Lessons from Daddy

I vividly remember a remarkable amount of stuff from the time I was about two and half to five years old.  People probably think I make most of it up, and I suppose it’s entirely possible that I did. But I think I would make it more interesting if I was inventing it all.  I remember the mundane, looking at a worm in a puddle, brushing my hair, biting a thermometer. Okay – that was pretty exciting, actually. If you ever wanna see your mom jump, make her think you’re ingesting mercury.

Among the memories are three specific and particular lessons from my dad. He taught me many things from philosophy to engine timing, how to figure the pitch of a roof to which berries are poisonous if you’re fly fishing and need a snack. There were many pieces of advice throughout my life that I’ve kept with me. But three statements he told me at that very young age have stuck with me and I’ve thought about each of them nearly every day for the last four decades.

1) It’s a lot easier to make sure one little girl is being good than three little girls.

I’d come to him for the tenth time probably in a day, tattling that one of my sisters was committing some offense of which he should not only be aware, but take action against. He was under the hood of a car, either tinkering or just hiding and he said the words first to the engine. I climbed up the bumper and leaned in, too. “Daddy, what? But she…”  And he looked right at my miniature face and repeated himself. “It’s a lot easier to just make sure one little girl is being good.”   

I love that he didn’t explain it, but rather turned back to what he was doing and left me to figure it out. After a few minutes of enjoying the shade of the car hood, I got it. Don’t tattle. Don’t rescue. Keep an eye on yourself.  Just make sure one little girl is being good.  

2) Don’t pretend to be anyone but yourself.

This one, like many of his rules, was most likely meant to keep us from squabbling and interrupting his book/magazine/nap.  We were playing outside and along with some friends, acting out a scene from a PBS show called New Zoo Revue.  There were actors in animal costumes with massive heads – and of course, they wore clothes – and then one normal human who for whatever reason hung out with them. Tensions were rising about who had to be Henrietta Hippo and Freddie Frog and who got to be the real live human character. Again, a man of few words, my dad said, “Don’t pretend to be anyone. Just be yourself.”  Looking back, I am quite sure he meant it as a solution to the problem right that minute – but it served me well for the next forty years, too.  

Knee socks. I love knee socks.

3) Little boys cannot hit little girls.

And big ones can’t either. I was armed with this information as I headed off to my first day of first grade. Too bad more daddies don’t tell more little girls this, and little boys, too. Unfortunately, he didn’t mention anything about little girls and pinching, so I was unprepared with the 6 year old in front of me in line turned around and declared, “I can pinch you so hard you bleed,” and then proceeded to do just that by latching on to the thin skin on the back of my hand.  I reminded her of it nine years later when her boyfriend took me to a concert instead of her.

I don’t know if I’ve left my children with indelible life lessons. Probably not. My advice to them has been more along the lines of  “don’t cry unless you’re bleeding,” “if you get a dog that sheds, buy matching clothes and furniture” and “never underestimate the power of white space.”   My husband is more the purveyor of wisdom. As all good daddies are, apparently.

Reason #458 that my children are not homeschooled.

I'd be tired from training them to kickass in spelling bees and coming up with recipes for my baking blog, so I'd order pizza instead of making the asparagus and salmon I'd planned.

I'd worry that I was going to waste the asparagus and it would get all wilty (although I'd use a word other than wilty because I'd have a thesaurus on the kitchen counter) so I would stick the asparagus in some water overnight.

I'd get up in the morning to find crazy alien asparagus has decided to mutate and I'd change the lesson plan for the day to "Investigations into Creepy Asparagus that Obviously has Intentions to EAT US."

I think we're all better off with someone else handling their education.

Storytime.

Last week I finally admitted that my wee little firstborn who is 6 inches taller than me and many pounds heavier (thankfully) is growing up. So I took the huge step of removing all the picture books from his bookcase.

I could get all sappy right now and tell you that picking up each one of them and remembering his fat little hands with their indented knuckles holding them was one of the hardest things I've ever done...y'know, cleaning-wise.  We read to him every night. Farmer Duck. Cows Can't Fly. Slug. THE CLASSICS.  So moving them into a box was more than just admitting he is closer to adulthood than babyhood. It was saying goodbye to some of the most awesome rhymes ever.

To wit...

"A small girl yelled out, 'Mommy! What's that creeping on our food?' 

She didn't know that Slug was just a hungry little dude."

Beat that, Bob Frost.

And it was heavy. Like really heavy, man. They're books, people. Not like when mommies of today just download Bennett Cerf onto their iPads.

Is Bennett Cerf even available on iPads?  Because it should be! Seriously, if your child doesn't know what is big and red and eats rocks, you are not really a very good parent. Just saying.

Anyway, I spent a couple of days being all nostalgic. I'd go look at his new teen-agery version of a bookcase with it's clever novels and dark comic books and middle school yearbooks and wish that just for a minute, I could have that boy that's shorter than me back.

Then, I got in my car. That smelled like three day old milk left in a sippy cup.

Turns out teenager snowboard boot has exactly the same chemical makeup as curdled dairy product in plastic.

And I longed for short people no more.

I bet Oedipus' mom didn't have this kind of trouble.

The gigantic middle schooler took a few days off of school recently to elk hunting with Big Dude. Generally, we only let him ditch school to snowboard or go to the orthodontist, so it was a pretty big treat. Now for you naysayers who think that I am somehow shirking my parental responsibilities by letting the child avoid education, I offer this argument... If he gets an elk, that is 100 trips to the grocery store for hamburger I do not have to make. So who cares if he can't spell?

Of course, they did not get an elk. But he did end up with a big pile of homework. So I let him ditch another day of school to catch up.

I'm kidding. Relax. It was only a half day.

So he's rushing through a bunch of homework and realizes that the class heard a few lectures he didn't hear and he's got a scads of questions to answer about things he's never heard of, and so he hollers for me to provide him with a laptop so that he can Wikipedia all the info he's behind on.

GMS:  MAWM! Can I Wikipedia Antigone? (which he pronounces Aunty-Gone.)

ME: Do you mean Antigone? As in Sophocles' Antigone? Oh my gosh, giant child, that is one of my favorite stories of all times! The three tragedies...seriously - I LOVED them!

GMS: I just have to answer some questions, can I please just Wikipedia it for the plot and characters?

ME: No no no no! It is a short story! We will read it now together and I will share my love of it with you! You will understand this classic and we will bond! Later, when I am an old woman, you will put an afghan on my lap and recount to me how great this day was and read it back to me.

GMS: Please mom, please oh please don't read it to me please...

ME: One minute! It is on my bookcase! I have such love for this book that I have kept it in my bookcase since 1983 when I first discovered how wonderful it was!

I ran upstairs and ran right to it, the familiar bright green cover beckoning to me. Only this time, dear Sophocles, I'm not just going to dust you as I have for the past nearly 30 years...today my friend, you will be read once again by a young mind!

I flew into the kitchen, ready to share the past with the future. Ready to open the eyes and mind of my offspring. Ready to love the story again just as I had as an 11th grader lo those many years ago.

And then, I opened the cover and found this note from 1983 me.

Should you not be able to read teenage-girl handwriting, it says:

A note to future students who attempt to read this book. DON'T. The Cliff's Note sare only $2.95. And well worth it.  Just a little advice! Sincerely, Me.

And then I brought him the laptop and told him to only go to Wikipedia because if he went to Facebook, I'd totally figure it out.

And for a few brief moments, they forgot all about their mandatory summer reading list.

The little dudes had friends over for the afternoon this week and it was too hot to go swimming. Not too hot to swim, to hot to GO swimming. Apparently, the heat radiating off the two tree-lined blocks between our house and the pool was just too much to endure.

So they plopped themselves down in front of MTV. Which I totally don't allow, because if MTV wasn't invented when I had long boring summers, then there's no way I'll let my children enjoy it. I also make them walk uphill to school. Both ways. In patent leather maryjanes.

So they asked to Slip-n-Slide. Which Big Dude promptly shut down. It smashes the grass, doncha know. (Big Dude hails from a long line of Nebraska fluffygrass farmers. We have very fluffygrass.)

So they did the obvious thing that any child would immediately think of. They coated the trampoline in dishsoap and put the sprinkler under it. Instant waterpark, baby.

However, they learned that the sprinkler dissipates the dishsoap too quickly. Not their words. I put those words in there so that it would seem like I somehow turned their fun into a science lesson. Which I totally did not.  I wouldn't dare impart knowledge to them over the summer.

They solved their dilemma after much hypothesizing and experimentation. Okay, sorry. That's not true either. What happened was one flopping sopping giant middle schooler slipped (and slid!) through the house and retrieved the Mr. Bubble, while another disconnected the sprinkler, attached the sprayer, and bungee-corded the hose to the side of the trampoline.

It's like they're engineers. Water engineers. Forget it. I give up. They're just normal kids. Sigh.

Normal kids who dive like freakin' Superman!

 Nicely taking turns. Because we raised 'em right. Although this particular child isn't mine. So really, HIS parents raised him right.

Sideways turns. Technically more difficult, but you'll get a higher score from the Czech judge.

It's important to make sweet surfing faces whilst doing this.    Somewhere, someone is humming the theme to Hawaii 5-O right now. Oh, it's me. Whenever I hear the Theme to Hawaii 5-O, I always immediately think of Kojak. Because I wasn't allowed to watch either show. I was like 4 at the time. I then immediately think of Mannix, which I claimed to be my favorite show from age 3 to 9, even though every episode I'd ever watched was through the crack of my bedroom door. It came on at 9 o'clock, and that was bedtime in those parts.

Thumbs up for Mommy! (That's probably not what he was thinking at all. In reality he was thinking, "Mom, please do not put this on Facebook and tag me. I'm not wearing a shirt and all the little middle school girls will see it.") Don't worry, dude. It's not on Facebook. Not on Facebook at all.

Raised by children o' the 80s, my offspring are adept at the Robot and many other superfly dances.

Even in mid-air. I bet Bell Biv DeVoe is in his head right now. No, wait, that's me again.

Dude's got hops.

15 Style Points.

Ka-rah-tay.

They're completely itchy and I'm out of all liquid soap products, but there were no lawsuits, so I called it a good day. Hooray for summer.

This might be why people in other countries think we're spoiled.

Behold my younger son. You may remember him from an earlier post where we had to staple his head shut.

We call him Pete, which is totally not his name, but it really fits him, so we go with it. Sometimes you just name your kid the wrong thing, that's all. This picture was taken four years ago, when he was six and on a golf team with a bunch of bigger kids. I was dropping him off for a tee time and he noticed this sign.

My older son, being of extremely ethical character like his father, would've seen this sign and been worried that he shouldn't play. My younger son, being of my character, thought it was awesome that we were breakin' the rules, man, and thought we should document it with a photo. This will probably not serve him well in life - I'm trying to teach him that it's generally better to hide the evidence - but for minor infractions that don't include incarceration and/or fines, I like to play along.

Last week, he played the same course where the photo was taken, but this time instead of just nine holes like he's used to, he played all 18 for the first time ever. It's a long course, and he was out there in 90+ degrees for about five hours.  Afterwards, we went to celebrate (because I always favor celebration over dinner making) at our local watering hole.

For your reading pleasure, the following conversation ensued.

Pete: I am STARVING.

Waiter Guy: You're not starving, Pete, you're hungry. Kids in Africa are starving.

Pete: Yeah? Well, did any kids in Africa play 18 holes of golf today? Well? Huh? That's right. I thought not.

At least he's not shy.

No one ever considers the orphans.

I was watching American Idol with the giant middle schooler last night, and a contestant was asked, "How does it make you feel to see your parents supporting you like that?" Which made me think, "Hey - maybe I should get a job writing questions with really obvious answers for Ryan Seacrest, because that's just moronic."  Why not ask, "So - how'd you feel when you had that safe dropped on your foot?" Or, "What were you thinking when your oxygen tank ran out of air while you were 500 feet below the surface?"

Anyway, as I'm writing my cover letter to Randy Jackson in my head (because really, Simon just has short-timers disease and probably isn't even opening his mail anymore) the contestant answered the question.

"It's amazing. To know that my parents support me in my dream is just the best feeling in the world."

To which the giant middle schooler said, "Nice job, dude. You just made a thousand little orphans really, really sad."

And that's when I knew, even though I could really contribute to the teleprompted genius of Ryan Seacrest, my work here is more important.

Following in my footsteps. Sort of.

Because Bill Gates had not invented MS Word yet, penmanship was very important in my childhood. We spent hours practicing and perfecting letters, and just when we got them all down and legible, they threw cursive at us. My parents and grandparents were even more old-school and demanding than my teachers, so I was treated to extra practice at home by way of Palmer Penmanship workbooks. I remember a particularly annoying one with a rabbit on it, and I hate bunnies still to this very day.

Even after my teachers had marked up my work, it was then under scrutiny at home. My dad would point out if my letters leaned backwards, my mom would show me how all the lower case letters should be the same height. I eventually figured out it was a giant game of Copy the Shapes While Paying Perfect Attention to the Spaces Between Them and suddenly, all was good. I could write exactly like the loopy letters in the Palmer book, or exactly like George Washington, or exactly like my 4th grade teacher, or exactly like my grandmother, if she was the one who'd be looking.

I could write exactly like freakin' anybody. I realized it Friday, October 17, 1980. Our class was headed on a field trip. Everyone except my friend Connie; she'd left her permission slip at home. The wheels in my prepubescent mind started turning. I thought back to a store counter where I'd seen Connie's mom write a check. I'd noticed the simple way she wrote her middle initial, but that it was larger than her first and last names, it struck me how unflourished her writing was.  Thus, my first forgery.

I generally didn't use my skills for evil - an excused absence here, a permission slip there...and my favorite...an afternoon in April when I was called to my high school office to find my mom with her tax returns. "Sign Daddy's name, and get back to class," she said under her breath.

So when I found this in the 12 year old's pocket, I just had to smile a proud smile.

"please alow (kid) on the Bus with luke. I am unable to pick him up this thurs. Thank you."

And then point out to him just how shitty his efforts were. First of all, date the thing. And seriously, you can't spell "allow?" You capitalize "Bus" but not "Luke" or "Thursday?" And what the hell kind of lame excuse for a signature is that? What does it even say?

I obviously have a lot of work to do with this kid. I'm getting him that stupid bunny book this weekend. And a nice box of Crane note cards for his backpack. Nobody forges my name on notebook paper, man.

Bookish.

I am pretty sure I have figured out what is wrong with kids these days. Because, oh yes, there is something wrong.

It's all the damned fantasy books.  Harry Potter and Eragon. Lightening Thieves and bands of roving cats fighting bears and those damned annoying vampires who won't go away regardless of how much garlic I sprinkle around the perimeter of my neighborhood.

When I was a short person with a valid library card, (because Amazon hadn't been invented and Kindle meant...well, something other than what it means now...) there were three fantasy books in the whole world and they were called the Lord of the Rings Trilogy. We all read The Hobbit, who was really cute and lived in a mushroom or something and then we tried to read the other ones, but they were sort of boring and weird, and more importantly - really heavy, as in they weighed more than a Judy Blume book, so we took them back.


My generation's genre of choosing was the far more routed in reality: mystery. Nancy Drew. Hardy Boys. Harriet the Spy. Encyclopedia Brown. Miss Marple. Ellery Queen. Because the stuff in those books could really happen, we grew up inquisitive, looking for clues, curious, resourceful...  Modern kids just sit back waiting for their sparkly boyfriend to beat up werewolves for them, we knew that if we wanted to find the bad guy, we'd better jump in our Camaro and find him ourselves.

TV shows were mostly about detectives too, Rockford and Magnum PI and aforementioned Hardy Boys... and it all just seemed so freaking AWESOME that I was pretty sure I was going to grow up to be a detective. Which may be the reason I spend an inordinate amount of time googling people now.  It's not stalking - I'm INVESTIGATING. Just because I happen to know the whereabouts, occupation and home value of every person my friends and I have ever dated or worked with does not mean I have too much time on my hands - it probably means I'm well informed. 

A totally unrelated side note and piece of advice to you young kids out there - to make things easier on yourself, only date people with uncommon surnames. Wendall K. Jabloney is way easier to find than Mike Smith. Just sayin.

I guess as teenagers, we moved away from the detective mystery stuff - Jackie Collins and VC Andrews were so much more tantalizing. But at least they weren't fantasy. Because it's totally possible for your rich grandmother to lock you in the attic causing you to fall in love with your biological brother while she slowly poisons you with powdered donuts. It is. Look it up.

I'm pretty sure nobody has ever gotten seriously injured sitting on the couch and watching TV. At least I haven't.

Hey remember how I was just at the emergency room like LAST WEEK because in the course of my 10 year old having "fun" he actually had his head split open and required four staples in his skin to hold it all back together? Remember that?

Well, would it be irony or coincidence or kismet or karma or sibling rivalry or what exactly if the very damned day I got the bill from the hospital for said incident I also got a call from my 12 year old son that HE needed to go to the emergency room?

It would be coincidence, I think. Irony is really over-used, and often, incorrectly.

But really, that's not quite how it happened, it happened more like I was reading the bill from the emergency room and focusing on the part where it said, "NOT COVERED" when my phone rang and it was the giant middle schooler, who I knew was at his giant middle school baseball practice, which is only a few blocks from my house. I assumed he would be asking for a ride home those few measly blocks, so I steeled myself and answered as unlovingly as possible, "Yeah, what?"

"Can you come get me?" Sniffle. Pitiful Sniffle.

"Why?"

"I'd like a ride."

"Are ya dyin' or something?"

"Nope. Just bleeding. I think maybe I broke my nose."

"Really. And why would you think that?"

"Uh, a baseball hit it and it made a loud cracking noise."

So, that is when I got a lot nicer and sent his father to go pick him up.  They came back home and I kid you not even a little bit that the child's nose was on the SIDE of his face instead of nicely mounted in the center where I made it. I am rather big on symmetry, so I suggested we visit the ER since we've got frequent flyer miles there and our own parking space and everything, and I kid you not AGAIN when the giant middle schooler, who plays tackle football and creams people twice his size AND just took a baseball to the face suddenly looked panicked and squealed, "Will I have to get a...shot?"

And that is when I used foul language right at my beloved first born who stood before me covered in his own blood.

"Aw, for f*%k's sake, Calvin. Get your ass in the truck."

He did.

And we went, once again to the ER where they were just getting done cleaning up the blood from my other child, and once again our very swell doctor friend came and comforted us.

And then she made a call to one of the best plastic surgeons in the city to make my baby pretty again.

And then she made a sign that she layed on his belly as he was wheeled to have his nose straightened back to its rightful place in the center of his facialary region.

S

Not only a damned fine doctor, she's also 

some sorta comedienne, apparently.

Don't know about the rest of ya's, but I'd be okay if we just stayed home and watched TV for awhile.

Or maybe they make dog Ambien?

If you've been a parent for more than 15 minutes, someone has suggested to you that it is possible to sedate your offspring with Benadryl. Going on a long car ride? Benadryl! Cross-continental redeye flight to to see grandma? Benadryl! Mommy wants to watch The Office and drink whiskey make dinner without hearing any whining from your miniature cake-hole interruption? BENADRYL!

Sounds great, but the problem with it is that the entire thing is an evil plot invented and perpetuated by either pharmaceutical companies or communists. Or communist pharmacists. If it works for your kid, hooray for you, but I tried drugging each of my children at different times in their lives, and each time I got exactly the opposite reaction than I was going for. As the other 167 unfortunate passengers of a flight from Denver to Tampa in 1998 can attest, Benadryl in my kids is like methadone. Or crack cocaine. Or acid. I guess I'm not super knowledgeable on the effects of hard drugs, I'm sure I was supposed to study it at some point, but I think I watched Mork and Mindy instead. Anyway, it turns them into whatever drug it is that makes you a wild-eyed, spitting, jumping on your mom's lap, unable to sleep wolverine-monkey.

And, now, because I am nothing if not a bastion of information and this blog is pretty much a public service announcement, (you're welcome) I'm here to inform you that Benadryl in a bulldog has pretty muchly exactly the same effect as it had on my toddlers. It turns him into a drooling bag of crazy.

If you're a fan of bulldogs, and hello? Who ISN'T? You'll know that despite their tough appearances, they are actually delicate little flowers with all types of issues that you wouldn't put up with from any other less-cute animal. Chronic puking immediately after eating comes to mind. As does 40 decibel snoring, incessant shedding, tears that stain your furniture and only being able to give birth by c-section.  Also? Dry skin. Bulldogs have very dry, itchy skin and all kinds of things irritate it, like say, oh...air. And Taylor Swift songs. Or so I tell my children.

Anyway, I'm cruising through life feeding my bulldog extra greasy food and keeping him all humidified when suddenly he's covered, like totally COVERED in hives.  Everywhere, little jellybean sized bumps all over his cuteness. You could tell they itched like hell. He was rolling and crying and scratching and I just wanted to go to bed felt so badly for him. So, after a quick google-search for itchy bulldog cures, deciding against a calamine and baking soda dip, I went for the Benadryl. Without even thinking, without even remembering, without even considering that it wouldn't work. I imagined him taking the magical elixir of yum, slowly laying down, licking his paws for a few minutes and then passing out until morning.

Yeah. Nope. It's currently 3:48 AM, and I'm watching him jump from sofa to coffee table to ottoman to my lap to floor to door to the other sofa to OHMYGAWD this is exactly like the flight to Tampa only there's not a grumpy autoparts sales person sitting next to me.

Just make things easier on everyone and make all your passwords be "password."

Have you ever looked out of your window and seen someone sitting on the street in front of your house on their computer? If you have a unsecured wireless internet connection, that person is in a Toyota pickup, listening to Depeche Mode and frantically typing their ass off to meet a deadline, c'mon out and say HI! It's just me.

I am an stalker expert on unsecured wireless internet connections. I can sniff 'em out. This is because I spend most every evening of my life waiting for a child at a sports practice. I used to wait nicely in a folding chair, socialize with other parents, maybe even read a book. But one day I forgot the book and I sat in the chair thinking only "OH MY GAWD I AM SO BEHIND AT WORK I CANNOT BELIEVE I'M WASTING ALL THIS TIME JUST SITTING HERE ENJOYING MY CHILD'S FLEETING YOUTH." So the next night, instead of sharing cocktails with the other football mommies, I packed a laptop and a cooler for myself (much cheaper than sharing, btw) and cruised the streets around the park for my fix of sweet sweet internet.

For a price, I can tell you where to get the juice - but you've got to be discreet about it. One of my favorite high-speed highs figured out that there was a line of minivans outside his house and went all locked and shit on me. So, "LandsbergsLAN" - you asshole, don't be surprised if you find a couple of empty Bass bottles and some Toyota tiremarks on your lawn some Thursday evening.

Next to an unsecured wireless network, I love me some home set-up security. I don't even try to figure out the bullshit WEP key stuff that real networks have, however, my children play baseball at a park next to a little building full of offices and apartment buildings, and it's quite entertaining to try and guess those people's passwords. There's one guy who calls his modem "JUICYFRUIT" and I haven't broken his code yet, but I am having a very good time trying. Besides the obvious gum references, there's a lotta good material there. One night as I sat with my lap overheated from a tired MacBook, I was growing desperate. I hadn't been able to get any unsecured networks, there wasn't a Starbucks for blocks and my battery was low. I found a modem called "MICHELLE." I looked to the darkening sky for inspiration, looked down and tapped in MAY10.

And I was fricking in. That night I was as close to God's grace as I'll likely ever be.

Anyway - because of this shit and more - the high-speed wireless internet at our house is completely unsecure. C'mon by. I'm guessing you're not gonna hack into my computer and steal pictures of my bulldog. You just wanna check your damned email and that's cool with me. Enjoy the shade, surf some stuff. It's on me. Just paying it forward, y'know. You're welcome.

Left to their own devices, they're somewhat resourceful.

If I have learned anything in the past twelve years, it is when someone shorter than I am says, "MOM? Do we have any string?" to simply ignore it.

Same goes for duct tape, gun powder or extension cords. This morning, the little dudes were in their rooms for an inordinate amount of time considering they're both scared of being more than four feet from one of us at any given time, so I was growing suspicious. I asked what was up, they claimed to be feeding pet turtles, so I tiptoed away before they remembered they might possibly need me for something.

Moments later, a breathless blonde child appeared behind me at my desk. "MOM? Do we have any string?"

Me: Nope.
Kid: Are you sure? Because we need some.
Me: Sorry, buddy, you used it all up when you whittled the bow that shoots chicken skewers, remember?
Kid: Hmm. How about in your sewing stuff? Do you have yarn or something?
Me: Feeling like knitting?
Kid: Ma-ohm! Just tell me!
Kid #2 from upstairs: MILES! HURRY UP!
Kid: Oh - Gotta go.

At this point, I could've stopped earning a living to go check on them, but since there were no smoke detectors or other immediate sounds of danger, I forgot about it.

Thirty minutes later, I hear giggling and follow it to find the very first TURTLEVATOR, created from paper clips, mardi gras beads and a pipe cleaner. No string required.

Meet Howie, Turtle Astronaut. Safely returned to terra firma and super grateful to have not been sent down the laundry chute.

Sunday Morning Coming Down.

I’m not sure if it's due to zealous religious education as children, laziness, indecision or the fact that we’re pretty much hungover on Sundays, but the Big Dude and I never really been hip on formal religion. We aren't heathens; there are rules, there are morals. There are most certainly commandments. “Thou shall not drink Mommy’s Pepsi if it smells like aged oak barrels from Lynchburg, Tennessee” being a big one…but we’ve never really scrubbed the little dudes behind the ears and drug them off in stiff clothing to sit on uncomfortable seats and be told by other people how to act. I don’t feel too awfully bad about it, because they’re very good, respectful kids, and they’re pretty much scared enough of me that I don’t need to add a village, thanks anyway Hilary, but every once in awhile I wonder if they’ll run for the first cult that approaches them on a college campus just out of curiosity.

Son number two, the one known as “Pete” even though that totally is not his name, is the most religious one in the family – most likely due to an eight-month stint at an Episcopalian preschool. The school wasn’t that religious if you showed up late everyday and missed the mini-chapel time – however, his teacher was a nice southern Baptist woman who began every meal and snack time with a prayer of “Dear Jesus…” when you read that make sure “Jesus” has about nine syllables in it please. When he was three, he did enough prayin’ for all of us.

I also am Godmother to two beautiful 14 year olds and I probably should have tried a little harder to be some sort of influence on their religious education…besides holding them at a midnight Easter service 14 years ago, my biggest contribution has been that they read this blog and learn new and creative ways to use the F word without, you know, actually USING the F word. (Frick. Fahk. Friggin. Effing. And so on.) I’m thinking though, that their parents really did a very good job, and the Godmothering contract is only in case something would’ve happened to their parents, and then I would have needed to step in and drag them to church. Right? And so now they’re old enough that they don’t really need that from me anyway, and now I can just advise them about boys and buy them beer. Not really. Maybe. I can’t be sure. We’ll have to see how that one goes.

Anyway, all this rambling about our somewhat lackadaisical approach is really just to get the point that this morning, the 9 year old unofficially known as Pete was having a dramatic moment dreading state standardized testing and proclaimed, “I just prayed to Jesus that Zeus would strike me with a lightening bolt.” So, maybe we might just kinda have some work to do. Hopefully it's not too late to get him a Godmother.

I hate this jackass.

Not content to simply eat the candy out of an Easter egg, this wiseass is eating the entire plastic egg. Because apparently, it tastes as scrumpdillicious as the electrical wiring in my car. Which he or one of his furry bastard brothers also ate. You know how sometimes you know your car needs a repair, but you just kind of let it go for awhile? Like, there's a crack in your windshield or your brakes are little squeaky and you just think, "Yeah, I think I'll take care of that eventually" but really you have no intention of doing it until it's absolutely endangering your life? Well, when a asshole rodent eats the wiring out of your car, you cannot actually ignore it because CARS DO NOT WORK WITHOUT LITTLE WIRES. Say goodbye, squirrel. I have redneck children with bb guns and they're not afraid to use them.

If you are employed by Child Protective Services just go on ahead to the next blog now, and have a nice day.

Actual conversation I just had with a certain eleven-year-old male person to whom I am parent and legal guardian.

Him: I hope I don't die.
Me: Yeah, me too, buddy.
Him: Because I ate gun powder yesterday.
Me: You should be fine, just don't eat any matches today.

Further proof that it's strictly their father's fault that they've made it this far.