Ouch, I Think

I asked my youngest son if he had given any thought to getting a girlfriend. He asked, "Do I have to?" Since I had just watched the movie, Juno, I thought the prudent answer would be, "No. Not now. Not ever."

Thirty seconds later he said, "I've been thinking about the girls in my class. The teacher is the best one. She's my favorite."

I prompted, "Is she the best one because she reminds you of me?"

"Not even one bit!" he laughed.

Oh! Be careful, little mother, what you ask!

Boys Stink

When our first son was born, we proudly brought him to church and were greeted by a woman who bluntly said, "I must warn you: boys stink."

For the next several years, I pondered that pronouncement. Surely, she meant it in the most figurative of ways. Let's see: boys don't understand emotion, boys don't like girl drama, boys are messy, boys are rambunctious. Okay, I got the "boys stink" thing.

Then that first boy got a little older and more independent, and he was followed by another boy/brother and then a final boy/brother.

As each of the boys got old enough to dress himself and provide for his own hygiene, a phenomenon of sorts began to form.

It sounds like this on the way to school:

"Did you brush your teeth this morning?"

"No; is that something I'm supposed to do?"
~~~~~~
"I thought you took a shower last night."

"Uh huh."

"But something's not right. Did you wash EVERY part of your body?"

"No; is that something I'm supposed to do?"
~~~~~~

"I can't breathe. Whoa. Everyone, open your window before you pass out!!"

"Excuse me. It was just a little gas."

~~~~~~

"Why are your shoes melting?! Have you changed your socks this week?"

"No; is that something I'm supposed to do?"

~~~~~~

You know what? That lady from church was being literal.

Ingenious

At my daughter's middle school, there's a very simple little system in place for dropping our children off.  We just pull up to the door, and our children get out.  Then, the cars leave one by one.  It works.

It works sometimes.  But there are days when a passenger is a tad bit slow getting out of her car.  That means she has only one foot out of the car when the two cars in front of her mom's minivan leave.  The driver behind the minivan needs to wait only two more seconds before he can pull forward.  But, no.

He must pull around the sexy minivan to get his passengers 10 feet closer to the school door.

And the sexy driver of the sexy minivan must wait for rude car to unload its 72 passengers - two of whom are certain to need to get musical instuments out of the trunk. 

 And what of the sexy driver's passenger?  She has already gone into middle school school, moved on to high school and graduated from college by the time the last of the rude driver's passengers emerge from the rude car.

97%

Thanks to my sister and her support, I passed my test!!!   On behalf of my own students, I promise, promise, promise to never forget the frustration and discouragement I felt working through this certification process.

Now, bring on that second job :)

Wednesday's Wisdom

Throughout the years, I've been blessed to periodically receive wisdom in the form of someone else's words. I've been thinking a lot about some of those words. So, that means that by default, you have to think about them, too.

I used to have a boss who was brilliant. Her Ph.D. was from one of "those" universities we all hear about but few can pass the admissions criteria or even afford. We were in a volatile work environment that year and there was never any certainty who was a friend or enemy. Then again, that differed on a daily basis.

In that midst of that horrendous emotional stress, I gave birth to my first child. Checkered and I were one of several couples in our circle of friends having a baby that year and there was surely a lot of unspoken competition. Whose baby could sit up first? Whose baby could talk first? Which preschool would their baby attend? Should we participate in those Mommy and Me classes? What about the Baby Einstein videos? You probably know the routine.

One day, while briefly chatting in the hallway at work, this brilliant boss gave me a quick bit of parenting advice which has guided me through some foggy parenting times.

This was the advice:
Almost every child will eventually walk, talk, and learn to read. Those skills happen naturally. How early your child begins to do those things really doesn't matter. But isn't it just as important that those children know how to make and be friends? Isn't it just as important that kids have time to just be kids?

A decade-plus and three additional babies later, those words are still resonating with me.

Girls' Week-end

The men in this home went away all week-end long to recharge their testosterone by doing things like ice fishing, playing ice hockey, telling ghost stories, and other Cub Scout stuff.

My daughter and I gratefully stayed home.  But what to do to make our week-end special?  How could we celebrate us?

1.  A quick stop at the library to get the last book in the Clique series.  My girl later won my heart by telling me that the girls in the series made a lot of bad decisions.

2.  A stop to buy a cherry pie.  Yes, one for each of us.  Yes, they were both gone by Sunday.

3.  Dinner at Olive Garden and entertainment by a flirty waiter who was undertipped by me.

4. Attendance at the Detroit Kennel Club dog show where we met a couple of thousand perfectly behaved dogs and I fell in love with a Bernese Mountain dog. 

I didn't get to bring him home, but my daughter did win a gift card by throwing some bean bags through some targets.

5.  A little shopping.

6.  Dinner at Max and Erma's.  While eating, my daughter thought she saw our long-lost precious friend.  She wasn't sure, however, so she surreptitiously took this picture which we then studied throughout our dinner.  Finally, we decided it was indeed our long-lost precious friend and we had a lovely reunion.

7.  Breakfast at Biggby coffee AND Big Apple Bagels. 

8.  An inability for mother or daughter to button their pants on Monday morning.

It was perfect!

Traitor

I don't have a jealous bone in my body.  No, not even a jealous cell.  Not I.

Then again, let's talk about Pepper the puppy and her love of my husband.

Every morning, Checkered makes his way downstairs to get ready for work.  I would like you to believe that I have preceeded him downstairs to make a nutritious breakfast for him, iron his clothing, et cetera.  Yes, you go right on and believe that.

Each morning, while the kids and I continue to slumber, Checkered lets Pepper out of her crate and strongly encourages her to go outside.  Then he shaves, and a grateful Pepper comes back inside.  She patiently waits for him to put his aftershave on, and then she rests her head against his knees.

Sweet, huh?

On Tuesday, I thought I might be jealous.  In order to prove that I wasn't, I let Pepper out of her crate after a long night.  I sent her outside, and put a little fragrance on.  Then I opened the door, and in my sweetest voice called, "Pepper!"

This dog - the one I lobbied to buy, the one I fought with Checkered to buy, the one I cared for and nursed back from the brink of death - this dog came into the house.  I slowly reached down to pet her, and this dog ducked away from my hand, ran around me and charged up the stairs to curl up on Checkered's pillow.

The fact that I told Checkered, "Of course that's NOT dog hair on your pillow," is the only solace I have.