingers scream in terror and run across the room when, suddenly, they are confronted by a giant teddy bear....being supported by a small hand.

It growls in fury.

"Oh no, Luke Finger! The bear is going to get us!"

"I save you!"

Luke Finger bravely points himself directly at the vicious bear.

"BANG, BANG, BANG!!"

The blue teddy bear goes flying across the room, soundly defeated.

"My hero! Can I have a kiss?"

And the two fingers touch in a brief but heartfelt smooch. The day has been saved.


....Stay tuned for the exciting adventures of Luke and Mommy Big Toe....


________

First Time for Everything

Well, I finally did it. I called Poison Control.

My Pediatrician gave me the number on a sticker ages ago and I placed it near our phone. But, knowing myself (and knowing my children) I decided it would be a better idea to simply memorize it.

Which turned out to be quite a convenience yesterday evening.

I'm brushing Luke's teeth in the bathroom (which happens to take every ounce of patience and concentration in my body) when Evie comes walking up to me. I distractedly glance down at her, then nearly gag Luke with his toothbrush when my brain catches up with my eyes.

Evie is standing there, gulping down a bottle of bubble-bath soap like some hobo with a paper bag.

As I reach over to snatch it away, I reason with myself that the cap is probably in the closed position and aren't I being silly for over-reacting?

I yank it from her mouth and see that the cap is open wide.

Oh, crud.

I look at Evie in horror as she swallows the final mouthful and grins up at me.

Oh sure, the kid won't touch ninety percent of the food I put in front of her but she thinks bath soap is delicious? I can see I've been going at this all wrong. I've been serving her things that taste salty or sweet when clearly she prefers bitter and sickening with a subtle aftertaste of rotten.

After a few seconds, I snap out of my shock and yell for Chris (who is right down the hall in our bedroom) while yanking off Evie's diaper and throwing her in the tub....don't ask me why, she doesn't have a bit of soap on her body. I turn on the water and splash it up into her mouth...foolishly thinking she will take a sip, swish it around and spit it out.

It's a little disturbing how often I forget that my daughter is only 18 months old.

Of course she gulps the soapy water right down and then sputters and chokes when I get slightly frantic with my splashing. Meanwhile, Luke is still standing at the sink looking at me like I've lost my mind.

And where the heck is my husband, anyway?

"Chris!!"

No answer....which, for some reason, makes me unreasonably furious.

"CHRIS!!!!!!!!!!" My bellow reverberates through the small bathroom and the kids flinch.

Finally, the man comes bursting in looking breathless and slightly panicked.

"What?! What happened?"

"Evie just swallowed a bunch of bath soap."

"Oh no!" (blinks a couple of times) "That's...bad, right?"

"I don't know! Maybe!"

I look at the label on the back of the bottle...

Keep Out of Reach of Children.

Who wrote this? Frankenstein!? Why not add a couple of words to make it an actual sentence? No, snap out if it, Steph! Your daughter needs you!

So, I keep reading and...nothing. No warnings about accidental ingestion or eye contact or anything else untoward. So why bother keeping out of reach of children? Sounds like a jolly good time to me!

I sigh and figure the best thing to do is call Poison Control. It's toll free so what could it hurt, right? Who knows, it might even be fun.

So I leave the kids with Chris and head downstairs, dialing the number from the intricate recesses of my superior memory.

1-800-222-1222.

Let me tell you, this girl did not take one whole year of college for nothing. No, sir.

The person that answers seems very pleasant and attentive as I tell her what just happened.

"And what was it again?"

"Bath soap.....you know, bubble bath?"

"Oh, that should be fine. How much did she ingest?"

I pause and panic a little. I'm supposed to know how much?

"Um, it was coming out pretty fast but I think I stopped her before she drank too much."

"Okay. Hold on a second while I transfer you."

(silence for a few moments)

"Hi, how can I help you?"

What's this? A second person? What did I just get through, the pawns? Some first line of defense that separates the people who really need help from the people that took a sip of expired milk?

"Uh, my daughter just drank some bath soap. It's hypo-allergenic," I add pathetically.

"How much did she ingest?"

Again with the details! Gee, I'm not sure. I guess I should have asked her to use a measuring cup.

"I don't know. A couple of swallows?"

"That's pretty harmless. Go ahead and brush her teeth and give her some fluids."

"Uh, brush her teeth?" That seems a little unnecessary. Her breath is lavender scented, for crying out loud. It's never smelled better!

"To remove the taste."

"Oh." I resist the urge to point out that if she didn't like the taste, she probably wouldn't have chugged the stuff to begin with.

"If she drank a significant amount, you might see some loose stools over the next few days."

Hey, that's great! Evie's been a little plugged up lately so maybe this will help. In fact, I think we may be on to something here. If the stuff is so harmless, why not use it as a home remedy for constipation. Other parents use fruit juice or medications, but why bother with all that when relief is just a few feet away, sitting on the rim of the bathtub!

"Okay, that's great. Thanks so much."

"No problem. Now, what's your name, your child's name, your zip code and home phone number?"

I stutter for a few moments, stalling for time as I debate on whether or not to answer. I can just imagine her computer screen...filled with a blank CPS report, the cursor blinking patiently.

In the end, I cave in and give her my info. I'd make a lousy criminal.

She tells me she'll call back in an hour to check on Evie and we hang up. Wait a minute, I thought she said it was harmless?!

Well, I'm happy to report that Evie drank down her bottle of milk and went right to sleep (another benefit of this miracle soap, perhaps?). Her stools are normal and her innards are squeaky clean and lightly fragranced.

All's well that ends well, as they say.


_________

Luke

"Look Mommy, I'm a tiger. Rooooar!"


"Oooh, you're a scary tiger."


"Roooooar!"


"Okay, Tiger. Step into your pajama pants."


"Roooooar!"


"Do you have to go pee-pee on the potty?"


"No wanna go pee-pee....(lowers his voice to a throaty growl)...No wanna go pee-pee on the potty!"




***********



Translations for bedtime song requests:


"Bwack an white!" = Jesus Loves the Little Children


"Wee man!" = Zaccheus


"Bible!" = The B-I-B-L-E


"Dee an why!" = Deep and Wide


"Shunshine!" = You Are My Sunshine


"Pider!" = The Itsy Bitsy Spider


"Wise man!" = The Wise Man Built His House


"Ear!" = Oh Be Careful Little Ears What You Hear


(Holds index finger up) = This Little Light of Mine



Note: If all else fails, ask him to start singing and try to figure it out as you go.




_______________

Storm Photos

I took these shots from our backyard yesterday evening. We were all out there enjoying the cool breeze and an amazing light show from the north. Mesa got hit with a terrible, but short-lived storm that knocked down power lines and uprooted trees. Fortunately for us, it didn't make it out to our area.

It was a perfect night, though. The sun was hidden behind low clouds and even the air seemed golden. Whenever I see big majestic clouds like this, I think of our Creator...painting all of nature with His glory.

What a mighty God we serve.

Batman!

Luke Counting

Evie & the Elmo Phone

Things I Probably Shouldn't Ask the Pediatrician

__________________________________


If I bribe my son with Coke to get him to eat his vegetables, do they cancel each other out?


Why is the recently deceased Pope easier to get on the phone than you are?


Can you write down the signs of concussion on a piece of paper so I can hang it on my fridge for easy reference?


Did you really spend eight years in college just to lecture me about getting rid of the bottle?


Is it strange that my greatest desire in life is to please you?


If you insist on making witty remarks, could you at least stay for more than thirty seconds so I can come up with a decent reply?


Would you mind if I recorded this conversation so I can take it to the world's fastest court stenographer and have it transcribed?


What are your thoughts on spanking?



_____________

Cleaning With Daddy

We pretty much defy gender roles in this household...

Fun With Black and White

I know I've been TERRIBLE about updating this blog. Believe it or not, my biggest excuse is that the kids are doing too many cute things to keep track of. Luke is talking so much now (when did he become a real person??) and we're having such hilarious conversations all day long...I just haven't taken the time to write it down when it happens. And by the end of the day, it's completely slipped my mind (which is rather crowded with adoption information right now).

So, I'm making a solid promise to start blogging with more frequency. I'll start by letting myself off the hook a little bit and realizing that every post doesn't have to be Pulitzer worthy (har-har)....or even all that wordy....to be good entertainment my readers. That's right, I'm talking to all two of you.

I'm going to start doing what I wanted to do from the get go. Write about and post pictures/videos of my beautiful, amazing children.

I promise to flex my writing muscles every now and again with long, thoughtful/goofy postings...but I want to start filling in the blank spots a little with some eye-candy.

So, without further excuses delay, here are some photos that I recently played with on a free editing web-site. Most of them are recent but I think there's one of Evie that's a little older. See if you can spot it!

Enjoy!










For some reason, this one just looked better in color....

Jesus Loves Me

There are times when my heart overflows with love for my children. Well, scratch that...my heart is always overflowing with love, there are just certain times when it's gushing like Old Faithful.

I tucked Luke into bed tonight and sang a few songs with him. Watching his little face light up as he recognized each new tune...it just took my breath away. And he's really learning the lyrics now, as well. Where I once used to hear, "Yesssss, Jee-suh wuh muh..." I now hear nearly every word of the song with clarity.

And what a precious song it is.

It's funny how differently you look at children's songs when you become an adult. I don't think I really ever put much thought into what I was singing all those years ago. Sunday School, Church Camp, you name it...I simply belted out the tune without the slightest bit of appreciation for what I was actually saying.

Jesus loves me, this I know.

What an amazing concept. Mind-blowing, when you think about it. The Son of God, The Creator of All Things, The Beginning and The End.

He loves me.

ME!!!

And not with a love that I can understand. No, my love is a watered down imitation. A copy of a copy of a copy, a degraded reproduction.

But Jesus loves me with a perfect love. Selfless, flawless, and timeless.

Little ones, to Him belong.

And they do.

I've always believed that Jesus holds a very special affection for children.

"Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these." And he took the children in his arms, put his hands on them and blessed them.

"Whoever welcomes one of these little children in my name welcomes me; and whoever welcomes me does not welcome me but the one who sent me."

We are all born sinners, and yet children retain such an innocence of spirit. They haven't yet been poisoned by this terrible world...haven't been stained by the desires of the flesh, the joys of hatred, or the cravings of wealth.

And they belong to Him.

Long before my children were conceived in my womb, they were conceived by Christ. He has known them and loved them since the beginning of time. And He will continue to love them...long after they outgrow their innocence.

They are weak, but He is strong.

If I didn't know it before, I know it now.

Children are weak.

Vulnerable in every conceivable way and dependent on others for their very survival, they are completely at the mercy of the circumstances they were born into. Wealth or poverty, love or neglect...they have no say in the matter.

And yet...

He is strong.

As a newborn baby is weak, so our God is strong. A shelter in the storm, a light in the darkness, a peace that passes all understanding.

And in a world so filled with evil and despair, Jesus is our only hope.

Yes, Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so.

Jesus would rather die on a cross than live without us. He took on the sins of the world, from ages past through today, and suffered so that WE may live!

What must that have felt like for Him? The perfect and holy Son of God, bearing the vile sins of all mankind. His own Father unable to look upon Him, unable to tolerate such depravity for even a moment.

How could He love us so much that He would willingly submit to this?

And then I think of my sweet babies...and I know.

As a parent, I've been given a small taste of God's love for His children. Just a taste, and I'm nearly overwhelmed.

My prayer is that my children grow up truly knowing their Savior's love. That Jesus becomes more to them than a name in a song. My greatest desire is that Luke and Evie someday have a deep and personal relationship with Christ. That God is more real to them than anything else in their lives.

I want nothing more than for my kids to have a hunger for God's Word, a desire for God's will, and a thirst for God's peace.

And as I tuck my son in and turn off the light, I pause at the doorway and gaze at him in the soft glow cast from his night-light. He's curled on his side, his sippy cup and his Elmo doll tucked securely against his chest.

He realizes I haven't left yet, and lifts his head to smile at me in the darkness.

My heart contracts painfully and a new song plays through my mind.

Jesus loves him, this I know....




______________________

Excrementus Maximus

Let's talk about poop.

No wait...come back!!

Take a deep, calming breath. Good.

Now sit back down and let's rationalize. Poop is a normal part of life...no different than sleeping and eating. We all do it, so why the embarrassment?

Oh, sure...there was a time in my life when feces used to bother me. A time when the thought of excrement being rubbed onto my fingers/knuckles/arms would have me huddled in a corner, rocking and humming quietly to myself.

But now...

Now, I'm a mom. And poop is just another mess to clean.

All moms come to this realization rather quickly. There's even some prenatal training on it, I believe...or there should be. Maybe even a chapter devoted to it in "What to Expect When Your Expecting."

For as long as a baby takes in, something must be taken out.

At this, I am an old pro.

I was changing Evie's messy diaper the other day and, the second I undid the tabs and lifted her legs, the little stinker made a grab for it. Before I could say "undigested raisins," she had pulled the diaper out from under her bottom and was about to get a handful of....last night's dinner.

But the past two years have honed my reflexes (move over, Jackie Chan) and I snatched up the other end before she was able to touch anything gross.

Then, the tug of war began.

We were pretty evenly matched. Me only having the use of one hand (the other was busy holding Evie's legs and trying to keep her poop-caked bottom off the carpet) and Evie....well, let's just say she was determined.

On and on went the stalemate....until, finally, I gave one last desperate tug and my (bionic enhanced?) daughter lost her grip.

My moment of elation was short-lived.

You see, there are laws out there. "Laws of Physics," if you will.

It turns out that when you forcefully yank an open, soiled diaper from the hands of a toddler, the sudden release of energy will cause said diaper to whip backwards, flip over, and land on your arm....poop-side-down.

But I am a mom.

So instead of screaming hysterically and jumping (fully clothed) into a scalding hot shower, I simply sighed quietly and finished changing Evie. Then, I calmly removed the worst of it with a wet-wipe, and scrubbed off any invisible "residue" in the sink.

You see? No big deal.

Just another day at the office.

But let us examine for a moment what my reaction would have been if Evie had actually succeeded in her diaper raid.

There might have been some screeching, and possibly sobbing....maybe. And there's a remote possibility that I would have picked her up, held her at arm's length, and run around the room in a blind hysteria.

I know it seems counterintuitive, but poop on my kids bothers me WAY more than poop on myself. You see, I know that fecal matter is to be avoided. And, should I have some on my hands, I know to keep them away from my other body parts....say, my face or....my mouth.

I can't be certain that Luke and Evie will exercise such discretion.

And, unfortunately, poop fascinates young children.

Maybe it's the "forbidden fruit" concept, or maybe it just looks like a good time. I don't know. Whatever the reason, poop can be more appealing to toddlers than a roomful of shiny new toys.

And poop in an actual toilet has to be the pièce de résistance.

Luke has been going to the bathroom by himself (at home, anyway) for the past several months. He doesn't need to be reminded, he doesn't need to be helped. Except for hand-washing and the occasional help with getting his pants back on, he is completely independent.

But every once in a while, he lets his curiosity get the better of him.

In the past, I've gotten suspicious and barged into the bathroom to find him in the following positions:

• Sitting with his feet in the toilet bowl.
• Standing in a suspicious looking puddle next to the toilet.
• Leaning over the toilet seat and dipping his hair into the water.
  

You may be wondering why I continue to allow him unsupervised toilet trips. Well, other than the fact that I'm fundamentally lazy (and pooping can take a really long time), I suppose you can say I'm just a gambler at heart. For every bad move I catch Luke in, there are at least twenty "smooth transactions" that take place.

Those are pretty good odds, really.

And besides, it's just some dirty water. What's the worst that could happen? A quick trip to the bathtub for some vigorous scrubbing and voilà...good as new.

Of course, all that changed when I walked in on Luke last week. The child was bent over the toilet seat with his hands down in the bowl, grabbing around for his poop like it was some elusive prize in a cracker jack box.

Some days, even I've reached my limits.



___________________

Evomition

__________________________________



No one ever told me that becoming a mother would, at some point or another, require me to cup my hand in front of my child's mouth in a vain attempt to capture as much vomit as possible and keep their clothes intact.

And they certainly didn't tell me what to do with a handful of vomit once I had it.

But one learns quickly in the school of motherhood. It's a sink or swim, dog-puke-on-dog kind of world.

And, over the past two weeks, there's been lots of puking.

It started on the ill-fated drive home from Iowa and it didn't stop for nearly eleven days. No wait, that's not true...the puking stopped after six days.

Then the explosive diarrhea began.

No hand-cupping there, thank you very much.

But there was lots of hugging and comforting...all done a little too close to "ground zero," if you know what I mean.

Poor Luke had it the worst, I think. Or maybe he just complained the loudest. Either way, it wasn't pretty.

"Mommy, I hurt," became his pathetic mantra.

And there wasn't a thing I could do for him.

Evie was no better, really. My little ball of flaming energy was nothing more than a limp noodle for several days. And that was after she vomited her way across America in our SUV.

I've watched my kids suffer before, but never like this. Both of them slept more than they did as newborns...which would have been a nice break had I not been constantly checking on them to see if they were still alive.

They both went to the doctor...more than once...but all that did was make them even more miserable.

The pediatrician wanted a urine sample to see if Evie had an infection. And since my daughter isn't yet capable of voluntarily peeing in a cup (as far as I know), they had to do a catheter.

The nurse and her two lackeys assistants came in and helped me hold my 20 lb little girl spread-eagle on the table. Evie just laid there and stared at them all. Naturally, they were all taken with her and smiled ear to ear the entire time.

I'm pretty sure my second-born has never had so much attention in her entire sixteen months of existence.

Fortunately, the nurse was proficient and Evie hardly twitched during the entire procedure. Afterwards, we all let go of her and she just kept laying there...all spread out. One of the assistants commented that she'd never seen a baby NOT cry during that procedure.

That's my daughter...freakishly tough.

Of course, if they had any idea what the poor girl put up with from her brother on a daily basis, they might understand her high pain tolerance.

Luke's visit was just as memorable. I took him to the after-hours clinic located in the mall because he was complaining of abdominal pain.

He was also vomiting.

I knew this as I buckled him into the car seat...and yet, in my first display of utter stupidity that evening, I failed to grab a change of clothes.

So of course he threw up on the way in.

I cleaned him off as best as I could, hurriedly carried him into the office, and then pleaded with the receptionist to give me five minutes to buy him a change of clothes at the store next door. She said that would be fine, so we ran over there and grabbed the most decent outfit I could find on the sale rack. Then...being the classy, dignified mother that I am...I ran him back to the clinic and changed his clothes in the (momentarily) empty waiting room.

The outfit was huge on him. The shirt collar hung down over one of his shoulders and the shorts fell to his ankles the moment he let them go.

I considered putting him back into the soiled clothes, but I figured baggy and ill-fitting won out over wet and stinky any day of the week.

We got through the appointment without incident but Luke started to get really hungry.

"Eat, Mommy. Eat, Mommy. Mommy, eat!"

I knew he would probably throw it all up, but what was I supposed to do? The kid was hungry! Surely that was a good sign, right? And he'd been such a champ in the doctor's office. So, we sat in the mall food court and I fed him chicken nuggets and half of a chocolate chip cookie.

Moment of stupidity number two.

I was actually hoping that if he was going to lose it, he'd wait until we made it home.

Yeah....right. Because that's just the kind of lucky thing that normally happens to me.

No, I'm afraid that the chocolate-chip-chicken made an abrupt reappearance.

I instinctively held my hand under his mouth and tried to divert the flow away from his new clothes, but I was only partially successful. I thought for a split second about going back to the store for a third outfit, but I didn't want to face that sales lady again and try to explain why I have my son out in public when he's clearly ill. So, I picked him up and scrambled out to the car as quickly as I could.

A long trench coat might have come in handy then...along with some dark sunglasses. I could have been like the Ghost of Christmas Present and hidden my little sickly child under my skirt.

In retrospect, though, I'm glad that he threw up when he did. I was thinking of taking him on the new carousal after we ate. Potential moment of stupidity number three.

It's almost a shame, though. I think that might have actually topped Evie's 2008 "Vomit Across America" tour.

__________________________

Nurture vs.Nature

_____________________________________




There is an age old debate regarding the human condition...

What makes us turn out the way we do? What defines our personalities? Our likes and dislikes? Our sense of humor?

Were we born with these traits? Destined by our DNA to become exactly who we are today?

Or are we born as blank slates, influenced solely by those around us? Nurtured or neglected, loved or reviled....does the environment in which we are raised dictate the people we become?

I don't pretend to know the answer to this...a little bit of both, I suspect. And, of course, the entire scope of the question changes when we consider God's omniscience and His eternal plan.

But I do know one thing...I wouldn't be who I am today without my family.

I recently read a blog written by a social worker. She spoke of children in the foster care system that are literally starting "from scratch." They have no real family, no support system, not even the fond childhood memories that you and I take for granted.

She asked the question...can a person start from scratch? Can a child's life be rebuilt on such a weak foundation?

Which makes me think of Luke and Evie. I think of my love for them, how brightly it burns. I see it in Chris' eyes as well whenever he looks at them. Then there are the grandparents, the great-grandparents, the uncles and aunts, and all the cousins.

A tapestry of love.

Oh, how blessed they truly are.

And that love can be traced back, generation upon generation...crossing over decades and sometime even family lines, in an intricate pattern of grace.

As a thread is chosen and examined, one might see a man on his knees in prayer...tearfully giving his life to Christ and promising to love his children, showing them the way to God's heart.

Another thread might reveal a young boy at church camp. Hearing the message of salvation and feeling the pull of the Holy Spirit, he stands and walks forward in what is to be the first stitch of his very own tapestry.

I was born into a Christian family.

Wrapped tightly in their loving hearts, how could I not see God? How could I deny the Creator of their love?

And how could I not share that love with my own children?

So the tapestry continues.

Oh sure, we each put our own unique patterns in there...some more unique than others. Every quirk and every passion influenced in some way by those before us, we become everything that we were created to be.

And the Great Weaver is pleased.



_________________________

The Reckoning

___________________________________



A little over a week ago, Chris and I put our beautiful children in their car seats, kissed their downy soft heads, tweaked their little button noses...and left them shackled there for 31 hours while we drove to Iowa.

Seven hours into it, we knew we'd made a huge mistake. But, in typical Chandler/Davis fashion, we forged ahead into our own stupidity.

To those of you that called us insane when you heard of our plans, I can only ask why you didn't do more? Why didn't you resort to physical violence? Egging our house? Slashing our tires?

You stood there and said I was crazy for wanting to go on a long road trip with toddlers...and then you went home to your loved ones, laid in your cozy bed that night and foolishly thought that you'd done enough.

Well it wasn't enough!!!

You should have begged, pleaded! Would it have killed you to scream at me a little. Maybe slap my face a couple of times?

Perhaps you could have shown me the scars from the self-inflicted wounds you obtained on your own trips. You could have confessed your death wishes, your hallucinations. You could have described for me the deep, clawing, all-consuming HORROR that it turned out to be.

Perhaps then, after all that, I might have changed my mind.

But no, you called me crazy and left it at that.

How do you sleep at night, you sickos?

And to the one person who told me it was a good idea (you know who you are), all I can say is....start sleeping with one eye open. Because I have two sets of vomit covered pajamas that might "accidentally" end up under your pillow one night.


_________

Reckless Faith

Now What???

Bullet Point Bonanza

____________________________


Ten Things That Luke Doesn't Want:

• "No wanna weed a book."

• "No wanna watch a movie"

• "No wanna go poo-poo on the potty."

• "No wanna pay outside."

• "No wanna go night-night."
  

• "No wanna eat beckfast."
  

• "No wanna bwush da teef."
  

• "No wanna wash da hands."

• "No wanna tiss."

• "No wanna hud."

One Thing That Luke Wants:

• "No wanna cwack..."

(stops and thinks)

• "Want cwackers, Mommy."

********************


Five Ways Evie Tortures Luke:

• Open mouth kisses

• Sippy-cup larceny

• Holding out desired items and jerking them back at the last possible moment

• Crying loudly when shoved or hit, as to alert parental authorities

• Pulling the toilet seat lid down onto the back of his head while he's trying to do his business.

____________________

Showdown at the O.K. Exam Room

__________________________________________



Evie had another "Well Baby" doctor's visit yesterday. This is when they take a perfectly healthy, happy child and poke, prod and stick them with needles until they're a crying, slobbering mess.

And I can always tell when Evie's appointments are coming up. I don't even need to write them down anymore, it's such a reliable system.

You see, in the week or so before Evie is to see her pediatrician, she goes by the following schedule:

Day 1: Pulls a large, heavy object from the table/bookshelf down....onto her face.

Day 2: Walks into the corner of an open drawer...with her face.

Day 3: Tries running from Mommy and falls into the wall...face first.

Day 4: Falls in the Target parking lot (Mommy wasn't holding her hand tightly enough) and lands hard on the asphalt...on her face.

Day 5: Trips over some curbing in the backyard...and lands on her bare knees (they were feeling neglected.)

Day 6: Walks into the doctor's office looking like she's been in a prize fight...and lost.

I don't know if this is well-known information, but Pediatricians are one of the major reporters of child abuse/neglect in America.

They have CPS on speed dial.

And God bless them for that! What incredible advocates they are for these helpless children. But it does make us non-abusive parents with accident-prone kids just a little bit nervous.

And my daughter's Pediatrician notices everything. It's the part of her neurotic personality that makes me love her so much.

She's a Safety Nazi.

Which makes a "Safety Nut" look like Evel Knievel.

She's gotten me so afraid of choking hazards that I actually cut Evie's Cheerios in half. She makes me want to keep the kids in a rear-facing car seat until they hit puberty. And now I'm so paranoid about sun damage, my children look like Albinos.

But you know what? I love it. I'm a better-safe-than-sorry kind of person. To me, there's nothing more important than keeping my kids safe...even if it makes me look like a freak to some people (I'm sure Tara's on the floor convulsing right now).

I love Dr. Hall.

But she does like to test me.

When Luke was around six months old, she asked me if I had been giving him juice. I said no, of course...the thought hadn't really occurred to me yet.

She nodded in approval and proceeded to inform me of the many evils of "liquid sugar."

I wondered what she would have said if I had responded with a yes...

Since then, she asks me at every visit (with each child), in a completely neutral voice.

"Are you giving her any juice?"

She never makes eye contact when she asks this, probably afraid of giving away the answer with her expression of disdain. Instead, she looks down at the chart and poises her pen a mere centimeter above the paper.

She's waiting for my answer. Waiting for me to say the wrong thing so she can scribble down my parental faults in permanent ink.

"Absolutely not. I hate the stuff."

I blurt it out quickly, hoping she doesn't notice the catch in my voice or the beads of sweat on my forehead.

"Good."

I release a breath and wait for the room to stop spinning. The test has been passed and the next one won't be for another three months. I just hope she tells me when I'm allowed to give the poor kids juice....at this rate, their college graduation seems too soon.

Now, I hope I haven't given you the wrong impression here. My Pediatrician is a kind, intelligent and funny woman. She truly cares about the well-being of my children.

And even though normal people would probably be put off by that kind of pressure, Dr. Hall is not the one that bothers me.

Her assistant is.

I'm sure some of you remember Evie's twelve month visit. The trauma is still fresh in my mind.

This time wasn't any better. Once again, she wanted to poke my daughter in her arms. At first, she acted like they HAD to go there. But when I protested, she said that it would hurt less since Evie was walking now and would be bothered more by a shot in her leg.

I looked at the long needles, then I looked at Evie's scrawny little arms.

"I'd really like it to go in her legs."

"Oh, sure...no problem."

I could tell she was disappointed, though. She was probably looking forward to jabbing a humerus or two, just for kicks.

The leg shots went smoothly, no thanks to her. But the process was drawn out much longer than necessary.

I closed my eyes and kissed Evie's forehead as she tensed in pain. Several moments later, I hear...

"Good job, Sweetie."

I look up thinking it's over.

No such luck.

The woman is sloooowly picking up the second needle. As if letting Evie calm down from the first jab will somehow make the next one less painful.

JUST GET ON WITH IT!!!

The good news is that this will be the last time I have to lay eyes on this incompetent woman. You see, she's very, very pregnant.

Due in June, as I found out during some forced pleasantries.

By the time Evie's due for another visit, this assistant-from-you-know-where will be gone, gone, GONE! And since my doctor is moving to a new office this month, I'm banking on the reasonable assumption that the needle-happy freako will be assigned elsewhere when her maternity leave is up.

I think I'm looking forward to the birth of her baby more than she is.

I'm not normally this nasty...really, I'm not. This woman is probably a perfectly nice human being. We might even be friends under normal circumstances.

But don't ever, ever mess with my baby girl.

I've got a mama bear in me that would make most people cower in fear.



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