Attention, Shoppers!

I love a good deal as much as the next shopper, but probably not for the same reasons. For years, I thought my frugality had to do with a sharply-disputed memory from my childhood involving a certain pair of cowboy boots. The way I remember it, my parents could not afford to buy me shoes in the third grade so I wore a pair of crummy ol' hand-me-down boots every day that year. [Cue my mother's eye rolling as she reads this.] I can just hear the exasperation in her voice as she protests, "No, Leilen. You WANTED to wear those ridiculous boots every day. We begged and pleaded with you to take them off, but you insisted on wearing them, practically wore them to BED every night. You just don't remember!" Oh, I remember, alright! I remember the bitter contempt in Bratty Becky's eyes as she looked me up-and-down on Western Day and sniggered, "I just knew you'd wear those boots today." I mean, come on! What kid WANTS to compete in the third grade's most prestigious agility competition, the Chinese Jumprope Championship, wearing cowboy boots the size of Texas?! Not exactly my idea of vessels of nimbleness.

But if I were to be totally honest, I doubt my bargain hunting has much to do with the boots (There, I said it, Ma) or with trying to stretch the dollar. For me, sales are all about stickin' it to the Man. I like knowing that in some small corner of the universe, usually the children's books section of TJ MAXX, I've got the upper hand on the free market. If I find a perfectly good Sandra Boynton board book with a few nicks in the binding, and I'm able to convince the sales clerk to mark it down a buck or two, it's as good as saying, "Ha! Take that, Corporate America! How do you like THEM profit margins!!!"

Last week, I drove for thirty-five minutes to a Mervyns out in the middle of nowhere because it had a Disney Giselle doll on sale for 30% off. Probably not one of my smartest shopping moments when you factor in the amount of money I spent driving my gas-guzzling SUV there and back, but I had my reasons. This doll, the only thing Lil' Miss wanted, HAD TO HAVE for her birthday, was no longer available in any of the stores and could only be found online where it was being sold for fifteen dollars more. Fifteen wasted dollars! Do you know how many Del Taco diet cokes that could buy? And there is no way, not even if I am led by a trail of homemade chocolate chip cookies, that I am EVER going to pay full price for something I know is on sale somewhere else. I'd sooner dip my contact lenses in tobasco sauce.

Never mind that I ended up just giving her the dumb doll on the way home, pulling the car over and untwisting every last one of those wretched metal ties from the box, just so I didn't have to listen to one more round of, "I know, Giselle. I love you too. Soon we'll be together like a real princess family..." What choice did I have? If I waited a couple of weeks to give Lil' Miss the doll on her actual birthday, she'd be lugging that box around with us everywhere we went, hugging it, stroking it, and talking to it like some crazy kid with an army of invisible friends in her head. Note to self: Don't take birthday kid with you to buy birthday present. Almost as smart as touring the L.A. King Tut Exhibit with screaming, crying, arm-flailing toddler who thinks your brilliant idea of taking a stroller nap is as poopy as her diaper. Good times, good times...

But this weekend, my sale savvyness definitely paid off. I think I proved, once again, that a mother armed with confidence and a really good coupon is a force to be reckoned with. It was time to update my boy's mug shot at the Target Portrait Studio where I have become somewhat of a local over the last few years. I arrived for our appointment with a buttoned-up, hair-slicked and wildly handsome Baby Dude, but where were my girls? Where were studio photographers Red-headed Jennifer and Pregnant-Once-Again Breann who knew my kids and, more importantly, knew my $8.99 portrait package coupon? Who's this guy? Mr. Smiley with the Mickey Mouse voice?

He ushered us back to the photo room and Baby Dude plopped his butt right down on the red light in the middle of the white backdrop. (He knows the drill.) Mickey started asking him how old he was. I was struggling to conceal the smirk on my face. How old he is? Not old enough to tell you how old he is! This is your GREAT plan to bring out my son's beautiful smile? What else have you got in that photo bag of tricks? Where's the pink feather duster to tickle his feet? Or the talking tennis ball? Tell me you've got the TALKING TENNIS BALL!!!

Nevertheless, my happy-go-lucky boy produced some of the greatest smiling shots ever, no thanks to Mickey. Photo Guy then loaded them up on the computer so I could choose which picture I wanted for the $8.99 portrait package special. And this is where most mothers go wrong. They can't just choose ONE picture. They make the fatal mistake of viewing each adorable shot as a guilt-ridden mother rather than as a hardcore business woman. I wish I had a digitally-enhanced 8x10 for every time one of my friends left for Target with an $8.99 coupon clutched tightly in her hand and returned home with a $200 portrait bill shoved way down at the bottom of her pants pocket. Ladies, photo previewing is NOT the time for tearful regrets about all the pictures you never took or bought. It is, however, the time to wear your "Don't Mess with Mama" t-shirt and to then STICK IT TO THE MAN!

But this time even I was starting to buckle. Every last one of those pictures was so stinkin' CUTE. Darn that boy and his edible face! I was seriously wavering, even considering the unthinkable- $3.99 portrait sheets! Ughhh! What was happening to me? Mickey must have seen the vulnerable look in my eyes because he immediately swooped in on me like a ravenous pterodactyl, snatched the computer mouse out of my hand, and demanded, "No, you HAVE to get this one. It would make great wallet shots and 5x7's are a must! Then some 3x5's of this one and more wallets of that one. Definitely an 8x10 of this one!" And that was all the overzealous, money-grubbing photo guy had to say to snap me out of my swindled stupor. I looked him square in the face and said, "Actually, I'll only being buying one shot because I'm using my $8.99 portrait package coupon today, thank you very much." And that was that. He rang me up, handed me my receipt for $9.69 ($8.99 + taxes), and sent us on our way.

I gave up some pretty adorable, never-to-be-seen-again shots of Baby Dude that day, especially that one of him in profile sitting on the crate. But it was a small price to pay for preserving my tenacious grit. Actually, you can't put a price on that.

Why Late Naps are not Allowed Here Anymore

This is not a crime scene, but it might as well be. Few scenarios frighten me more. Upon discovery, I plunge to the ground in a heap of jumbled limbs and drown in my own tears. Any mother would if their own child had just committed this act of high treason against them.

There's no simple solution. Waking her up is easier said than done. That's because she's not really "napping". Naps are quick, light rests. This is neither of those things. It's more like a light coma. I am almost ashamed to admit some of the tactics I've resorted to in trying to wake her- shaking, tickling, tapping, tapping really hard, bruise-free pinching, hair pulling (but not yanking), yelling, and bending her body into a sitting position which I definitely do not recommend unless you enjoy watching your child's cranium snap back-and-forth like a bobble head. But it doesn't matter anyways. Sleeping Beauty is just going to keep right on doing what she does best.

So you ask, "Why such drama over a little girl gettin' some early evening shut-eye? Let the girl snooze, for cryin' out loud!" Oh, so naive!! Sleepy Head here conked out at five-thirty which means she'll be up around eight-thirty and won't fall back asleep again until about midnight. Do you know how many times I'm going to be watching Strawberry Shortcake's Berry Blossom Festival on repeat play over the next several hours? No, you're in the dark about this one, literally, because you went to bed (something I will sit here on the couch and fantasize about with my eyes open) long before Apple Dumpling finished singing her never-ending solo for the eighth time. Anyways, I just wanted to say good night to everyone.

Love is Patient. Love is Kind.

Teaching Sunday school has offered quite an education for me. Besides confirming that I can't glue on a googly eye to save my life, it has also given me a Master's degree in humility. Or is it in humiliation?... Either way, I'm pretty sure I won't be awarded Sunday School Teacher of the Year any time soon.

With all my teaching experience, you'd think I'd be a pro with the little guys. I taught crazy, hormonal junior highers for years, so how hard could a dozen preschoolers be? Kids are kids, right? WRONG. Preschoolers are nothing like junior highers. They're nothing like any group I've ever worked with before. And truth be told, they scare the living waters out of me. Not individually, but as a group. The way I see it, they're just one squirt of Elmer's glue away from a mob- a screaming, running, crying mob that rises up against me in total anarchy.

The only thing I have going for me besides a gift for being obnoxiously silly while leading the group in songs (I do a mean version of "This Little Light of Mine") is a genuine enthusiasm for retelling the Bible story. I really try to get into it, not the Miss Betty kind of "into it", but, you know, into it. I figure this is the meaty part of the morning, so I better really pack a good punch while I have their attention for all of thirty seconds.

But not even my heartfelt reinactment or inspiring memory verse are any match for the faculties of a four-year-old, and soon it all starts to unravel. You can only widen your eyes, lean into their circle, and talk with a loud, airy voice for so long before they're looking at you like you've been eating the playdoh again. And if that's not enough, I'll surely blow it at the end by bringing up some over-the-top theological question like, "So, why do you think God hardened Pharaoh's heart when it was time to let His people go?" (Yep, introduce a discussion about predestination and free will by age of four... that sounds about right.) These questions are always followed by a long, painful silence complete with crickets chirping in the background. Then they start fidgeting, playing with the carpet, and picking at the scabs on their legs. Soon they'll be looking around at eachother like, "Hey, do you think ol' Frog Eyes here is done freaking out, cuz I see a highrise of blocks over there just begging me to play Godzilla."

You'd think having my daughter in the class would offer me some measure of support or solace. Not exactly. Most of the time, she's leading the rebellion. I'm pretty sure there's some unwritten law out there in the universe that says, "The children of the teacher make the worst students of all." It's sounds crazy, but it's true. At least that's what I keep telling myself because if she's actually this unruly for the other teachers, then it's time to pass on my mother torch to someone a little more qualified than myself, someone like Larry the Cucumber.

If we're all sitting in a circle on the floor, Lil' Miss is the only one sitting in a chair, five feet behind us, arms crossed and scowling. If we're singing and doing the hand motions for "He's Got the Whole World", she's giving a solo performance of "Tree Blowing in the Wind" instead, an interpretive dance she's been working on. If I'm telling the Bible story, she's clawing her way into my lap, grabbing the felt board characters out of my hand, and demanding, "I want to be Mary. I'm MARY!!!" Now that's what I call mother-daughter bonding! It's all enough to have me throwing my hands up in the air and crying out to my Creator, "Why bother?! What's the point anyway? It's not like she's even LISTENING!"

But little did I know that even while Lil' Miss was boycotting craft time and hiding behind the sound equipment during clean-up, she was definitely listening. A few weeks ago, I was having a "less-than-perfect mother" kind of a day. I'd already been busted for passing on an inappropriate comment to Lil' Miss who then ratted me out and shared it with a neighbor. (There's nothing cute about your sweet little girl saying goodbye to a neighbor by yelling, "Beat it, Barbara!". Let's just say Barbara was more forgiving about it than Honk was.) I moped around the house feeling like the most unfit mother on the planet and wondered how I could quickly change my ways. My friend Jennifer, a veteran mother of three, happened to call during this time. She's pretty smart and I usually listen to what she has to say. "Trust me. You'll stop saying it. When your kids embarrass you enough times, you'll stop." Still, I was planning my penance.

But it was unnecessary. My redemption was on its way. We were all sitting around in the living room when Honk said something mildly sarcastic, something Lil' Miss perceived as mean. "That's not nice, Dad. 'Love is patient. Love is kind'". The room instantly fell silent. We just stared at her, our eyes following her around the room like she was the angel Gabriel making a guest appearance. Finally, Honk managed to say, "Honey, where did you hear that?" To which my girl, that blessed child of light, responded with, "Mommy. Mommy taught it to me at church." I don't know where the conversation went after that. I couldn't hear anything over the choir of heavenly hosts singing sweet hallelujahs in my ears.

Unfortunately, "Love is patient. Love is kind." has lost a bit of its impact over the last few weeks. It has suffered terribly at the hands of Overkill. Now Honk and I can't so much as look cross-eyed at eachother without hearing a pious Lil' Miss chant, "Love is patient. Love is kind!" Even still, our house reigns as Most Peaceful Place on the Planet right now. No one dares to raise a harsh voice for fear of enduring yet another recitation of the Sunday school memory verse. More importantly, I've learned a powerful lesson about hanging in there and doing the right thing, even if she seems too busy choreographing her latest interpretive dance to notice. After all, "Love is patient. Love is kind."

Is This Normal?

A while back, a friend sent me an email that included a video from the Today Show. It featured a seventeen-month old girl who could read. "Oh yeah, right! SURE, she can read. This outta be good!" I scoffed. But no joke, the kid was actually reading. READING! Real Words! Words that I still struggle to pronounce! I couldn't believe what I was seeing. It was beyond amazing. It was freaky.

Of course, I didn't have much time to marvel over this because in the next moment I was made aware of my own boy of eighteen-months who was in the room next to me performing his own kind of wonder. Ignoring the perfectly good educational toys that surrounded him, he was repeatedly slamming the door up against the wall and laughing his head off with each thundering crash.

It was hard not to play the "Let's Compare Our Kids!" game for at least a few moments. Was my boy normal? The boy who still only refers to me as "Do-pa-ba" and whose only interest in literacy is throwing my magazines into the toilet? Meanwhile, genius girl was probably smokin' her parents at Scrabble and reading bedtime stories to herself at night. I imagined her as the designated car navigator, reading mapquest directions from her carseat. "No, Mom. It clearly says to make a left first, at the stop sign. THEN a right at the intersection." What I imagined for my own son was quite different. I pictured him as a preschool escapee wandering down long hallways, slamming doors, and giggling. Should I be worried?

My mind raced to explain away the glaring disparity between the two. I convinced myself that the girl's parents, both speech pathologists, were probably using her in some type of research experiment, testing the limits of the human brain. They subjected her to countless hours of flashcard drills, withholding snacks and naps until she got all the words right. They played subliminal messages in her room while she slept, a steady stream of sight words wafting into her ears all night long. I thought about what my cousin Sarah would say about all this, "Eh, don't sweat it. That kid'll be the next Unibomber by age fifteen." Pathetically, I consoled myself that the girl was not a happy child, probably miserable, whereas happiness seeped out of every pore of my boy's body. And wasn't that more important anyways?

But the truth is that girl's mom was just as worried as I was, only she worried about different, maybe even scarier things than me. It's funny. I've spent most of my life trying to be different, trying to set myself apart from the rest of the world. And now, as a mother? I want nothing more than for my kids to be just like everyone else, disappear into that overwhelming majority we call "normal". For some reason, it just feels like the safest place for them to be right now. Maybe, once I know for sure that they're ok, I'll feel differently. But for now, I'll spend my days worrying, praying and documenting the occasional glimpse of genius.

Link to unhappy Unibomber baby who also happens to read:
http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/21134540/vp/23557147#23557147

POWER to the Princess!

I was down on the floor playing a little game I like to call "I'm Gonna Get You!" It's your basic kid-stalking game where I slowly crawl towards them on all fours growling like a rabid dog and they run for the hills, screaming and laughing. The game usually ends with me backing them into some small corner in the house where I tickle the heck out of them. Start to finish, it's wonderful for their gross motor skills.

But then Lil' Miss bolts out of the room and moments later yells, "Mom! You help me?" She was in her room digging in her dress-up chest and flinging princess dresses over her shoulder.

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

"My power."

"Your WHAT?

"My POW-ER. You know. It's white and yellow?"

I have no idea what she's talking about, but just then she finds it. She's smiling and holding her Snow White cape. "Here it is! My POWER will help me protect Baby Dude when you try to 'get' him."

My dear girl has summoned the universe's two greatest powers- princess AND superhero- to protect the little brother she loves. My heart is overflowing with motherly pride.

The Love of Clean Carpet is the Root of all Evil

I guess I had it coming. Who did I think I was? A new dishwasher AND professional carpet cleaning? IN THE SAME WEEK? No one's entitled to that kind of happiness. Yeah, I was asking, maybe even begging for it.

There was no question that it had to be done. In eighteen short months, my children had managed to turn our beautiful new berber carpet into a Jackson Pollock masterpiece of muddy shoe stains, dried milk trails, and jelly hand smears. My own attempts at cleaning the carpet only made things worse- soapy water stains on top of the existing dribbles and splotches. It was definitely time to call in the professionals.

Ever the bargain hunter, I spent a good few weeks gathering referrals from friends, calling carpet cleaning companies, asking for quotes, passing out after hearing the quotes, calling more companies, more passing out and crying until I finally settled on South Coast Chem Dry. By no means my cheapest option, this decision was based solely on Danielle's very convincing testimonial, a friend who is also raising a budding young carpet artist.

So a week from yesterday, Mr. Chem Dry came. He CAME, he WASHED, he CONQUERED. That David Copperfield of carpet cleaning made every last one of those horrendous stains magically disappear. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was so beautiful, so magnificent. We had new wall-to-wall carpet all over again! I couldn't stop smiling. I was tingling with joy. I wanted to shout from my rooftop, "Life is good, isn't it world?" I felt love for my enemies and compassion for the less fortunate. In that moment, I was sure my clean carpets had ended world hunger, cured all diseases, and brought about world peace. All was finally right in the universe.

Never mind that for the next two days my children found me almost unbearable to live with. I was like a museum security guard protecting an ancient relic. Gone were their carefree days of sneaking into the toy room with sippy cups and graham crackers. Their mother had been replaced by a broken record of rebukes. "Oh no, you don't! Off the carpet! Get back here with that! Sit down at the table!" But I didn't care what they thought of me. I was still high on carpet cleaning fumes. I walked around the house all day, wandering from one carpeted room to the next. I just kept staring at it and smiling, like it was a newborn baby. I couldn't wait for Honk to return from his four-day business trip so he could see what I had made happen, what beauty I had restored to our home. Surely this would confirm my position as Favorite Wife Ever.

And return, he did. Exactly two days later, we heard his car pull up and watched him walk across the grass to the front porch. Our boy had come home to us. He opened the front door and walked into the living room where we greeted him with a flood of hugs and kisses. Then after we'd shared the week's events and highlights, I giddily showed him what he had yet to notice. No, he didn't beat his chest or cry tears of joy, but I knew from the look on his face that he was more than pleased. Like me, he had given up hope that this type of clean was ever possible again. Realizing we'd been given a second chance, we renewed vows to eachother and to the carpet. "I promise not to wear my shoes on the carpet anymore." "I promise not to eat on the couch or leave drinks on the table where they might spill." Filled with new optimism, we were both committed to the cause.

And it was right about then that Honk asked, "Hey, what are all THESE spots?" My legs couldn't move fast enough to see what he was talking about. Sure enough, there was a fresh trail of dark brown marks all the way from the living room to the tiled entryway. My stomach lurched up into my throat and I gasped in horror, "Oh no! Nooooooo! GET OFF OF MY CARPET!!!" Honk practically flew from the couch to the tile. He quickly checked the bottom of his shoes and what I saw shattered my heart into a million pieces. He opened the front door where an identical trail was mapped from the porch to the grass. I never actually cried, but I believe the moaning was far worse. I couldn't move. I was frozen. I kept my hands pressed up tightly against the sides of my head so it wouldn't explode.

Honk didn't waste any time. He dropped his shoes outside and raced for the cleaning supplies. Poor guy had been home all of five minutes and was down on the floor scrubbing cat poop out of the carpet. I joined him in the cleaning, my glaring eyes nearly burning holes in his forehead. Finally, he looked up at me like an abandoned puppy and quietly said, "Welcome home?"

One week later, I think I've finally forgiven Honk for the carpet debacle. And yes, I KNOW it was not even his fault, a completely unintentional disaster that he had absolutely no control over. I said I forgave him, didn't I? Forgiven, but maybe not totally forgotten. It does seem to creep up at the most unforseen moments. A couple days ago I left a note on the counter that read,

"Honk,
Went with kiddos to market. Be back WAY before the crap on our newly-cleaned carpet disappears.
Love you, Wifie"

Some things take time. Lucky for me, I've got a good man who loves me, inspite of me. He's not going anywhere- just like that crap on our newly-cleaned carpet.



**This post is dedicated to Sarah Byrne, our good friend's twenty-year-old cat who passed away this week. She lived a long, loving life and was way too classy of a broad to do what I've just described here. You'll be missed, Sarah.

Get the Guns and Huntin' Dogs! It's Birthday Season!

It's pretty safe to say (assuming I still know how to count backwards nine months) that most of our friends have included "make a baby" on their list of New Year's Resolutions over the last few years. Not only do Lil' Miss and Baby Dude have birthdays during the fall, but so do most of their friends. (By "their friends" I'm really referring to the children of MY friends. All of our kids play together and love eachother because, well... they don't have a choice.) So around this time of year, we experience an avalanche of birthday parties. I'm not exaggerating when I say Lil' Miss and Baby Dude will be jumping in bounce houses, wailing on pinatas, and stuffing their faces with cake and ice cream all while wearing balloon hats taller than their own bodies for the next ten Saturdays in a row.

As you can imagine, all of us moms are in a mad dash to get a date on the calendar for our own kid's party. This is the only time of year that the sight of an EVITE in my email folder can launch me into a tirade of truck-driving curses, knowing that one of my "stay-on-top-of-things" friends has beat me to a date. (You ladies know who you are...) And don't even get me started on the nerve-racking pressure of trying to come up with a party theme that hasn't already been done a million times before. Now add to this the fact that my kids' birthdays are only nine days apart. Seriously, how much easier would it be to combine the two parties? Maybe a Princesses and Pirates theme? But how do you convince a four-year-old princess, a very traditional princess, that pirates should be welcome, too? That given all his wild, swashbuckling adventures of looting and womanizing on the high seas, Captain Hook would actually make a far more interesting guest than let's say stuffy ol' Prince Charming? But this kind of negotiating with Lil' Miss is going to take time, some back-massaging, fingernail-painting, Pirate Booty-licking time! Time that
I DON'T HAVE!!!

While I may not have the party situation nailed down yet, one thing I do know for sure. This year there will be no sheepish, self-effacing answers when fielding questions about gifts for my children. In the past, when friends or relatives have asked what they could get the kids, I always himmed and hawed, trying to appear modest and uninterested. I'd reply with, "No presents, just your presence." Well, don't expect an idiotic response like that from me this year! That line got washed away and is floatin' down that river we call the RECESSION! Times they are a' changin'. These days I'm seriously practical and practically serious. So this year I've devised a sensible birthday list for my children that you are more than welcome to use if you haven't already dropped dead from party helium balloon inhalation:

For Baby Dude- Please, no toys. Most toys have pieces that must be picked up and put away and you all know how I feel about that. Baby Dude would much rather take a scenic drive along the coast anyways. He'd like gas cards in lieu of toys. He also loves snacks and would appreciate a gift card to Vons or Albertsons.

For Lil' Miss- She is still very much into playing dress up and is insistent on owning her own pair of black heels, a women's size 9. She feels the quality and style of Nine West or Kenneth Cole would suit her just fine. She'd also like to glam up in a fancy new black dress, a women's size 6. A gift receipt would be appreciated though, in the off-chance that she decides she would actually enjoy breathing in the gown and exchanges it for a size 8 instead. Please, nothing too revealing. She's just a kid, for crying out loud!

Hey, I know this is unconventional, but this is what THEY want. And who am I to stomp on their birthday dreams?

Love at First Load

Take a good look at this picture because it's the last of its kind. In just a few short hours, the new man in my life will be here to sweep me off my feet with his Sheer Clean Wash System, Super Capacity Tub, 36 Targeted Spray Jets, EZ2Lift Adjustable Upper Rack, and Quiet Partner IV Sound Package. His food disposal and self-cleaning filter alone were more than enough to have me throwing my arms around his 24-inch frame and professing, "You COMPLETE me!"

And now I'd like you to meet the man himself, Whirlpool GU2700XTSQ...

Not to worry, Honk. It's true Mr. Whirl has a Hi-Temp Scrub Option, but there's no competing with your Michael Phelps shaven chest.

Storytime

Tuesday mornings are all about Storytime at the library. Lil' Miss, Baby Dude, and I are regular patrons and look forward to our weekly dose of campy songs, clever books, animal puppets, and felt board stories. This week, we arrived just a few minutes before showtime and shuffled into the already packed ampitheatre. We climbed the stairs to the top row and found a spot with a decent view of the stage and of HER, the real reason we come here. Miss Betty.

Standing a mere four feet, ten inches tall and weighing in at ninety pounds, Miss Betty is a sight to behold. With her snowy white, bowl-cut hair, padded appliqued vest, and colored jeans hiked up a half a mile above her waist, this wiry sprite definitely looks the part. But don't let her size or age fool you. Miss Betty has the energy of an Iditarod Husky. She doesn't just sing the songs, she BELTS them. Her feet don't march, they STOMP. She doesn't speak for the book characters, she BECOMES them. Whether taking on a squeaking mouse, a roaring lion, or a honking goose, she delivers her voices as if the fate of the universe depends on it. She is so completely in her element here that it makes a person wonder if she not only works in the library, but was BORN AND RAISED in it, under the care of the she-librarians in the Children's Department. And for the record, I'm not entirely convinced she does all this for the kids. I'm not even sure she LIKES kids. But that's neither here nor there. Miss Betty has a storytelling destiny to fulfill. And while she may not high-five little Jimmy or smile sweetly at Betty Sue, she IS changing young lives, one pop-up book at a time.

But back to Storytime... Miss Betty came bounding onto the stage and immediately began her charismatic singing and motioning. Unfortunately, I knew by the end of the first song that today was NOT going to be a homerun. For some reason, Lil' Miss and Baby Dude weren't feelin' it. Miss Betty was as lively as always and the "Back to School" theme seemed interesting enough, but Lil' Miss and Baby Dude were unimpressed. They didn't sing, clap, or even honk their horns as the wheels of the school bus went round and round. They were BORED. Baby Dude leaned back against me and turned his head to the side to settle in for a nap in my arms. And Lil' Miss was hanging all over me, draping her body over my legs and sighing continuously. It was NOT going well. I found myself checking the clock every couple of minutes and even considering the unthinkable- sneaking out the back door.

But then something unexpected happened. Storytime was coming to an end and Miss Betty decided to sing a silly rendition of "The Animals on the Bus". It was all going along as you'd expect until Miss Betty began the verse, "The Seals on the Bus". Miss Betty was really getting into it, becoming very excited about clapping and barking like a seal. In fact, she was headed down that precarious path we call OUT OF CONTROL. Her clapping fins were swinging wildly across the stage and her guttural seal bark was so deafening that the kids in the front row covered their ears. She kept whipping her head back and forth like a drunk rock concert fan. The lady had lost it. SNAPPED. One too many choruses of "Skidamarink" I suppose. You could tell all the mothers were trying to pretend that it wasn't happening, that is wasn't a big deal, but their smiles began to quiver and they were all nervously looking around at eachother. It was getting noticeably quiet in there. AWK-WARD.

And that's when it happened. Miss Betty had finally gotten her attention. Lil' Miss shot to her feet, leaned toward the stage, and never took her eyes off of that batty seal. The girl was busting up. She was doubled over, holding her gut, laughing her head off. The place was eerily silent except for the uncontrollable guffaws of Lil' Miss who was practically rolling around on the carpet. Grinning from ear to ear, she cupped my face in her hands and cried, "Mom, that is one CRAZY lady!"

There's no doubt about it. My kids feel right at home with craziness, and I don't have the slightest idea why.

Putting and Moving

I've just finished folding yet another load of clothes from the endless, ever-growing pile of laundry that's haunting me in the garage. As I scoop up a stack of towels to put away in the bathroom, Lil' Miss asks,

"Mom, what are you doing?"
"Putting these towels away."
"Why?"
"Because they go under the sink in the bathroom."
"Why?"

I'm about to follow up on this question, when it occurs to me that she's not just playing the precious "I'm-Bored-So-I'm-Just-Going-To-Keep-Asking-You-Why" Game. She really wants to know why I don't just leave the towels there, right where I folded them on the kitchen table. Leave them there, FOREVER. All I can come up with is "Because that's where they go." I really don't have a show-stopping answer for her.

Then it hits me. I spend a significant amount of time, A LOT OF TIME each day putting things away, moving things from one place to another. All day long I'm collecting toys, tossing trash, gathering dirty clothes, and reorganizing. A never-ending flurry of bending down, picking up, moving, and putting away, and all for what? For NOTHING. No reason that makes any sense to them! All my "putting" and "moving" are just the works of a crazy woman, the compulsive repetitions of a maniacal crackpot. If not for the food and the love and the dance parties in the kitchen, they'd have thrown my butt out on the streets a long time ago.