Chutes and Ladders

“Guys, get dressed for baseball and hockey!” I called to the kids as I walked through the house, picking up all the junk they leave lying around. You can’t really blame them for leaving wrappers and junk on the floor since we have no garbage cans in the house. And it’s no wonder they leave their dirty socks on the couch or under the kitchen table since we have no laundry baskets. Of course it makes perfect sense that they pile their dirty dishes all over the counter tops since the dishwasher is glued shut and can’t be opened. And since no one has a dresser or closet, it only stands to reason that they toss their clean, folded laundry on the floor.


Anyway, I made my rounds, cleaning up after my kids. Apparently that’s what I do. I yell at them all day to pick up their stuff and then I give up and pick it up myself while stomping around and muttering under my breath about how I live with swine. Yes, it’s effective parenting at it’s best. In my defense, by dinnertime I’m tired. And I’m sick of hearing my own voice. And it’s just easier to do it myself. Okay, okay, I’m just a terrible parent.

So I picked up junk while the kids looked for their uniforms, socks, cups, and hats that are never where they belong because, as we discussed, we have no dressers in this house. Except for Jackson, that is. He stood guard near his bedroom and instructed me, “Don’t go in there.” (Translation for new parents: Go in there immediately and be prepared to be totally freaked out by a family of opossum nesting in your child’s bed, green Ghostbuster’s slime dripping from the ceiling, a mural drawn on the walls with permanent marker, or if you’re really lucky, a combination thereof.)

I pushed past Jackson, opened the bedroom door and witnessed an interesting scene. As a mom of six very industrious (Translation: CRAZY) kids, I generally feel confident that I’ve seen pretty much everything.

I was wrong.

Jackson had rearranged the furniture, moving his non-existent dresser under the window. The window that was wide open. Outside the window, the slide that had been unscrewed and removed from the playset was propped against the house. The kids had been taking turns scaling the bunkbeds, dropping onto the dresser, climbing out the window, and flying down the precariously perched slide.

I maintained a sense of calm as I questioned the kids about their latest um, experiment. “What on God’s green earth were you guys thinking?!!! Seriously, how do you come up with this stuff?! Did you really think this was a good idea? Tell me! How do you think up these ideas?! How, how, HOW??? Why?! You’re killing me! KILLING ME!

Someone tell me that my kids are creative and will be brilliant, well-adjusted adults, and not hoodlums.  Please?  Someone?  Anyone?  Although, in the game of Chutes and Ladders, it’s the rotten kids who use the slides . . .

Sunday Sound Out

From Chicago, where it snows in April, it's your host, the woman who got a whole eight hours of sleep (in the past seven days combined), Dawn Damalas Meehan! And now, it's time for viewer mail.




Your house looks great.. hey I have a brother in Orlando.. Hmmmmm????
If he can fix stuff and/or clean up puke, send him my way!

Plant the statue....it works!
I cannot believe the hundreds of people who have emailed me/commented on Facebook that I should plant a statue of St. Joseph in my yard in order to sell my house. Oh, and apparently I can't just plant it in my yard. Oh no, there are very specific instructions for planting this statue. I need to bury it upside down, facing the house. And this is suppose to ensure my house sells. Call me crazy, but I just don't think a mud-covered statue is going to sell my house. I'm banking on the "clean up your house and price it right" method of house-selling.

I remember those days…not too fondly! Glad you seem to enjoy sleepovers!
Oh heck no, I don't especially like sleepovers! But my kids like them and they've only got a couple months to hang out with their friends before we move so I'm making every effort to let them spend time with their friends now.

That is great about the orthopedist. Are there OR charges, anesthesiologist, whatever? It seems like everyone and their brother charges me. I just don’t want you to get caught with your pants down, so to speak.
Oh yeah, of course there will be other charges, but the hospital accepts our insurance and since our orthopedist said he'd take it too, it'll be okay. She had an MRI on Friday and the doctor called me himself to tell me that she would indeed need surgery and it doesn't look like the piece of bone/cartilage will be able to be reattached again. It'll have to be removed which means another surgery in the future to insert some donor cartilage. Surgery's on Wednesday and prayers are appreciated!

Also, is there some non-sporting activity Savannah could do? So she could still feel like she was involved in something? A community choir, band, orchestra, community theater, ….? There’s got to be some other interest she can follow while sports are off the table.
Maybe, but I don't think she wants to get involved in something here when we're moving in two months.

Can we send this guy (orthopedist) a thank-you card on your behalf??
Um, sure. And if anyone would like to send Savannah a card, you can mail it here -

Savannah Meehan
836 S. Arlington Heights Rd.
#230
Elk Grove Village, IL 60007

How on earth do you do it? I'm a single mom of only two kids and my ex-husband is involved, takes them every other weekend, pays child support, helps drive them to soccer, etc. I'm not selling my house or moving across the country or writing blogs and books or dealing with car repairs and surgeries and I can hardly keep up. Seriously, how do you do it?
I don't know. I wake up, tackle as much as I can of my to-do list, thank God for the good stuff, take a deep breath and take a minute to enjoy my kids, pass out in bed, then wake up 4 or 5 hours later and do it all over again. What else can you do? It may be hard, but there's a lot of good in my situation too. I focus on that. I could be bummed that Savannah needs another surgery and I'll have yet another stack of medical bills that my ex will never contribute to, or I can be thankful that the doctor will accept my state insurance so Savannah can get the surgery she needs. I could be bummed that we have to move to a cheaper area, or I could be thankful that I'm able to get a less expensive place in a nice, warm area with endless possibilities.

Don't get me wrong, I venture into the Oh woe is me side now and then, but I spend almost all my time on the Glass is half-full side. Who wants to be depressed about things over which they have no control? Not me. I let that stuff go and work my butt off on the things I can change. It's all good. Although I could totally go for a little more sleep!



My good blogging friends, Janice and Susan, over at 5 Minutes For Mom are hosting a giveaway for two $500 gift cards for Walmart. Even I (a self-professed Walmart-hater) would love a $500 gift card! Who wouldn't, right? All you have to do is leave them a comment with your funny or creepy bug story. Visit HERE for all the details, but hurry because the contest ends on Tuesday!

Boys & Girls are Almost Exactly the Same

Two nights ago, my nine-year-old Lexi had her friend, Ally sleep over. The girls spent a lot of time in Lexi’s room, listening to music, putting on make-up, dancing, and making up pretend games. That’s the kind of stuff Lexi always does with her friends. They paint their nails and do each other’s hair. They put on shows where they sing and dance for me. Then they put on their jammies, brush their teeth, and drag all their blankets, sleeping bags, pillows, and dolls into the family room where they set up camp, taking time to arrange their belongings just so. They settle into their sleeping bags and watch a movie until they fall asleep.

Last night, my twelve-year-old son, Jackson had a friend sleep over. The boys did almost exactly the same things that the girls did.

Last night, my twelve-year-old son, Jackson had a friend sleep over.  The boys did almost exactly the same things that the girls did. 

The girls played with dolls.  The boys played a video game where they raced cars and smashed them into firey balls of twisted metal. 

The girls made up pretend games and played “royal wedding”, taking turns being William and Kate.  The boys also made up a game.  It was called “let’s smash each other’s skulls with a baseball bat” “fencing”, as they took turns hitting each other with plastic baseball bats.

The girls applied eyeshadow and lipstick to themselves.  The boys applied mud to themselves.  Lots and lots of mud.  

The girls listened to songs and made up dances and cheer routines to go with the music.  The boys made their own, ah, um, sort of music.  They burped.  They laughed.  They tried to outburp each other.  They laughed some more.  Then, when Austin got off the couch, Jackson’s friend, John called squatter’s rights and claimed the open space on the couch.  Austin, not accepting the rule of squatter’s rights, bent over and farted on John’s head.  This caused uproarious laughter.  John’s face turned red and he almost pooped in his pants as he strained to return the ah, favor to Austin.  I used an entire bottle of Febreeze trying to destinkify my house. 

The girls put on a show, demonstrating the cheer routine they’d made up and practiced all evening.  The boys ran through the house, whipping pillows at each other.

After getting ready for bed, the girls made camp in the family room, snuggling into their carefully arranged blankets.  The boys passed out, draped across the couches, muddy limbs, stinky clothes, unbrushed teeth and all.

Want $500 and Death to Creepy Crawlies?

Janice and Susan from 5 Minutes for Mom are running a contest sponsored by Raid and they're giving away TWO $500 Walmart gift cards!

To get in the draw, head over to 5 Minutes for Mom and share a funny or creepy bug story that happened to you.

You can blog your #RaidBugStory and share the link in a comment or tell the whole story in a comment. But make sure you leave your comments over at 5 Minutes for Mom and not here. And do it now because the contest ends this Tuesday and you don't want to miss out! I mean, you can buy a whole lotta Raid with $500, right?!

The giveaway details are included below, but first here's one of my MANY bug stories.


After lying around sick and dying for days, I should have gone to bed early last night and gotten some much needed sleep. But that wasn't to be. Savannah had begged me to let her go to the midnight showing of Twilight when it first came out. I was a mean mom and didn't let her go. Then she begged me to let her go to the midnight showing of New Moon when it first came out, but again, I was mean and wouldn't let her go. Last night, Savannah begged me to let her see the midnight showing of Eclipse, and knowing how important it is to be firm and consistent in all parenting matters, I said, "Sure, whatever, knock yourself out. Just please tell me you have a ride home because I may be dead from this sore throat by 2:00 AM."

She gave me that look. Not the look that says, "But Moooom, I have to go! All my friends are going! I'll just die if I don't get to go!" Nope, I'm immune to that look. When I receive that look from one of my kids, I just respond with, "Hey, we didn't have CELL PHONES when I was your age! Do you really wanna tell me how your life will end if you don't get this?" That usually shuts them up.

But no, she didn't give me that look. She gave me the sad, resigned, "I know you work hard and you're tired and you really try to do everything for us, Mom" look. Ugh. I'm not immune to that look. I hate that look! I hate feeling like I've let someone down. If she'd just fought me and talked back, I would've been okay, but noooo, she had to accept that I was too tired and too sick to pick her up so late. And I couldn't accept that.

Sooo, being the total pushover dedicated parent I am, I stayed awake until it was time to pick her up at 2:15 AM. You know who stays up until 2:00AM when they're running a fever and feeling like the stuff floating in my fire pit of soot-water (aka Ye Ole Fishing Hole)? Crazy people, that's who! Well, and vampires and werewolves, of course. And the undead. And every mother of a newborn. And that "Time to Make the Donuts" guy. But mostly crazy people. Like me.

When 2:15 rolled around, I hadn't died of a sore throat or achy back yet, so I got Savannah and her friend and dropped everyone off at the correct house and didn't fall asleep at the wheel. I returned home, locked up, and shuffled back into my bedroom where I felt something brush my arm. Since I shed approximately 350,000 hairs a day (I have no idea how I'm not bald) and since I learned my lesson after my spider freak-out, I naturally thought a hair was tickling my arm. I brushed at it and it flew. IT FLEW! Hair doesn't fly! What the??? It was a bat! Holy cow, there was a stinking BAT in my bedroom!

Okay, it might have possibly just been a moth. But it looked like a bat. I'm pretty sure it had fangs and it was the size of a Buick. So, I did what any sane, rational, quick-thinking person would do. I grabbed my bottle of Philosophy Inner Grace perfume and I sprayed it to death! Except it didn't work. I didn't, in fact, spray it to death. I only got it drunk on the fumes. And then it started flitting around in a crazed pattern, circling me. I saw him give me the evil eye right before he dive-bombed my head. I did the classic, evasive, Duck-and-Cover maneuver as I ran screaming from the room like a little girl. It's okay. I can do that. I am a girl.

Clearly, this is an alien bat programmed to destroy me. This calls for Plan B. I grabbed a paper towel and a shoe. The plan was to throw the shoe at him, knock him unconscious, then pick him up with several layers of paper towel so I couldn't feel him through the paper, then stomp him to death with the shoe. It's fool-proof! It's brilliant! It's...okay, it's late and I'm sick and this is an alien bat, so even while I was certain Plan B would work, in the back of my mind I was toying with Plan C wherein I'd wake up Clayton, give him some hairspray and a lighter and let him go to town with a homemade blowtorch. Did I mention I was feverish?

Anyway, I returned to my room only to find the moth killer zombie bat gone. Missing. Totally vanished. I was seriously freaking out at this point. I stood there with eighteen feet of paper towels dangling from my hand. I spun around, eyes darting here and there, scoping every corner of my bedroom. He's got to be in here somewhere! All ninja-like, I quietly tiptoed a couple steps to the side, then whirled around to face death head-on! He wasn't there. I sneaked over to my curtains and quick-as-a-whip, ripped them back from the window! Nothing. "Ohhhh, he's good," I thought to myself. This went on for a good half hour while I made little surprise attacks on unsuspecting pieces of furniture, bedding, and stacks of laundry around my room. Nothing.

I decided that perhaps my fever was getting the best of me, so I decided to take a shower to cool off while I turned off all the lights in my room, and turned on all the lights in the kitchen. That'll draw him out, I convinced myself as I showered.
When I got out of the bathroom, I made my way to the kitchen, positive I'd see the moth flitting around the light. Nope. Which just solidified my belief that it was indeed a bat. He was perfectly content staying in my darkened room. By this time it was 4:00 AM and extreme tiredness had overcome me, so I finally gave up. I quickly dove under the covers and pulled them up over my head. In my sleep deprived state, I was somehow okay about dying from lack of oxygen under the covers all night, but I really didn't want guano in my hair. It made sense to me at the time.

Thankfully, I woke up this morning and the bat had not eaten my face off, so I think my burrowing under the covers worked. Either that or he's just making me wait. He's making me sweat it out. And just when I forget about him, that's when he'll attack!



How To Win One of Two $500 Walmart Gift Cards
To enter to win just tell the wonderful twins, Janet and Susan, over at 5 Minutes for Mom a funny or creepy bug story that happened to you. You can blog your story and share the link in a comment or tell the whole story in a comment.

For additional entries, you can tweet, post on Facebook and/or post on your Blog telling your friends about this bug inspired giveaway. Just leave additional comments with the links to your tweet, facebook post and/or blog post. Tweets should include hashtag #RaidBugStory

Each comment will be included as an entry in their random draw.

QUICK… This ends soon…

They’ll accept entries through Tuesday, May 3rd and they’ll announce the lucky winners on Wednesday, May 4th.

5 Minutes for Mom

* This contest is sponsored by Raid Max® Bug Barrier. Raid Max Bug Barrier creates a barricade around your home preventing 8 different types of insects from coming indoors.

The Knee Bone's Connected to the Leg Bone

My almost-fifteen-year-old daughter, Savannah had surgery on her knee last May. She has a fairly rare joint disorder called osteochondritis dissecans. Basically, a piece of her femur was peeling away. 
The doctor went in, drilled up into her bone so it would bleed down into this piece that had peeled away because of a loss of bloodflow, and he put some screws in it. It took a long time to heal, but she finally got the green light for sports in October, at which point the xray showed that the fragment of bone had adhered and was healing well.


For the past couple months, however, she’s been having pain again. Her knee sometimes just gives out on her while she’s walking. I have not-so-wonderful state insurance, but I called to make an appointment with this doctor who doesn’t take not-so-wonderful state insurance anyway. I had to make the appointment with him because I really like him and because he’s the one who did her surgery and knows what’s going on. I told the office staff that I’d just self-pay. So, we saw him today. After listening to Savannah’s complaints and examining her knee, he told us she’d need an MRI, but in the meantime, he got an xray of her knee just to see what that showed.

The bone is peeling away again. This means another surgery to hopefully reattach this fragment. If that’s not a possibility (and he won’t know until he gets in there and sees how bad it is), he’ll remove the piece altogether. That will do away with her pain, however, she’ll need another surgery in the future to replace some cartilage. The doctor explained that sometimes they take tiny bits of cartilage from another area of the knee and sometimes they use cadaver cartilage. Savannah took that well. “Dead people cartilage?! I have to have dead people cartilage in my knee?!!!”

I freaked out a little myself and explained my situation a bit (state insurance, moving to FL, ex who doesn’t feel the need to work and pay court ordered child support). I said that I couldn’t afford to pay for the surgery on my own and I wouldn’t have insurance until August at which point I’d be in FL. I was going to ask him if Savannah could wait that long to get her knee fixed and if he knew of a good orthopedic surgeon in Orlando, or if she needed it fixed now. I figured I’d have to work out some sort of payment plan and with any luck, she’d own her new knee free and clear by the time she was my age.

Instead, this doctor said, “You have enough on your plate. My next meal is not coming from this surgery. I’ve got you covered. Let’s take care of Savannah and do not worry about insurance. I don’t take new patients with AllKids, but you’re not a new patient. That’s the last thing you need to worry about, okay?”

I cried.

I loved this doctor before. With six kids, he’s taken care of many broken bones in this family. He did Savannah’s surgery and took care of Brooklyn when the pediatrician thought she had hip dysplasia. He took care of Lexi’s and Jackson’s broken arms. He’s seen Lexi for her intoeing. He’s great! He’s the kind of doctor who takes the time to talk to you, jokes around with the kids, listens to your concerns, explains things thoroughly in terms you can understand, and is just likeable. But now I totally LOVE him!

Soooo, poor Savannah has to have more surgery. And she’s going to miss softball and volleyball for a second year. She cried last year when she found out she was going to miss softball season. This time, she took it really well. I was very proud of her. She looked bummed out, but said, “I guess I’ll be the scorekeeper again this year.”

I feel horrible that Savannah has to go through another surgery and I worry that she’ll always have problems with that knee.  But let’s face it, the real concern here is that I’ve lost one of my best movers!

Wanted: Someone to Clean up Puke

A couple nights ago, my kids and I went out to dinner with good friends to celebrate their son, Brandon’s birthday. Brandon is my godson. His mom, Jen is my best friend. I’ve known her since our freshman year in high school when I’d get in trouble for making her laugh in class. Jen’s husband, Chris was her high school sweetheart so I’ve known him almost as long as I’ve known Jen. We’ve gone camping with Jen, Chris, and their four kids more times than should be allowed by law. We’ve broken bread and shared bottles of wine together a zillion times over the years. And we’ve enjoyed more laughs than I could ever begin to count. Our children have grown up together and my kids call their kids cousins.


As I sat there at our little table for thirteen, I talked about my upcoming move, the latest insanity of my ex, and how kids shouldn’t put broken zippers, that were found on the floor, in their mouths. (Yes, that last one was courtesy of Clayton.) But all the while I was thinking, I’m going to miss this. I’m going to miss watching the kids interact. I’m going to miss laughing until I wet my pants. (Hey, I’ve had six kids. It happens!) I love these friends as if they were family. How do you leave the people you love without breaking down?

In the light of day, I’m happy and excited about the move. Things have fallen into place so well that it just seems meant to be. I feel confident that this is the best thing I can do for my family. There are so many advantages to it, and it’ll be a fresh start for all of us. It’s a good thing.

But come nightfall, I lie in bed, my mind racing with thoughts of how much I’ll miss my friends, how much my kids will miss their friends, and how long it’s going to take me to unload the moving van! I second-guess myself even though I know I’m making the right decisions. I worry that I’ll never make new friends, that I’ll stink at a regular job, and ohmygosh, what if one of my kids throws up?! I won’t have any friends to clean it up and I’ll have to close the door to the barf-room and never set foot in there again. And if it happens in the kitchen, I’ll have to order take-out for the rest of my life. Wait, that’s not really a drawback. Hmmm, still, I worry about stuff.
Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t keep me up all night. Soon after the “what ifs” start, I get a calm, soothing “It’s going to be okay” feeling. There’s something freeing in letting go. If things work out, my house sells quickly, and I find a new place in Florida, then great! If it doesn’t work out that way, then it wasn’t meant to be and something new will come along. I do believe God has a plan and it may not be the same as my plan. (I often try to tell Him how He should do things my way, but it never works.) So, I’m relaxing (mostly) in my knowledge that things will work out as things always do. But if you know anyone in the Orlando area who is capable of cleaning up puke without vomiting herself, send her my way! Oh yeah, and if all my friends could move to Florida with me so I don’t miss them, that would be great!

Clean Sweep - Bedroom Episode

I still need to paint the ceiling (YUCK!), and get the garage roof fixed, but other than that, I finally have my house the way I want it. It officially goes on the market today. Eek! Say a prayer for a quick sale. And don't tell me to bury a statue upside down in my yard. I refuse to do something as ludicrous as that out of principle.


Unfortunately, I didn't think to take "before" pictures of most of the rooms. Here are "before" and "after" shots of my room though.

BEFORE

AFTER

Get in Bed!

“Ni-night, girls. Sweet dreams.  Get some sleep. School tomorrow. I love you. Kiss kiss!”

“Night, Mommy,” my youngest girls said as they threw their arms around me and kissed me goodnight.

I left their room, walked out to the living room, and collapsed on the couch. After getting about four hours of sleep last night, waking up early to find eggs, cooking a big brunch, and cleaning and organizing my garage in preparation for my garage sale, I was pooped. I sat down and and started reading email. No sooner had I opened my laptop when Lexi walked into the living room.


“Um Mom?”  (They always have to begin with, “Mom?” even though I’m sitting right there, looking at them. That isn’t good enough. I must assure them I’m paying 100% attention by answering in the affirmative.)

“Yes?”

“Um, I um. . .”  She trailed off as that universal kid ADD kicked in and she became glued to the TV.

“Hello?” I prompted, bringing her back to her reason for getting out of bed.

“Oh yeah!  Um, you know what my five favorite smells are?”

blink blink

“Chicken pot pie, ham, baby lotion, Suave shampoo, um, and, um, hmmm, I can’t remember the other one.”

“Lexi?”  I said, using her technique of attention-getting.

“Yeah, Mom?”

“GO TO BED!”

Why, oh why, do these most important things pop up when the kids are supposed to be sleeping? It doesn’t matter if I’ve taken time to create a relaxing bedtime routine: snacks, teeth-brushing, story time, snuggling, or if I’ve had a hectic evening and just told them to get in bed. No matter what, they inevitably come up with some very important, life-or-death matter they must discuss after being tucked in.

“Mom, I um, Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Um, Mom, look at me.  This is my super happy face!”  major cheesy smile

“Charming.  Good night.”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Do I have school tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Um, I forgot.  Oh yeah!  Mom?”

“Still yes.”

“Um, I can’t sleep.”

“That’s because you’re standing here.  Now get in bed!”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“How many more days until my birthday?”

“You’re not going to make it to your birthday if you don’t get your butt in bed.  I mean, three hundred and thirty-some days.”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Um, I have to do my project for school.”

“Isn’t it due in two weeks?”

“Yeah.”

“Go to bed!”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Can I have a hamster? Where do rhinos live? Do whales sleep? I think there’s a spider in my room. My jammies are itchy. I need to go to the bathroom. I know what I want to be for Halloween now. Where’s my blanket? Can I wear my black shoes tomorrow? Can I get a drink of water?”

This is the point when I give up, walk to the fridge, pour myself a glass of wine, and simply tune them out until their mouths get too dry to talk anymore and they fall asleep.  Kids have no clue. If someone told me, “Go to bed and get some sleep while I do some work and clean up the house,” I’d be asleep before my head hit the pillow. Sleep is totally wasted on the young!

Hot Lava!

I sat in the lobby with Brooklyn yesterday while I was waiting for the mechanic to look over my car and give me an estimate. I was content just sitting on my butt, alternately playing Words with Friends on my phone and glancing up at the freaks contestants on The Price is Right. Did you all know that Drew Carey is the host now? I had no idea. Although, I supposed Bob Barker has to be about a hundred years old, huh? 

 Anyway, I was fine just sitting there, playing with my phone and looking at the TV now and then. Brooklyn, on the other hand. . .

The repair shop had one of those Hinckley and Schmidt water coolers. You’d think they dispensed rum with the way my kids are addicted to these things. The minute my kids walk into a waiting room that features one of these coolers, they make a bee line toward it. They proceed to guzzle down water like a tribe of desert wanderers. It was my kids who taught me that a human’s stomach can expand to hold four and a half gallons of water. Of course, all this water has to go somewhere. Thus begins the bathroom fun.

Brooklyn’s little bathroom trip took approximately fifteen minutes. Two minutes to pee, wipe, and zip up, and thirteen minutes to play in the sink. Then she came out and headed right back to the water dispenser. But this time, there was an added twist. “I can only walk on the rug. I can’t touch the floor,” Brooklyn announced as she leapt from carpet runner to carpet runner, carefully avoiding the tiled area. 

“Why do you have to stay on the carpet, Brooklyn?” I inquired.

“Because,” she explained with the hint of an eye roll, “the floor is hot lava.” 

Ahhh, yes, hot lava. All kids know about the dangers of hot lava on the floor. I wonder why this is since most kids have never actually seen hot lava. But ask any child and they’ll tell you that you must stay on the carpet, or the green tiles, or the white squares, etc. to avoid falling into hot lava. Hot lava is universal. 

She carefully hopped back and forth to the water cooler, avoiding the hot lava, several times. Then she switched things up a bit. The hot lava became a lake with alligators and snakes. She had to leap onto her chair so an alligator wouldn’t take a bite out of her way-too-small shoes that she insisted still fit her. This game went on for a while until she decided she needed to run across the carpet runner maze. 

“Mom, mom, mom! Say 'ready, set, go!'", Brooklyn instructed as she crouched down, ready to sprint across the room. This was followed by, “Mom, time me! How fast am I?” I let her run around for a while, hoping the mechanics would get sick of seeing her bounce around the waiting room like a ping pong ball, and they’d quickly finish up my car. When that didn’t work, I tried to get her to sit down and play a game on my phone. When that didn’t work, I gave up and joined her. All I can say is, it’s a good thing the floor wasn’t really hot lava.

When Your Brakes Break

I had to get the brakes fixed on my car today. Ordinarily, when the brakes start to go, it happens so gradually that I’m not even aware they’re getting bad at first. Then, one day, I realize I’m employing the Fred Flintstone method of stopping. It’s really not the best idea to put your foot through the floor in order to stop though, so I take the first step in getting my brakes repaired – I think about doing it. This step can last weeks. But when my car, angry that I haven’t taken it to a mechanic yet, rebels and starts making that metal grinding against metal sound, I figure it’s time to actually take it in to a mechanic. At least sometime in the next few weeks.

This time, however, I skipped the whole Fred Flintstone stage and went directly to the metal grinding stage overnight. In the matter of a couple miles, my attitude went from, Hmmm, I think my brakes are sounding bad, to Oh my gosh, I won’t be able to stop and I’m gonna crash and die!

So I took my car to the shop today. I was thankful that my brakes were consistently making that horrid metal grinding noise. Not because I like that sound or anything, but so I wouldn’t have to explain a mysterious non-existent noise because everyone knows the mysterious sound disappears the minute you take your vehicle to the mechanic.

“Well, ma’am, we drove it around, but didn’t hear any noise.”

“It was making a noise! I swear! It went like this Eeeeahhhscreeeeeahhhhshwooshwoosh! Honest. It did. Ahem.”

So, the guy drove my van around, then put it on the stick thingy that raises it up in the air and did important stuff like count the tires, point to miscellaneous parts under the van, and write a list of all the things wrong with my car. When he was finished, he presented me with his estimate.

Here’s the thing though, average folks (especially women) have no clue what the mechanic is talking about. A mechanic could tell me anything and I’d have no choice but to take his word for it. I’m convinced they make up stuff just to mess with customers. I bet they make wagers with each other on whether the clueless customer will believe them and agree to the repairs.

“Yes, ma’am, the halogen fluid in the headlights is low, it needs new muffler bearings, the spare transmission isn’t working, the anti-lock brakes won’t unlock, and the flux capacitor isn’t fluxing. These are definite safety issues and you should get them fixed immediately. It’ll cost you $3400.”

I like being able to stop my van without running into buildings so I told them to go ahead and fix my brakes. After paying them an amount so obscene I think I’ll have to move into my van to live, I took my keys and headed toward my car. Before I left, the mechanic had these parting words, “The brakes need a breaking in period for about two weeks so don’t floor it to the red lights and then slam on the brakes, okay.”

Darn! Now I have to wait two weeks before I can play pole position while weaving in and out of traffic and slamming on my brakes frequently while running the car pool in my “church van”.

You Can Run, But You Can't Hide

The other night, I went downtown for a blogger event.  I was totally looking forward to this, not because it was going to be such a grand soirée, but because I’d have a couple hours to relax and be responsible for no one but myself.  I gave my parents last-minute instructions and cruised to the train station in traffic.  I was running late because apparently I’m incapable of getting anywhere on time, but I pulled into the station with like a whole three minutes to spare before the train arrived.  Stressed out and feeling guilty that I had dropped the ball on making dinner for my kids ahead of time, I joined my friend Michelle and sunk into the seat she’d saved me on the train.  I took a deep breath.  ”Okay,” I told myself, “I’m off duty now.  Just for the next few hours,  I can do what I want.  I won’t have to break up any arguments.  I won’t have to tell anyone to go to bed 50,000 times.  I won’t have to. . . ”  brrring

I glanced down at my phone to see a text from Austin.  What’s the password for your old laptop so Clay can play a game on it?

I texted the password to Austin, then turned to Michelle.  ”Ahhh, it feels nice to sit down.  So, hey, what are you doing tomorrow around lunchtime?  I was just wondering because I have a friend coming over to tape. . .”  brrring

I looked at my phone again. A text from Jackson read, Can I go over to John’s?

Before I even had a chance to text my well-thought out, considerate reply of, I’m off duty!  Ask your grandparents!, my phone rang.

“Mom, can I go over to John’s?”

“Sigh.  Yes, Jackson.  As long as it’s okay with Yia Yia and Papa, you can go, but you’d better be back by 6:00 because you’re getting picked up for hockey then.”

I hung up and turned, apologetically, back toward Michelle when my phone beeped.  This time it was a text from Savannah.  Hey Mom.  Can I have like $20?  Pweeeease?

I looked at Michelle and explained.  ”My daughter is hitting me up for money long distance.”

I texted back. Sure!  You know where Yia Yia’s purse is.

Instantly, another text came through.  This time, from Jackson. 

Forget it.  I can’t go to John’s after all because his sister is sick.

Before I’d even finished reading that one, another came in.

Can I please have $20?  I’ll love you forever and ever.

John’s mom changed her mind.  I can go over there now.  Is that okay?

Hey Mom, it hurts when I breathe deeply.  I think I might have a fever.

So, can I have some money please?

Can I go to John’s?

Is it bad if you can’t breathe?

Money?

John’s?

Fever!

I shook my head and looked at Michelle.  ”Just a minute,” I apologized.  Then I got up and walked to the end of the car while the train came to a halt.  As the doors opened, I whipped my phone out onto the track.

You can get out for a couple hours, but you can never get away.

Walking to School

My Little Chatterbox

As I walked Brooklyn to school today, she informed me, “Mom, Ashley doesn’t talk much at school.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yep. She’s quiet.”

“Well, some people are quiet. That’s okay,” I explained. “And then, other people are chatterboxes,” I continued.

I looked at Brooklyn and asked, “So what do you think you are – quiet or a chatterbox?”

She glanced up at me with a decidedly guilty look on her face. “I’m a chatterbox,” she admitted under her breath.

I threw my head back and laughed uproariously. Let me explain. This is how the rest of our walk went. . .


“Oh look, Mom! This is where me and Clay and Lexi had a picnic. We sat over there. We had chips. You know those kind of chips that have those crunchy things? And we took juice. But we were out of juice boxes. We just poured some juice in a bottle. But we only had two bottles so we shared. Oh look, pinecones! Remember when I was at Clayton’s baseball game? Remember we were at that park with that boy? He took my pinecones. Is that the park where kids pee under the tree? Nettie said she isn’t my friend anymore. Can we go to the park at my school? Jackson went sledding with me there before. Not now. When it was snowy. In the wintertime. Which way do we go? Is this my left, Mom? You have to check for cars, right Mom? You have to look this way and that way. Do you know what you do if your clothes catch on fire? The fireman told us when we went to the fire station. There was a cat there. Oh look, the sidewalk is bumpy here.  Why is the sidewalk bumpy?  Are they going to fix it?  What’s that?  Why is it there?  Are we late for school?  Do I have music today?”

Then she took a breath and started her second sentence.

Every night, the kids and I take turns going around the dinner table, sharing the best and worst parts of our days.  This evening, Brooklyn announced that the best part of her day was walking to school with me.  I don’t think I said more than two words on our walk.  I guess sometimes all it takes is an open ear.  Funny how those moments that seem so insignificant to us can mean so much to someone else.