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.

Q&A for some of the residents in my home.

Q:  Where is the laundry chute located?
A:  In the upstairs hallway, directly behind the pile of your dirty clothes.

Q:  You want a bowl of cereal, but when you look in the cabinet, there are no clean bowls. What do you do?
A:  Eat directly from the box. Preferably in the living room. Laying on your back while watching MTV2.

Q: Two cute girls from school are standing on the front porch. They want to jump on the trampoline with you, but you've not picked up the dog poop in the backyard for two days. What do you do?
A: Who cares? You're watching MTV2 and eating cereal.

Q:  You're returning to the living room after fetching another box of cereal. How can you determine exactly where you were laying before?
A:  By the outline of your body made of cereal crumbs and the empty box.

Q: Where is your underwear drawer located?
A: Look in your room for a large piece of wooden furniture under a pile of electronics, empty cereal boxes and remote-controlled vehicles. Lift the stack of folded underwear and you'll find a pair of pajama pants. Lift the legs of the pajama pants and you'll see the top drawer.  You'll know it is the right one if it is completely empty.

In which I determine he is normal afterall.

The giant middle schooler is in the throes of his summer schedule, which is, while relaxing and fun, waaay harder than his school schedule.

By way of illustration:

School Schedule
6:45   Wake up. Take long shower. Eat big breakfast.
7:45   Go to school. Schlump through hallways. Eat lunch. Slouch in polystyrene molded chairs.
2:45   Come home. Eat.
4:00   Some type of sports practice.
6:00   Eat.
9:00   Sleep. Dream. About eating.

Summer Schedule
6:30 Wake up. Throw on swimsuit, still damp from yesterday.
7:00  Two hour swim team practice
9:00  Assist tennis coach teaching 5-6 year olds for two hours
11:00 Finally eat.
12:00 Golf Practice or Golf Tournament.
3:00 Mow lawns.
5:00 Baseball.
7:00 Eat.
10:00 Watch "Whose Line is it Anyway" until your parents make you go to bed.

Because he has suddenly realized that both a) mirrors and b) girls exist, he has also added to his summer schedule Working Out. Which means, if he has a few seconds before, between or after any given activity, he is doing pull-ups, sit-ups, jumping rope, Wii Fit, or running.

Last night, after two episodes of "Whose Line is it Anyway" we finally made him go to bed at 11, because we were too tired to watch anymore. On the way up the stairs, he did calf raises, and I had to yell at him to stop jumping rope before bed. I believe my exact words were, "Dude. At bedtime, we try to relax, and sloooow our heartrates, so get your ass in bed before Mommy breaks your legs I love you goodnight."

As I fell gratefully into bed, I pondered the energy of youth. Was I EVER this active?  (The answer is a resounding NO.) I mean, really. This kid is frickin' super-human to do this much stuff on very little sleep. Maybe he's got a ginormous heart like Lance Armstrong. Maybe he's a future Olympian. Tomorrow, I shall have his VO2 Max tested, and I will plan his future! I should check in to Wheaties endorsements now so that I'm ready.

And then, this morning, while I was finding him a dry towel and he readied himself for swim team, this happened.   (Please pardon the photo quality - Big Dude took it with an iPhone and the sunrise is a little blinding.)

On the left, Giant middle schooler. Completely passed out after having been awake for like, 6 minutes. Exactly like he used to pass out in his highchair, sitting up and mid-bite. On the right, loyal bulldog, apparently so tired from his excruciating bulldog summer regimen that he fell asleep sitting up as well.

Looks like everyone's normal afterall. Although I am going to look into a Wheaties endorsement for the bulldog. Dude's got hops.

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.

Wherein spring break is more of a spring stress fracture, contusions and possible concussion.

Last week was spring break for the Little Dudes, which meant Working From Home And Pulling My Hair Out And Shushing People Because Mommy IS.ON.THE. PHOOONE. I managed to arrange free babysitting playdates for much of the time fortunately. Or unfortunately, as it would turn out.

A sidenote - I hate the term "playdate." Since when is kids playing together a noun? When I was little, we'd say, "Can I go over to Pam's?"  or  "Can Pam come over?"  For a time, I forbid my children to use the word "playdate" so they started saying "PD." Which is even dorkier.

Anyway - My younger son, whom I rarely talk about here - not on purpose, it just sort of seems that way, don't judge me, was over at his buddy Evan's house. They were being supervised by Evan's dad, Mike, who is a morning DJ in Denver. Usually, I don't stick dads with playdates because a) they're not really watching the children and b) please see a). However, Evan's mom and I had been putting off a beerdate (because if there are playdates, why should there not be beerdates) for weeks, so we decided this was some kind of spectacular timing and the universe was practically forcing us to have her husband watch all the short people so that we could enjoy some barley pops on the patio. Also, Evan's dad has actually praised the merits and character of my boy on regional airwaves, leading me to believe that he has some sort of fondness for him that might keep my child out of harm.

Who here knows what foreshadowing means?  Cause I just dropped you a big ol' nugget of it in that last paragraph.

Anne and I had our feet kicked up and the beers flowing, happily talking about what superior parents we are to everyone else we've ever met, because seriously? Just look at our children, oh my gosh they're perfect, when Mike calls and says he's taking his three kids and Miles out to dinner.

We glowed. We were not only superior parents, but we'd married well.  Life was good. Let's drink to that.

In the interest of time, I'll fast forward to Mike calling that my sweet baby's head was split open and he may or may not require emergency medical care, so could we please hustle on over because the blood, oh my god. The. Blood.

Way to be a buzzkill, Mike.

I suggest you go now to his blog for the rest of the bloody tale. 

You should know it ended with stapling. And ice cream. And a sleepover that I'd prefer to call "a friend spending the night." But whatever.

Happy spring break. Literally.
(Get it? Because, like, a spring broke. On his head. You gotta go read Mike's version.)

Yo, Dian Fossey. You dropped something.

 I'm assuming it's because I was raised by a practical farmgirl and an automobile enthusiast, but the first thought I have when someone tells me they've been in a car accident is not, "Are you okay?" but "Holy crap, how's the car?" It could also be because I'm a heartless asshole.

In my defense, if they were really hurt or dead, they totally wouldn't be calling me, because that's the candystriper's job but whatever.

In either case - I noticed this at some point in young adulthood, right around about the same time I noticed I was the only one I knew that said "supper, couch and billfold" instead of "dinner, sofa and wallet" and I've taken great care to always ask people first, "Oh, are YOU okay?" before ever checking on the condition of their vehicle. It has served me well, and currently, several people I know actually think I am kind and considerate.

So, when Big Dude called me last week to tell me he'd nearly gotten in a big gigantic accident, I tempered my curiosity and said, "Whoa? You okay?" Which I knew he was because: please reference the first paragraph, dead people don't use cellphones.  As I suspected, both he and the car were fine, because of his bitchin' defensive driving skills that he learned at motorcycle racing school kicked in and he avoided injuring both his truck and his cute bald head by swerving around a huge 10'x10' dog kennel that had fallen off someone's truck. Without them noticing. I know, happens all the time, right?

After I showed appropriate wifely concern, and determined that he was not in fact calling from his grave, I asked if there were by any chance DOGS in the dog kennel in the road? Because, dude, that would be weird, right? And kind of mean to dogs.

But there weren't. And I'm pretty sure Big Dude thought that was a ridiculous question, but I thought it was a vital factoid to have and also it would've been super fun to call the news channels and tell them about it. But there weren't. Bo-ring.

Later that night, I overheard him talking to the gigantic middle-schooler about it.

Big Dude: So. I had a harrowing experience today.

Kid (without looking up from tv, cellphone and a science book all at once): You did?   Wait.    A what?

BD: A harrowing experience.

Kid (looking up, worried voice): Dad? Heroin? You had a heroin experience...? Wha?

BD: Har-row-wing. A HAIR. OH. ING. Experience. Harrowing.

Kid (eyes back on the tv and stuffing a pound and a half of bologna smeared with mustard down his piehole): Oh. What is that?

BD: You know, like a stressful experience.

Kid (texting twenty 7th graders an important message regarding meeting their true love tomorrow if only they forward this message to twenty other 7th graders):  OH! Harrowing. Yeah? Really. What was it?

BD: Well, I was driving down the highway and there was a huge cage in the middle of traffic, just sitting there and...

Kid: (dropping cellphone and coughing up a box of Girl Scout Thinmints):  Holy Crap! Was there an ape in there?

BD (wishing we didn't have the Cartoon Network and that he'd married someone nicer to pass genes along to his offspring):  No. No, there was NOT an ape in there.

Kid: Then why was the cage there?

BD: It just fell there. In the road. Someone left it.

Kid: Without the ape? 

BD: Don't you have homework or something?

I'm just going to go ahead and apologize now to his future college roommate.

I remember when my first son was a toddler - he was a thick, strong kid with a huge heart and infectious laugh, an incredible sense of humor and a sensitive side well beyond his years. None of our friends had kids yet, so he hung out with adults a lot, and was thus mature and well-liked by big people.

He was also very cute. And people would say, "Oh - don't you wish he could stay this age forever?"

And I would say, "Um, no."

You see, as delightful as he was, he had a terrible habit of shitting his pants. Well, until he was about three anyway.

The price you pay for all that adorableness is cleaning up the Adorable One's bodily fluids. Also solids. At any time of day or night. And I was pretty much willing to give that up.

In fact, I'd daydream about times when he would be my cool big kid with an awesome personality, capable of hopping in a shower and handling his own hygiene. In my dreams, I'd be reclined on some sort of cushy furniture, reading a magazine with a wistful look and a pitcher of mimosas. He'd appear before me all sweet smelling and clean, without any effort on my part. And I'd smile.

And I have that now.  Admittedly, I do not get sweet-smelling. I get an odd mixture of Crew mint conditioner and some type of Axe body spray. But it's not bad. And I don't really have any magazines or that pitcher of mimosas either. Also, there is a bulldog on the furniture right where I'd sit if I could. BUT, the boy IS responsible for his own hygiene. And he does appear to me each morning, shiny and clean. After tousling his minty conditioned locks and kissing his astringented mushy cheek, I get a warm feeling in my heart. This boy is good. I love this boy.

Then I walk into his bathroom. And I realize, there is still a price.

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.

Summertime.

Apparently, I get one ounce of recognition and then never post again. I always knew that deep down, I was shallow. Heh.

The past few weeks have been filled with little league baseball games, rainouts, playdates, parties, golf tournaments, sleepovers, swim meets and more. I'd like to say it's been SO FUN but none of these activities actually involved me at any level other than chauffeur, so...not so much.

When the boys were very small, I used to expound the virtues of extra curricular activity. I'd say, "We must put them in many sports when they are young! This way, they will be good athletes! They will make their high school teams and I will know that after school they are at practice and not smoking behind a dumpster somewhere!"

At this point, I'm considering purchasing them some Marlboro Lights and dropping them off behind the 7-11. Because really? I know a lot of successful people who were total losers in high school. Okay, more like two people, but that's actually really good odds I'm thinking. Right?

I'm kind of one of them. I wasn't exactly a stoner in elementary school, but I was not in organized sports at age 9. I wasn't on tournament teams that practiced ohmygawd TWICE A DAY. Not because I couldn't make a team...there just wasn't any such damned thing then. In the bustling metropolis (not) where I grew up, summer time activities included:
1. swimming lessons in the morning, Tuesday-Friday mornings.
2. swimming at the pool in the afternoon, Tuesday - Sundays, 1pm to 6pm.
3. riding your bike in circles in between swimming lessons and 1pm.

Mondays sucked.

There was a summer reading program at the aqua metal barn we called a "library," but that was fairly lame since you had to read 8 books to earn one point, and all five points got you was a ticket to storytime, read by the bewigged librarian who didn't ever believe me that I read 8 books a day, oh and it was also closed on Mondays. You'd think in a town of 900 people, they could coordinate to have the stupid library open on the day the pool was closed, but whatever. Maybe the librarian was the pool cleaner.

Actually, there was one other option for little girls. Softball. But I wasn't on the softball team. I remember getting the flyer and running it home, completely psyched to get to play, to get a uniform, to be on a team. My parents didn't agree. For some reason, they didn't want me wearing a tshirt that one of the moms handpainted with the team name: Kuntry Kittens.

Boring summers led me to look forward to school starting - almost as much as I do now. Then it was to have something, ANYTHING, to do. Now, it's just so I can let my kids sleep in. I love seeing them succeed - I love seeing them grinning with big trophies and cute uniforms and All Star caps with their names embroidered on them. I love home runs and double plays and sliding in for the winning run. But just once, I'd like to hear them whine that they're bored. I'd like them stay out past dark finding worms or playing tag with the neighbor kids without worrying they have to be up early the next day. I'd like them to have time to get in trouble. I'd like to let them be kids.

Look what I made.

On June 3, 1997, I lay in a hospital bed slurping orange popsicles, talking to my buddy Scott and Big Dude, my husband of exactly ten months. I had been given several large doses of something or other that would insure that before the day ended, I would have a baby boy. He was induced because my sister had just given birth to a toddler a few months prior, and I had whined to my doctor to not let me gestate another minute lest the creature inside outgrow me.

He was born exactly on his due date. Little did I know, he would continue to be that predictable and reliable for the next twelve years.

As most mothers, I could write for hours about this child, and I have elsewhere. Today though, I will just say that for all the dumb mistakes I've made in life, and all the silly things I have done...you, Calvin, are the best thing I have ever created or influenced. I give Daddy most of the credit, but you deserve the highest praise for consistently being an outstanding individual. You are a poet, an artist, an athlete, a friend. You are kind, thoughtful, genuine, creative, honest and funny as hell. Your big round head contains only the purest of thought, your heart is that of a lion. Today, at twelve years old, you are one inch shorter than me, and two pounds lighter. Your huge shoes dwarf mine - which really bugs me, because I was hoping to buy you a bunch of really cool boots while we wore the same size and I didn't because we were only the same size for about fifteen minutes.

I love that you're still scared of the dark. I love that you have the vocabulary of a college English professor, but you can't spell "when." I love that the day before the first day of middle school you spent the day playing in a big box like my little boy. I love that you'll learn Rick Springfield songs on your guitar just for me. I love that you are shaped like my Daddy so I get to be reminded of him everyday. I love that you cream kids on the football field, and then reach over and pick them up and make sure they're okay. I love that you are loved by so many people and that your best friend is 67 years old. I love that you don't need braces.

You are the best person I've ever met, and I hope someday to be just like you.

Love, Mom.

Don't let the bedbugs bite.

In consideration of a leaning tower of deadlines at the job for which I actually get paid, I present you with a bedtime conversation I had this weekend with the 9-year-old.

Pete: Mom, what nicknames did you have when you were little?
Me: Besides "Wondergirl?" They called me Penne.
Pete: No, like “Sweetie” or something. Did anyone call you Sweetie? Or "Honey?"
Me: (Refraining from saying “Shitpot. They called me Shitpot.” Which, well, they really did.) Well, my grandma called us all “Babydoll.” She had a tiny little bit of southern softness in her voice, so it was very nice. And my mom called us Pumpkin when we were little.
Pete: Oh. Because I really like it when you call me “Buddy.”
Me: Well, then. Goodnight, Buddy.
Pete: Goodnight, Pumpkin.

Yo Mama.

Hello little blog. Sorry I’ve been away. I know that you’ve probably not missed me at all, or my liberal use of commas and made-up words. Anyway, I’m back.

Thought you should know that while I was away several things occurred which I PROMISE I’ll write more about this week. Probably. Maybe. I’ll try to. They included:

1. A person who weighs as much as I do vomited on me from above.
2. The delightful overnight attendant at Kinko’s took my “Call me if there’s anything you need” literally and rang me up at 4:15 am to see if it was okay that he processed my order one hour EARLIER than he originally promised.
3. I drove 160 miles for a meeting that had been cancelled. “Oh? Did you not get the email?” Um. Nope. Didn’t get the email.
4. Did I mention that someone my own size (not a cute little baby with tiny little cute throwups) MY OWN SIZE threw up, or rather, DOWN. On Me. From above.

After a long weird week it was Mother’s Day. And for all their faults (like for example, throwing up/down on me) I have some very cool children with a great daddy who always make sure I have really nice Mother’s Days. This year featured a lovely breakfast of cheese omelet, bacon, toast and mimosas. The nine-year old was waiter and server, the 11 y/o the chef, and daddy was bartender and sous. It pretty much rocked, although they were perhaps a bit overzealous in their grocery shopping – I found two gallons of OJ and three…THREE bottles of my very favorite proseco for the mimosas. What were they thinking? I can’t drink three bottles of proseco in one day unless it's Thanksgiving. Sillies.

My gift was a potted calla lily and this here digital picture frame which I loaded up with bulldog photos mixed cleverly with the preloaded photos of people I don’t know getting married and going to Hawaii. I like having strangers' photos popping up in the dining room so when company's over they can say, "Oh -who is that lovely couple?" And I can make up good stories about them and how they done me wrong and that's why you never see them around here no more...and then I can look kind of sideways at them, like Clint Eastwood, and say, "You know what I mean, don't you? I think you do." And then those people will be kind of scared of me but also totally impressed and want to hang out with me more since I'm mysterious.


I also received these lovely handmade notes from the boys:From the nine year old. I like that he uses proper proofreader's marks. It says:

Dear Mom Happy mothers day Thank you for helping out (deleted) doing everything Around the house and I feel Bad for you BECAUSE there is only one mothers day Every 365 days. And I think there should be At least 90 mothers days I (heart) MoM

And he didn't bother to sign it because he knows he doesn't have to since he's the only one around here besides me that uses proper proofreader's marks. Also I've inflicted more guilt on him, and that's obvious by the content.

From the 11 year old:

mosT peoplE would fold thE paper thE otheR waY, anD writeE oN thE “toP”, and only puT capitals aT thE beginning of sentenceS, anD spelL evrithin jusT righT. i brokE awaY from thaT jusT to shoW speciaL and rarE YOU are. You rock! (after reading this message, please begin taking dabs at your eyes. PS I hope you didn’t read this part out loud.)

He obviously gets his weird sense of humor from his father.

I was then treated to a performance by "Velvet Elvis" – a local performer who says he knows he doesn’t look like Elvis…he looks like a PAINTING of Elvis. And we took my mother in law because I try to instill in my children that you should be nice to your mommy even when she’s old and insane and won't get a job even though she's completely capable and has a nursing degree and she's not even all that nice to your wife even though your wife gave her two perfect grandsons. Because that's the right thing to do. Also I'm covering my own ass for the future. Call it insurance.

And that was my day. Around 11 pm Eastern time, I realized I'd not even gotten ahold of my own mother so I sent her an email. Which I am pretty sure is the equivalent of scribbling a note on printer paper. At least I didn't puke on her.

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.

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.

You can still rock in America.

I recently wrote about some non-festering granite in my foot (note to self: name my rock band “Festering Granite”) and readers of this drivel commented that 1) I’m probably going to get gangrene, and, b) Go to the doctor right away, even though that reader still has rocks in their knees from the early 80s.

Well, the current podiatrical update is that the granite is still in there, and it doesn’t really hurt anymore. Also I don’t have gangrene. Unless gangrene begins with minor sinus pain and the desire to stay home from work drinking hot buttered rum, then baby, I got the gangrene BAD. But my best pal “anonymous's” story reminded me, that I too, am walking around with gravel rattling in me, apparently causing me no more harm than the granite in my foot.

When I was 7 years old, I wrecked my sister’s sweet ass purple bike with extra long metallic banana seat and ape hanger handle bars. (Secondary note to self: Banana Seat would be an awesome band name, but it's already taken by some dudes in Oklahoma.) This bike was so cool that if it had windows, they’d be tinted super dark. I rode it periodically WITH PERMISSION ONLY. My sister didn’t ride it anymore because she had short-shorts, knee socks and feathered hair, which required a ten-speed. Believe me, at the time it was relevant. It was much too big for me, but by sitting on the very tippy end of the seat, and using my very tippy toes to pedal, and stretching my arms as faaaaar as they would go, I could manage it. Kinda.

So, one day, I walked the sweet purple machine two doors down from my house to the concrete driveway of the volunteer fire department station, because the only smooth surfaces in town to ride bikes on were the blacktop at the school, the firestation driveway, and the state highway. I spent as much time as possible riding in circles around and around and around a this fabulously flat chunk of concrete. It was smooth sailing, so to speak, in contrast to the rutted mud and oiled dirt the rest of the town provided for my entertainment.

There was often gravel on the driveway – understandably – and it took careful coordination and super steering ability to maneuver the circles at high speed. Or so I imagined. This particular day, I was doing amazingly well, and imagined that all passing grown-ups were probably saying, “My! What a skilled child that is! I bet she’ll be an amazing driver when she’s bigger! I wonder if she’s a child race car driver NOW? Should we get her autograph?” When a jerky kid caused my accident. This jerky kid, who I will give the fake name, hmm, let’s see, how ‘bout we call him “Donny S.” rode his bike really close to mine for a few circles, causing me to wobble since the bike was way too big for me, and I eventually banked my turn a little too hard, slid sideways on the gravel and crashed. Well, “crashed” is really not it, I just sort of hit the ground and kept sliding. For awhile. When I eventually skid to a stop in a pitiful heap of plaid shorts and uneven ponytails, “Donny S.” laughed really hard. He was at least 6 years older than me, so it was an especially rotten thing to do.

Luckily, my head took most of the impact. So I was okay. Mostly. See, the sliding across the gravel and concrete on the side of my head part? Turns out that sort of embeds gravel in your head. Which my mom had to remove with a pair of tweezers while I sat screaming on the kitchen counter. To quote my 7 year old self, “Neato Kapeato.”

At least one piece of gravel remains under my left ear, because both my mother and I very quickly tired of her digging around in my skull with tweezers. Later that week, I confronted “Donny S.” in his front yard, right in front of his grandma, too, and told him how dreadfully injured I was and that he was a very rotten and jerky guy for making a little girl wreck. I am sure he and his grandma felt really badly when I growled through clenched teeth, “AND NOW I HAVE ROCKS IN MY HEAD!”

I’m thinking that I should get a disclaimer on my drivers license weight due to heavy mineral content.

The Good, the Bad, and the Absorbent.

I told you here about the efforts of my third grader to upgrade the butt-wipe in his elementary school bathrooms. Think back on that while I relate this most recent story from the hallowed halls and playgrounds of his school...

Seems all the third grade boys at his school play a game called “Blocking.” This is a football skill, and no-it-is-not-either-tackling, it is blocking, which is sort of like one-on-one red rover, only not, because as you all know, RED ROVER IS DANGEROUS and is NOT ALLOWED. KIDS COULD DIE FROM RED ROVER.

So, they’re blocking and running into each other like always, only one day last week this little short weenie kid loses and gets knocked down. He proceeds to go totally batshit on my 8 year old, known by all as Pete, scratching and clawing at him like a crazed feral kitten. My boy came home with gouges on his face and reported that the Napoleon Syndrome-afflicted moron who apparently cannot handle the game had been screaming “I’m gonna rip your eyes out...I'm gonna rip your nose off” as he whacked at my intelligent and good-looking child’s cute little face. Which kinda makes me wonder what the hell this kid watches on TV? Because I'm thinking he should seek out some WWF or Cage Fights, and lay off the Hello Kitty.

Anyway, here comes the good part. When he told Big Dude about the whole ordeal Pete said, with teeth and fists clenched, eyes squinting in absolute fury, looking and sounding not unlike Clint Eastwood in Fist Full of Dollars except he didn't have a backwoods smoke: “Dad. I want to t.p. his house. With the really thick stuff. Will you help?”

Considering the level of importance he bestows upon high-quality toilet paper, that’s some serious level of pissed-offness. So, I'm off to buy cigars and triple ply Charmin for the kid. I knew that school directory of student addresses would come in handy someday.

Current Events.

Headline from the Nixa, Missouri newspaper: “Missing Boy Found Under Bed.”

In the article we learn, "A missing Nixa boy is safe at home Oct. 15, after searchers looked for several hours before finding the youngster under his bed."

Umm. I don't want to assume anything about this family, but I'm thinking either they aren't the brightest knife in the shed, or maybe, THEY WEREN'T LOOKING VERY HARD.

Seriously, isn't "under the bed" like the first place you look for anything? And, it took them "several hours" to think of it? In fact, instead of looking under the bed, they chose to alert authorities instead.

And not a drop to drink.

Way back in the old days, before the world realized that water is actually good for you, children were not allowed to have very much of it. At nighttime, I’d have to beg for a sip of water. During the school day, there were three fountains for 326 students, and we could only use them for a brief moment to get a sip of lukewarm, slobbery wetness before a bell would ring and you’d wipe your chin and run. If you wanted a drink during class time, they answer was a definite NO. Probably because then you’d want to go to the bathroom, which was also not allowed during school hours, which was likely the same reason that I couldn’t have any water at night. In the 1970s and 80s, grownups were apparently very concerned that children were going to pee too much and interrupt other things (sleeping or sentence-diagramming) by said peeing. There was no such thing as water bottles unless you were on the basketball team, and then there were six to share amongst everyone.

Those days are gone. Now we’re all supposed to drink, at minimum, 43 gallons of water a day - peeing be damned. In fact, doctors recommend sitting on the toilet and ingesting water with a beer funnel if you have the time. My children get sent home with desparate pleas from their teachers to “PLEASE SEND WATER BOTTLE!” I don’t get this need for all children to have a potential spilly, leaky, wet thing on their little desks, but it’s probably just the era I was raised in. Keep in mind that gum, shorts and ball caps were a huge threat to proper education back then as well.

Anyway, in order to keep child protective services out of it, I send water bottles. And, even before the big BPA scare of ’08, I figured that mushy plastic capable of absorbing sharpie ink was probably not super good for their cute little livers, so I sprung for obnoxiously expensive stainless steel. Besides looking like nifty shiny thermoses, they’re great for making all kinds of noise. Perfect for school. And, they worked just fine until the linebacker started middle school. He came home the first day and said he could no longer use the sweet silver bullet-shaped bottle.

The ensuing discussion confirmed that I am probably not really all that qualified to be a parent.

Kid: Mom, they said I can’t use this water bottle at school.

Me: Why not? It was completely expensive and BPA-free! Also, did I tell you that it was completely expensive? Oh, I get it. This is like that stupid peanut butter shit, isn’t it? Some weenie in your class is allergic to stainless steel.

Kid: No, it’s because it’s not see-through. It has to be clear. I guess they don’t want us to bring beer to school or something.

Me (ruffling his hair): Oh you, Silly. That’s not it at all. You can’t bring beer to school because it is carbonated. You should only take hard liquor to school, and then something clear, like vodka. You have so very much to learn, sweetie.

Kid: Um, I want Daddy to drive me to school from now on.

Mother's Little Helper.

Generally, Big Dude Little Glasses and I discourage the boys spending quality time with electronics. We’re kinda “go play outside” people, so the Little Dudes don’t watch much TV, they don’t play on the computer, they own a completely outdated and somewhat embarrassing PS2 rather than a cool Wii…and, this next part is bordering on cruelty, so if you’re a social services officer, please hop over to one of those scrapbooking blogs now…THEY HAVE NEITHER GUITAR HERO OR ROCK BAND. I know. How will they get by in college? We’re sorta counting on their skills playing real instruments to carry them through, but I admit we are indeed taking a risk with their social success.

The only reason we even own the PS2 is so we can have “alone time” while they’re awake. Getting lucky during daylight hours involves first saying “Hey guys…wanna play video games?” (when they were little it was the only reason we purchased Blues’ Clues videos.) In our house offering permission for video gaming is akin to grabbing your spouse in the small of the back, pulling them towards you and whispering breathily in their ear, “Dang baby. You hot.”

However, I just walked through a perfectly silent room with children in it. They both had little white earbuds in their heads, and lovely, cult-induced trance-like stares. They didn’t even know I was there. I could have had a grownup conversation right next to them with zero interruption. They didn’t need me to get them anything to eat. They weren’t begging for an air soft gun. They weren’t whining for a sleepover. They had absolutely nothing to say to me and they didn’t need a thing from me. Which begs the question: Where the hell were these things when they were babies? I was supposed to be thankful for the advanced technology of a stupid diaper genie and somewhere in Steve Jobs head there was the iPod? I have seriously bad timing.

I suppose I should make them take them off and interact with their family, but why? It’s so damned….peaceful. I guess that’s why my parents always encouraged me going to my room and listening to my music. They even got me a super cool stereo with tape to tape recording capabilities AND a record player. I was lucky, because while my friends moms were saying “turn it down,” MY mom was surprising us with bigger speakers and new Rick Springfield records. It was really…EEWWWWW! Oh holy crap, I just realized they were doing it WHILE I WAS IN THE HOUSE. And enticing me with electronics to get me out of the way. How sick. It’s just wrong. And brilliant.

Disneyland Schmisneyland.

When I was 20 years old I worked for a meat company. Seriously, how hot is that? I’d take phone orders from restaurants for the sales people, because they were usually back in the cutting room smoking. One particular chain of Denver-based family-owned Mexican restaurants ordered all kinds of nifty sounding things like pork butt, tripe, and (yum) cheek meat. This weekend, I realized that we all happened to be hungry and were driving by their original location under a viaduct and across from a dog food factory, so I swung in and parked. The three dudes were all like “Really? We’re eating here? For reals?” And I was all, “This’ll be the yummiest grub you’ve ever had and you’ll thank me later get out of the car seriously GET OUT OF THE CAR.”

Initial impressions: Lineoleum. Formica. Samsonite chairs. A swamp cooler on wheels that was bigger than my first car. You couldn’t walk in front of it without losing a contact lens and a layer of tan. Granted, it was easier to get up to the counter with the wind at my back, but the thing belonged on a movie set. Like for “Twister," or "Oklahoma-The Story of a Windy Damned Place." To cut to the chase, they had those amazingly effective Styrofoam cups that I love, (ozone be damned, those are great cups) and crushed ice for the Pepsi, (why even have any other kind of ice, really?) but...the food sucked. I’m almost certain they were using government cheese.

Next stop – (insert echo-ey radio announcer voice here) the BIG GAME EXPO…(po-po-po) which we’d heard about from an acquaintance who happens to be the top record holding female bow hunter in the country, as well as my husband’s high-school girlfriend’s cousin. It’s kinda like I'm famous, huh? You’re probably worried that we’d be hard pressed to find parking at such an event, but no – there were plenty of spaces. Go figure. We pretty much had the place to ourselves save for a few weary looking overheated vendors of rugged RVs, an elk-like creature with reindeer antlers, and twenty or so folks wandering around in different variations of camo and shirts that said “my dog gives me the bird,” or “if you don’t hunt, I don’t want to talk to you.” Well. That’s good news for me.

Here’s the deal. Doug hunts, I’ve hunted, most of his friends hunt, the little dudes hunt, several people in our somewhat respectable neighborhood hunt, and there’s not a single one of them I’d consider redneck. They’re smart, ethical, and believe in conservation. They care about wildlife, the environment and not a single one of them totes a gunrack in their vehicle. Not an NRA member in the bunch. But these people were frightening in their redneckianism. I’ve always thought the stereotypes of hunters were mean, rude, and plain wrong – but most of these folks rolled out’ the trailer and came to town for the show in they finest camoflauge. The only thing it made me want to hunt down was a shower. The little dudes had a blast – they got to live out all their fantasies of shooting paintball guns down a little alley, shooting arrows at huge foam dinosaurs, and ooooooh, there were REAL LIVE PUPPIES. Labrador puppies. In every color. Number two son loved them so much he started adding up in his head how old our oldest dog is (times seven) just in case there was a chance we might come home to him dead, and NEED A PUPPY RIGHT NOW TODAY.

Somehow, though, the day just didn’t seem complete. Sure, we’d visited both Mexico and Louisiana right in our own backyard, but there was something missing. So I took every single one of them on a drive down Broadway to Wedgle’s Music & Pawn Shop. It’s been there for decades and there’s usually a really cool selection of vintage guitars, drums and dusty things that you don’t want to ask about. It smells like an old couch on a front porch. It’s awesome. Unbelievably, neither my husband or children had ever been there before. What’s with schools these days? Seriously, they’ve been on field trips to the zoo, the museum, the capitol, blah blah blah… and never a pawn shop? That right there is where we should start when discussing public school reform. Not only can you see GEN-U-INE pieces of Americana in pawn shops, you also get to see (and smell!) all sorts of diverse folks you’re never gonna meet down at the planetarium. In fact, while we were there a real neat guy with a glass eye came in to see what he could get for it… unfortunately, they were full up of glass eyes so they couldn’t help him, but it was enlightening nonetheless.

Not wanting to leave empty handed, we bought a sweet red Yamaha bass guitar and amp for Number Two Son who is having masculinity issues with his current musical instrument – the violin. As we were leaving, Big Dude said, “we are the most random whim-ish family there is.”

Exactly why I love us.

In the the span of just a few hours, we took our children to a questionable burrito joint under a viaduct, a redneck festival with a live elk-caribou-reindeer thing walking around, AND a pawn shop on Broadway. Who needs amusement parks? Someday those kids are going to thank me.