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?



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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...


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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.



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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.



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