Warm Reflections

There's a bird bath in my front yard. It was given to us by a relative after it was adorned with beautiful mosaic tiles. One summer it became covered in algae, and I couldn't seem to get rid of it by spraying it with the hose. I had the bright idea to fill the bird bath with bleach and let it sit for a while. That was about the same time we started finding dead birds all over the yard.

Texting with Caution and April Foolery

One week ago today, I received a text message from my little sister. It stated plainly, "I just left the doctor and I'm two months pregnant."

"What?" I thought. My little sister, Leigh, just graduated from college and is, in no way, ready to have a baby. I immediately began calling and texting her, but I got no response. About that time, our eldest sister called me. "Ummm, have you talked to Leigh lately?" she asked. As it turned out, she had gotten the same message too.

"I can't believe this!" I told her. "She didn't even call us to tell us about this. Are we that low on the totem pole that all we get is a crappy little text message. She didn't even use an exclamation mark OR put a sad face." My older and wiser sister interrupted, "Oh crap!" she said. "It's April fool's day."

A sly April fool's prank wouldn't be out of the ordinary coming from me, but from sweet little Leigh, it had taken us by surprise. Immediately our tone changed from that of concerned sisters to revenge plotting renegades. I knew she had some major payback coming, but it would require some thought and delicate planning.

Imagine my elation a few hours later, when I heard that in her attempt to send the false pregnancy announcement to me, and only me, her scheming little fingers had pushed, "send to all." With one wrong push of a button she had notified scores of people that she and her boyfriend were going to be parents. Aunt, co-workers, friends and, of course, my parents ALL received the message. Suffice it to say, she had some explaining to do and quite a few calls to return. I felt justified in the end. Her punishment had definitely fit her crime, and most importantly, I had the last laugh. In the future I'm sure she will text with caution lest she receive another quick return on her cell phone karma. Leave the pranks to me, little sis. I'm the professional. :)

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.