How to Save a Marriage

Fifty percent of all marriages in the United States are doomed for failure every year. Are infidelity or financial problems to blame? Perhaps, however, there is one commonly overlooked problem that has been plaguing the sanctity of matrimony since the beginning of time. I’m talking, of course, about night time flatulence.

It never fails. One moment you’re sleeping blissfully, and the next thing you know, you’re awakened from a sweet dream with nostrils burning. You finish dry heaving, grab your pillow and head for the couch. You hate to admit it, but your spouse’s intestinal drama has officially driven a wedge into your marriage.

Well, ladies and gentleman, I have good news. Take the money you were wasting on a marriage counselor, or divorce attorney, and invest in the Better Marriage Blanket. This blanket, made with activated carbon, neutralizes gas odors quickly and easily. Don’t just take my word for it. Frank, from New York writes, “Hey, my farts don’t smell anymore.” Good for you, Frank! We’re all pulling for you. And Elena, from Arizona, says she hasn’t woken herself up since she started using it. I’m sure her eight cats are thrilled to be free of her dutch oven.

So, before you start wondering if you’re destined to be alone, try the Better Marriage Blanket and watch your one night stands turn into two and three night stands. Help is but a phone call away. Operators are probably standing by.

Standoff

Getting my son, Luke, up in the morning has become difficult, as of late. When you combine a stubborn, (almost) two year old, with a daylight savings time change, what you get is a stand-off suitable for a hostage negotiator.

Shortly after daylight rolls around, I awake to, “Maaaa-Maaaa!” I grab my robe and stagger with eyes half closed into his bedroom. Maybe it’s because I haven’t fully awakened, or maybe it’s my desire to let him express his independence, but something convinces me that the following account of events is anything but ludicrous. Instinctively, I reach out to pick him up, but he shrinks to the other side of his crib and says, “Nope.” “That’s right,” I think to myself. “He’s not ready.”

“Da-yoose! Da-yoose, pease,” he whines. “Ok, I’ll be right back with your juice cup. I start to leave the room and he breaks into hysterics. I was afraid of this, but it was worth a shot. So, desperate times call for desperate measures. I stick my head out the door and call for his daddy who is still sleeping. Not to my surprise he awakens as blissfully as Luke.

What is this? How did a seemingly pleasant morning person wind up tip-toeing between two volatile morning maniacs? I blame Stockholm syndrome, but I digress.

“What?” Brantley barks.

“Luke isn’t coming out without a juice cup.”

“Then get him one.”

“He won’t let me leave.”

“#$%! He stomps downstairs and returns with said juice.

To our dismay, Luke still won’t come out of his crib and Brantley makes the tragic mistake of making direct eye contact with him. Luke screams, “Noooo!” “What are you doing?” I ask Brantley. “Don’t you know it’s way too early in the process to be making direct eye contact with him?”

We discuss both of us leaving, but ultimately decide that the sound of his crying would prevent us from falling back to sleep. A complicated verbal exchange ensues, and we discover that Luke wants Baxter the Yorkie to get in the bed with him. Baxter hates NOTHING more than to be trapped in Luke’s lair, while undergoing the roughest petting he’s ever received. Well, that’s just too bad. Baxter is going to have to take one for the team. I have a little guilt over it until I find Baxter sleeping soundly on our bed. This is his penance for sleeping through our Tuesday morning torment.

Hallelujah! Luke is pleased, and Brantley and I are pleased that he is pleased. He willingly departs from his bed under the guise that we will immediately play with his trains. We do play with his trains, but not until he eats a breakfast of turkey sausage, soy yogurt and a banana. My silver lining? He’s a very good eater. When you have a kid that’s 95% perfect, it’s important to pick your battles. As long as he continues eating green beans and broccoli, and saying please and thank you, our morning negotiations are just a drop in the bucket.

Elevator Etiquette

We abide by certain societal norms whether we realize it or not, e.g. pooping in private and elevator etiquette. Even the most hardened criminal, or craziest mental patient, will silently look upward upon entering an elevator. Trust me. I’ve been in elevators with all kinds of folks.

The general practice of getting on an elevator consists of standing as far away from the other occupants as possible, and only breaking the silence with, “third floor, please.” Well, this doesn’t jive with me. What better way to fill the awkward silence, than with an awkward conversation that everyone knows you won’t have time to finish.

I got on an elevator just yesterday en route to a doctor’s appointment. A stranger lady had gotten there before me which gave her the unspoken advantage of being in control of the buttons. I spoke through the disappointment. “Second floor, please.”

I noticed she was wearing a University of Alabama jacket and was carrying what looked like some sort of team posters. “Are you from Alabama?” I asked. “No, but my son goes to school there,” she replied. “I’m from Alabama myself.” I told her. She pulled out a poster and beamed,
“My son plays on the tennis team.” “That’s wonderful,” I told her. “You must be very proud. Which one is he?”

“He’s the one on the far left.” Her voice trailed off. “….with the hickeys all over his neck.”
I couldn’t hold back the laughter. “Boys will be boys,” I said, but she didn’t laugh with me. Nervously, I continued, “At least he’s having a good time.” Thankfully, the elevator doors opened and I managed to escape without having to endure any more of the obvious tension.

I walked away with another awkward elevator encounter under my belt and couldn’t help but wonder who else, but a mother, could muster such pride for their child in the face of hickey adversity? Who, I ask you?

Brantley-isms

• Brantley got home from work the other night around ten o’clock. I had just finished a long shower and was sitting in the recliner relaxing and watching TV. He walked into the bedroom and exclaimed, “It feels moist in here.” Sigh. His word choice, at times, is a little lacking. He could’ve said humid or muggy, but he’s Brantley so he didn’t.
  


• Upon exiting the shower this morning, Luke (20 mos) ran up to me, stuck his finger in my belly button and said, “Ay-ee-oh-uhh.” I marched straight into the bonus room where Brantley sat, eating a popsicle and watching Sponge Bob. “Did you teach Luke to say areola?”
  “Yep, it’s anatomically correct…and it’s funny,” he snickered.
  “Well, he thinks it’s in your belly button,” I insisted.
  Without taking his eyes off of the TV, he mumbled back, “He’ll figure it out.”

Are We There Yet?

Hubby and I have invented a new game to pass the time while riding in the car. It consists of us screaming, upon seeing a Toyota Prius, and shouting, "it's coming right for us." The more exaggerated your facial expression, the better.

After we get a noticeable disgusted or confused look from the driver of the other car, we chuckle to ourselves and high five each other. If you think you would like to play this game, please remember that pointing at the Toyota Prius is a must. You HAVE to point.

Give it a try on your way to PC Beach for spring break, or on your way to the health department after you leave PC Beach. Either way, it's a good time.

Count on Me

Luke (20 mos) and I have been working on counting lately. We count his fingers and toes. We count the stairs as we climb up and down. We count his blocks.

To confuse matters slightly, we also use a method of discipline known as "1-2-3 Magic". It consists of managing the child’s misbehavior by counting to three and ultimately putting them in timeout if the behavior continues.

I, however, like to call it “1-2-3 Don’t Hit Your Kid Too Much”, because that’s really my goal. Society frowns upon people punching babies, and thus, 1-2-3 Magic was invented.

Always ahead of the curve, Luke has already begun acting like a two year old. I don’t wish to embarrass him with the details of his misbehavior, but suffice it to say that he puts on a good show. He was giving one of these performances yesterday when I was changing his diaper. Exasperated to be foregoing another tantrum so soon after the last, I looked at him and said, “That’s one!”

He smiled back at me, in the sweet little way that only he can, and said, “two, six, eight!” I tried not to laugh and wondered how to explain that we weren’t counting for fun, but rather because he was in trouble. However, the moment had passed and he was back to being my sweet little boy. So I scrapped the lecture and we counted his fingers and toes. A good mother I am, but consistent I am not.

Prescription for Who?

Back in my college days I worked part-time as a pharmacy technician for CVS. Those of you who’ve done your homework might be asking yourselves if this is how I met my hubby, (the pharmacist who counts by threes) and the answer is yes…but I digress.

I was a hard-working employee in a very busy store, but there was one day in particular that will always stand out in my mind. It was a Monday and we were in the throws of the five o’clock rush. The waiting area was full of people and the line at the drive thru wrapped around the building. The pharmacist finished checking several prescriptions and laid them on top of the counter. I picked them up and began calling out names. If no one from the crowd stepped forward to claim the prescription, then I filed it away in the bin and called the next name.

“Prescription for Jones.” No response.

“Prescription for Stephenson.” No response.

“Prescription for Atwater.” No response.

“Prescription for Khunt.”

A hush instantly fell over the crowd and all eyes were on me. The pharmacist’s voice calmly interjected, “Lori,that is pronounced Koont.”

Having realized what I had just shouted, I blushed severely. “My apologies, Mr. Koooont” I replied to the squirrely little man who had regretfully stepped forward to claim his prescription. I was desperate to dig myself out of a hole and I was trying to save face.

“Do you have any questions about your medicine?” I asked just before I glanced down at the ticket and read the word, “Viagra.”

“No,” he replied as he snatched the prescription from my hand. “I’ve taken it before.”

Oh, the irony, so thick that day you could’ve cut it with a knife. As for poor little Mr. Khunt, he became a drive thru customer thereafter, and I was given a hiatus from the cash register. Win-win.

The Ambien Chronicles AND Good Ideas I Have in the Middle of the Night...an epic combo

It’s been a while since there was anything worth noting in my “middle of the night good ideas” journal. However, last night was different. The natives were restless, and I awoke this morning to find some real gems in my notebook and faintly in my memory. I’ll start by noting that my writing utensil of choice was a sharpie. Apparently, a pen just wouldn’t do.

The first entry was, I recall, used as a dream journal and simply states, “Everybody is talking about milk money.” Interesting enough, but I should have been a little more detailed. Who is “everybody” and what was their tone? Were they being jovial and offering me some milk money, or were they getting in my face and trying to take my milk money? This will remain one of the biggest unsolved mysteries of our time.

Later in the night I awoke and decided to brainstorm on some good band names, because I’m not a musician and that’s a normal thing to do. From the looks of it I decided that any four words could be put together to make a cool band name because this is what I wrote,

1. Yellow hat foot fungus
2. Back row photo celebrities
3. Baked potato thumb wrestle
4. Dark blonde fire cord.

Number one is my personal favorite.

This little exercise must have sent my mind a jogging (along with the marker fumes) because what I found on the next page was in regard to a band who sings my new favorite song, Kandi. The name of the band is “One Eskimo,” but I first want to take a moment and apologize to anyone who is or knows an Eskimo. They seem like wonderful people. This is what I wrote,

“New favorite song is by One Eskimo. Sounds like there is, perhaps, more than one Eskimo singing…possibly up to three, which begs the question how many Eskimos is too many?”

It gets better.

“I aint trying to narc on nobody, but I swear there has to be more than one of them damn Eskimos singing. This is deep. I need to mull over this for a couple of days.”

And, that’s it in a nutshell. I’m guessing the last two sentences were just little notes to myself. Hopefully next time I decide to journal in the middle of the night I will do a better job with grammar. I’m including photos of the actual pages for your enjoyment. Before you say it looks like the hand of a serial killer, let me remind you that I wrote all of this in total darkness. That’s my one and only defense.