What's Wrong with Broccoli?

My kids are breatharians. Breatharians don't believe in eating. They think that they can exist on nothing but some kind of light they derive from air. Hence the name: breatharians. I'm quite certain my kids know nothing about this light from air business, but I'm just as sure that they are practicing this form of nourishing oneself. How else would I explain the amount of poop exiting two bodies that nothing but air enters?

Tonight, I tried to employ the old reverse psychology technique recommended by my friend Dana to get Reilly to eat some broccoli. The trick, according to Dana, is to get the toddler to think that broccoli is something special, not to be had by the toddler. Liken it to candy even.

I made a big to-do about the broccoli. I talked out loud to myself as I washed and cut it.

"Mmmm... I love this stuff. Broccoli is so good. I like it almost as much as I like chocolate. Yum. I can't wait to eat this." I was smacking my lips and licking my chops.

Even I knew this technique would not work without a healthy, or rather UNhealthy dose of good, old fashioned, full fat, homemade ranch dressing. I put out a big bowl of the artery clogging concoction on the coffee table, where we munch snacks while watching Animal Planet.

"Don't touch this," I warned. "This is for Mama only. You can have some cheese and crackers while I eat this with my broccoli. Don't touch it, please."

She didn't even look up from her beloved Crocodile Hunter (pronounced "crock-a-doddle" for those of you who don't know). Steve was in the midst of getting bitten by a snake and Reilly Kate was enthralled.

"Hmmm... I can't decide if I want some chocolate or some broccoli. I think I will have the broccoli. You can't have it, though. It's not for you. You just eat crackers."

Still I got no response.

I sat down with a plate of broccoli, artistically presented in a pattern somewhat reminiscent of a star, and started noisily munching with the ranch as dip. I was quite dramatic with my slurping and crunching and yummy yummy noises.

"I know you shouldn't have this till you are at least six. But today is a special day. It won't hurt if you have just a little. Would you like --"

"NO!!!" She didn't even let me finish. I was cut off before I could even finish making my case. Not to be deterred, I forged on.

"Just as well. It's not good for you anyway. I just thought a little bite wouldn't really --"

"No!!!" She interrupted again. "I can't like that at all." She gets her "can'ts" and "don'ts" and "won'ts" mixed up. "I can't like that rrrrrrrright NOW!!!!"

She has picked up some of my speech habits. I use "right now" quite often apparently. As in "Come here right now," and "Put that down right now," and "We're leaving right now." It gets reflected back to me and with the same tone of voice as well. It's not flattering, let me tell you.

"Just try a little piece. It's better than chocolate. Much better. Mmmmm..." I slowly wilting like a salad gone bad. My ranch dressing ploy wasn't even working. She had now put me on "ignore."

I sat silently crunching broccoli florets with ranch dressing as I contemplated my next move. I waited till a commercial break and then I went and got her Easter candy off the kitchen counter and sat it down next to me.

"I'll tell you what," I was about to make a deal with my two year old, "You eat a few bites of this broccoli and you can have a piece of your chocolate."

Her little ears perked up. I had gotten her attention.

"If not, I'll eat all the broccoli AND all the chocolate." And to prove I was serious, I popped a ranch drenched floret in my mouth along with a fat chunk of chocolate Easter bunny ear. I clenched my lips into what I hoped looked like a deliriously happy smile rather than the repulsed sour puss the combination was eliciting.

Reilly Kate leaned over me, picked up two big broccoli pieces, dredged them through the ranch dressing bowl and held them up in front of her face. Before I could even suggest she take smaller, bite sized pieces, she shoved them both in her mouth. She chewed and chewed as I sat and fretted over the choking possibilities posed by that large an amount of roughage.

When she finished chewing, she turned to me and announced, "I did! Chocolate now, please. May I please have my chocolate right now. Rrrrriiiight NOW!!!"

"One more piece and then you can have some chocolate." I was still wheeling and dealing, so I thought.

I extended a much smaller, toddler sized piece to her. She again soaked it in the ranch and popped it in her mouth. She chewed this piece for a much longer time.

"Isn't it good?" I asked as I crunched on some myself. "Isn't it as good as chocolate?"

"Mmmm hmmmm," she agreed.

"You can't have too much, though. It's for Mama." I was still playing my game even if she didn't want to go along.

"Mmmmm hmmmmm," she nodded and began looking at her Easter basket.

"You want your chocolate now, huh?" I needlessly asked and dug to find a nice small chocolate egg.

"Mmmm hmmm."

I handed her the chocolate and she merrily skipped away toward the kitchen. I sat and watched Steve handle another snake on television while I grabbed some more of the green stuff. I too was engrossed as I watched that crazy Crockadoddle Hunter take on a spitting cobra. It was making my palms sweat.

Just as the cobra started hooding up to take a swipe at Steve, I hear the sinful sound of a toddler's delighted giggles coming from my kitchen. I get up to take a look and this is what I see: Reilly hunched over, as if she were puking, spitting out globules of gooey green sludge onto the floor where the awaiting Truman (our perpetually dieting dachshund) eagerly lapped them up.

It would seem that she hid the chewed up broccoli in her cheeks, fooling me with her bright smile and the "Mmmm hmmm." I started to say something, but before I could even formulate a response, Reilly spat out all that was remaining in her mouth and shoveled in the chocolate.

Score one for the toddler. She won that round. But I'll get her. I'll get her tomorrow. I'll fool her into eating eggs. I'm going to hide them in a chocolate cake. I have a recipe that calls for four large ones.

Roman's food refusal story tomorrow...

Another oldie

Mike is off to Korea for 10 days. He leaves tomorrow. So I'm spending time with him before he goes. I'll be back to regular blogging soon. Till then, enjoy this one. I actually realized I should be doing a blog when I typed this one up.

I wrote it March 3, 2004 (I think)

Yesterday was another one of Heather's Days. I'm thinking maybe this is my life plan. To have shitty days and write them out for the entertainment of others.

So yesterday. Got up. Breakfasted without incident (RK fell back in love with french toast which thrilled me to no end) except I still have a fussy baby. But that is nothing really. Oh, and the ants. The gnats are gone from all the rain. But the ants have taken their place. I got up and the counter was covered with them. Thousands and thousands of little black ants. They whole counter. They had a highway built across the kitchen floor from the sliding glass door to the dogs’ food to the counter. I’d call Terminex, but last time they came, they told me that I didn’t have a pest problem. I was my own problem. According to the guy they sent, I need to get rid of my dogs and my kids and all the stuff in my garage and then I wouldn’t have any bugs at all. In his exact words, “I can spray all day long, but it is your lifestyle that causes your bug problems.” Instead I put out those ant traps that they love so much. I think they thrive on the stuff they put in them.

I had some phone errands to do. So at about 8am I started on the phone. I called the Cook County Clerk's Office about getting my absentee ballot sent to me via email. I had checked the website and it had a whole page dedicated to military and how they will send you a ballot via email. Look for yourself.

http://www.voterinfonet.com/sub/absentee_overseas_military.asp

The woman on the phone flat out said, "No." What? What do you mean, "No?" I don't get it. The website says that you can. "No." I read directly off the site to this woman whose answer is... "No." I read again. "No."

I then talk to the supervisor who tells me that they have never done it that way. They cannot do it that way. And she cannot figure out how I would ever think that. When I again read her the website she just says, "Well, it's wrong."

The bottom line is that military gets no easier way to vote than any other absentee. Fine. I now have to fill out an APPLICATION for a ballot and return that and then they'll send me the ballot. This all needs to be completed by the 15th of March which means we'll be overnighting two applications and two ballots for a total of 60 bucks. 60 freakin' buck to fucking vote!!! And then I still don't know if it'll get counted since it is cutting it so close.

That is of course easier than last year, though. Last year I had to fill out an application for an application for a ballot. Go figure that one.

I get off the phone and hear RK yelling, "Poo poo on the foot!!! Poo poo on the foot!!!" I go running to see whose foot and whose poo poo and find it to be Truman's poop on RK's foot. It's all over the downstairs. And Truman's long haired ass. I decided to cut the poop and hair out. He's got to go the groomer this week and get a chop chop. More on this later. But I get the poop cleaned up from all offending areas.

Then I called my house's builder. You see, my driveway isn't flush to the asphalt so every time it rains, about an inch and a half of mud collects where the driveway meets the street. Additionally, the driveway concrete is crumbling into little stones. But my main point of calling was because the kick plate to my fridge has never been delivered. They keep trying to tell me that the fridge doesn't come with a kick plate; that the motor is supposed to be exposed on the bottom of the fridge. Dumbasses.

Anyway, I call and my customer care guy (Scott) is supposedly out of the office. The woman I am talking, however, seems to have a bad case of the giggles.

Me: My driveway needs to be run done.
Her: [giggles] Yes?
Me: The cement is crumbling.
Her: [giggles] Oh, that's bad. [giggles]

Then I tell her about the fridge and this is high comedy to her. It has gone from giggles to all out laughter. I finally ask again if Scott is there and she says, "Scott? No, he's not here."

Huh. Okay. Fine.

I move down my list of to dos. The library. I received two notices from them while I was on the mainland. One for the book I ordered from another library. It seems that it came in while I was out of town and since I wasn't there to pick it up, I must pay some kind of a fine. The other notice is for that damn DVD The Land Before Time. They claim I never turned it back in.

So I call. They are not open until 1pm. I ask you, what kind of a library doesn't open until 1pm on both Monday and Tuesday? Especially since it is not only the local public library, but also the High School library. And it doesn't open till 1pm? I'll tell you what kind of library it is. It's the kind that charges you to take anything out of there except books. Books are free. All else you pay for. Can you believe it?

Next phone call is the post office. This is an interesting one which requires me to give you some extensive background. I sent out an invitation to Roman's christening to the mother of a very good friend of the family. She wished to attend but would only do so if a formal invitation was extended to her (she wouldn't just come as a guest of her son). So I sent one to her along with the 60 other invitees in the middle of January.

A week or so later, it was returned to me with a stamp saying, "Return to sender. Attempted - Not Known." This woman has lived at this address since ancient times. I called the family and verified that the address was indeed correct and then I took it back to the post office. I talked to the clerk and he wrote on it, "Retry" and then stuck it back in the mail (mind you, this was in the days of dragging two kids and my father in law everywhere I went so this was no easy trip to the post office). By 4pm that very same afternoon, the damn letter was back in my freaking box!!!!

Back to the post office I went. This time the clerk told me that since it was returned for a second time that is obviously is the incorrect address. I try to explain to him that it never left Ewa Beach the second time and that they need to try it once more. He calls in his supervisor he then tells me that I simply don’t understand the complex post system and that this letter just cannot be delivered. “WHAT? WHY?” I ask in my most diplomatic stressed out fat housewife demeanor. His answer: “Because you didn’t scratch out the postal bar codes stamped on the bottom from the first time it was returned.” Huh? Like this is MY damn job? No, sir. My job is to clean up poop and pee and breastmilk spit up. That’s my job. My job doesn’t involve postal codes or bars or any of that nonsense. Jackass.

Anyway, I scratched out the damn bar codes with a marker and sent it off for a third time. At the suggestion of the supervisor, I followed this up with a phone call the post office for her zip code. I talked to a guy there and he promised me that he would be on the look out for this letter and would personally make sure that it was delivered in time for the christening.
On Monday, two weeks after the christening, it arrived back in my box. This time stamped “Insufficient address.” This was the reason for my post office phone call.

I called the Chicago post office and explained to a woman there the situation. This, mind you, was the same number I called when the man assured me that he would make sure it got delivered. This woman tells me that I have the wrong post office and gave me another number to call. I call that number and explain to a man there what happened and he tells me that the woman I am sending to must have moved. No, she didn’t. Well, she must have forgotten to change her address when she moved. No, she never moved. Oh, well, then she didn’t come to our office and fill out a forwarding address form before she moved. SHE NEVER EVER MOVED. He then asked me for the name and address and went to look it up. After fifteen minutes, he comes back and says, “Ummm…. She never moved. I don’t know why it’s getting returned to you. Just put it back in the mail and I’ll make sure it gets to her.”
Sound familiar? I’ll keep you posted on that one.

Minutes after that call my mom calls to tell me a few things about my grandma. In the first few minutes of talking, RK comes up to me and says, "Mama, I'm all wet." I asked her if she peed her panties and she proudly says, "Yep." (the potting retraining is going like gangbusters, you can see) I tell her to go change her panties and clean her yoni and off she goes to the bathroom and resume talking to my mom. A few minutes go by and I realize that I hear her splashing in the toilet. I investigate and find her dunking her panties in the potty, poop all over the floor (big hunks), smeared all over the toilet, the baby potty, even the tub.

I get off the phone with my mom, grab the disinfectant towels and start to clean. I put RK in the tub to just stand. Of course, she can't just stand so she is touching her poop smeared bum with her hands and then touching her hair, her face, even rubbing her eyes (to which she got my shrieking in her ear!!!) When I finished cleaning up the mess (took about ten minutes -- it was that bad), I turn the shower on and we both go in the shower. RK hates showers and screams so much and so loudly that she wakes Roman and he starts screaming. By the end of the shower, all three of us are screaming.
Oh, and Truman peed on the carpet right outside the bathroom door. I got to step in that when I exited the steamy scream chamber.

I am getting the kids dressed and the only clean clothes I have for them are new ones. I picked out sort of matching outfits from a good friend of the family. I’m not sure what possesses me to do this, but I decide to take some pictures of them in these outfits to email to the woman who got the clothes for them. As I’m getting Roman diapered, he spouts a fountain and pees all over himself, the clothes, and the bedding. I give him a bath (the pee got all over his little remaining hair) and strip and make the bed. I get another outfit that’ll go with RK’s and set about taking pictures. While I am snapping away, Reilly, who is bare bottomed (for potty retraining) pees all over my freshly made bed as well as her dress. I strip the bed and the child and redress both. I smartly decide to quit taking pictures.

I’m gathering our stuff up to get us out of the house. I go to grab my cell phone which had been charging for several hours. It is not charged. In fact, the display says, “Unable to charge.” I retry it a couple of times and then the thing just plain old dies. Completely and totally dies. Fine. Not exactly a good day to leave the house without a cell phone, but I’ll throw the bones. Everything in life is a gamble, right?

As I am pulling out of the garage, a bird flew in. Yep. A bird. Flew right into my garage. I get out of the car and try to shoo it out of there, but it’s scared and panics and flies about frantically. The last I see of it is by a pile of Rubbermaid boxes filled with holiday decorations. I couldn’t find it after that. I decide to proceed with my leaving since it’ll probably fly out when I open the garage door upon our return. Again, a gamble.

It is now 11:30am and we are off to Wal-Mart. Ya see, on Thursday (the day of the storm) RK had to leave the house without shoes on because we have somehow lost all the shoes that fit her. Well, that isn’t exactly true. We have closed toe shoes, but she only owns several pairs of socks (since she is mostly in sandals) and she wore them on our trip so they were dirty. Anyway, we had to go get her shoes. And sunglasses (she broke her last pair and she screams if we’re in the car and the sun hits her eyes without sunglasses on).

Long story short with Wal-Mart is that they didn’t have sandals in her size so I bought her a size too big. And the sunglasses fit fine, but she broke them before we even had left the store. As I am putting our stuff into the van, RK says, “I gotta go poo poo, Mama.” Luckily, my mom bought us a little tiny car potty. It basically is a seat that you attach these bags to. On the bottom of these bags is a pad thing to absorb pee. So I set this up, but by the time I got it set up, she had already started to go in her panties. Poor thing had diarrhea. She went so much that she filled the bag and it started to pile up to her bum. I had her get up and I changed the bag. She filled two bags with poop. So imagine it. There I am in the parking lot with a baby on my boob (oh, yeah, I forgot to mention that by this point Roman was hungry and I had to nurse him) and a toddler on a bag car potty for about 20 minutes. People would go in and come back out and we’d still be there. I’m sure we were a sight to behold.

When we got home, I tried calling the library again. I explained to them that we don’t have the movie and that I was out of town and unable to pick up the book I had ordered. While they were busy calculating my fees, I just happened to think that maybe, just MAYBE, the movie had fallen behind our TV. I look and can make out the shadow of something. While still on hold, I try moving the TV and the wine cabinet that it rests on. As I am heaving and hoeing, the top drawer in the wine cabinet falls out and hits my foot causing me to scream out in pain which for some reason startled Truman who starts barking his head off waking up Roman (Reilly Kate thankfully was still asleep having fallen asleep on the ride home from Wal-Mart). But low and behold, I find the stinkin’ DVD.

When the lady comes back on the phone, I excitedly tell her that I found the movie. She then tells me that the late fees for it are 20 bucks. TWENTY BUCKS for a movie that my daughter couldn’t even watch to start with. So all said and done, with rental fees and late fees, I will have spent 40 bucks at the library in just TWO stinkin’ visits!!! It would be cheaper for me to just go to Borders and buy the damn books and DVDs!!!

Shortly thereafter, Mike comes home and I ask RK to show him her new shoes. She puts them on and then tries to walk in them. She fell flat on her face. They are too big. She cannot walk in them. Great. Guess who’s going to Kmart today for shoes and another pair of sunglasses.

For dinner, I cooked a pork roast according to the directions. When I cut it open, it was still bleeding. We nuked it and it tasted like shit. We had chocolate ice cream instead.

Oh, and that bird in the garage? Haven’t seen hide nor feather of it. I imagine we’ll know for sure it’s fate in a few days when it starts to stink.

I Heart Mom

Yesterday the kids and I were at one of those immense strip mall shopping plazas. I had to go from one end to the other-- a two minute drive or a ten minute walk. Most people would drive, of course. Not mothers. As any mother will tell you that a trip such as that is much easier, quieter, and more enjoyable when walked versus loading and unloading the stroller, strapping the kids into their carseats, and squeezing the minvan into another compact car spot. I know, personally, once I've got my minivan shoehorned into one of those itsy bitsy spots, I never want to leave. I've walked miles to avoid moving the van for that reason alone.

As we were walking past an Old Navy store, a sign caught my eye. "Buy Your Old Navy Mother's Day Tee -- $5." A Mother's Day tee? I stopped in my tracks. Be still my heart! We've now got t-shirts dedicated to us. Glory be! Maybe next they'll have $5 Mother's Day bath towels. Or a $5 oil change special.

When the baby started fussing and Reilly chimed in with her, "Whatchya doing, Mom?" interrogation chorus, I thought perhaps a $5 Mother's Day vodka gimlet would be a good idea. Can't you just see it? A little stand, like a lemonade stand, set up with a big sign, "Thank you, Moms. For all that you do, this gimlet's for you!"

"Whatchya doing, Mom?" Reilly repeated for the 7th time in 30 seconds. She's a very fast, repetitive talker.

"We're going in this store. Come on," I answered her while trying to maneuver the stroller, loaded down with bags and baby, through the swinging door marked "Pull."

The shirts were there in a big display you couldn't miss as soon as you walked through the door. There were piles of them in two different colors: pale pink and robin's egg blue. Emblazon across the bust in a funky, retro 1970s t-shirt font was, "I [heart] Mom." They were all in adult sizes.

Who would wear one of these, I wondered. How absolutely bizarre would it be for a grown woman to walk around wearing a shirt that announced her adoration for "Mom." I leaned down and picked one up. They were made from that soft, silky, stretchy jersey cotton that is like calorie-free comfort food for your body.

"If ya didn't put that silly saying on the front, I would have bought one," I grumbled to the gum cracking teenager folding tiny little "American Idol" tank tops at the display next to me. She shrugged.

"We've got some 4th of July shirts in back," gum cracker offered.

"Whatchya doing, Mom?" Reilly asked again, over and over and over again.

"Looking at these shirts but now we're done. Let's go," I answered her as I pulled the stroller into a U turn and headed toward the door. The same door, mind you, that we entered through which despite the fact that we were now on the other side of it, still said "Pull." Why do they do that? Just to make it difficult on those of us with strollers? They should come up with the Mother's Day Easy to Open Retail Shopping Door. I'd pay five bucks for that.

Right outside the store was a bench. Since Roman was still fussing in the stroller, I decided to try a little of what my friend Holly terms "Breast Attachment Therapy." When they've got a boob in the mouth, it is difficult for them to keep on whining.

The strategy has to change a little when they are no longer interested in the boob. Reilly Kate instead got some multicolored goldfish crackers as a follow up to her lollipop lunch. With my boob in the mouth of one and unnaturally colored cheese crackers in the mouth of the other, I achieved a few minutes quiet to contemplate "I [heart] Mom."

So if I were to buy this shirt, which I definitely was NOT going to do, and wear it, which I absolutely, positively would NEVER do, who would I be referring to as "Mom?" I'm a mom, but I certainly don't think I should be walking about saying I [heart] myself as a mom. Especially given the fact that I was trekking my poor kids across three parking lots to avoid putting them in their carseats and had opted out of lunch, dismissing it as a distraction from the main goal which was to buy wallpaper boarder before the hallowed 2pm nap time.

Nope. Not me. I wasn't deserving of a $5 Motherhood Achievement award. Not today at least.

I thought about my mom. Maybe, if I were to wear it which I definitely was not going to do, I would be declaring my adulation and devotion to my own mother. A single mother who gave up her social life to run us around to various activities. I'd bet she gave up her sex life, too, since she had no privacy. Our house had only two bedrooms and she gave one to each of us, my brother Danny and I, and slept on the couch for close to ten years. She never even really got to celebrate Mother's Day until we were older. She was always too busy making the holiday nice for her own mother and grandmother. One year, we went to the Shedd Aquarium and disected squid. My poor mother. She hates gross stuff like that. As I recall, the damn dead thing squirted ink in her face. What a way to spend Mother's Day.

Maybe I would be wearing it for my grandma who, after having been diagnosed with myelodysplastic syndrome, is fighting the battle of her life, for her life. Reilly Kate just loves her "GG" (short for Great Grandma) and prays every night, "God bless GG. Make her well." She's never far from our thoughts nowadays.

Then I thought of the other mothers I have met since I became a mother myself. I thought of a woman I used to know who was due at the same time I was with Reilly. We communicated often during our pregnancies. Unexpectedly, her son was born with Downs Syndrome. He's a beautiful boy and she has always been such an incredible mom to him.

There was a woman I met at the baby gym who fosters drug addicted newborns. She was in the middle of adopting two babies only three months apart in age. She went through hormone therapy and months of pumping in order to produce milk for these babies. Her son was born just a few hours after Roman. She had so much patience and kindness. Selfless.

My mind wandered to the more mundane. All the moms in the world wipe snotty noses and kiss boo boos. We yearn for our children to fly on their own, ache when they falter, and mourn when they leave the nest. We hold little fat hands when crossing the street and spend sleepless nights rocking our babies and worrying over our teenagers. We clean poopy hinies and do more laundry than a dry cleaners in China town. It's an unglamorous job, really. And at times utterly thankless.

I'm so proud to be a member of the sisterhood, to wear the label MOM. It's really a blessing. A blessing I really do love.

When the kids were done with the boob and goldfish, I marched right back into the store (yep, the door still said "Pull") and plunked down five bucks. I got the shirt. It says, I [heart] Mom, and I do. I really, really do.

I encourage you all to go out and get one. And wear it. I'll be wearing mine tomorrow to dance class.

Political Mumbo Jumbo

In the past few days, I have been the innocent victim of conservative blathering in the form of email. Actually, it is my own fault. So I’m not really a victim. I read the damn thing and suffered the high blood pressure for it. I now feel it necessary to purge my system of it, to wash off its cyber filth from my liberal conscience. If I don’t, I fear my head will explode.

When I started this blog, I swore I wouldn’t wax poetic or political. But change the name to “The Misadventures of a Fat, Opinionated, Liberal Bed-Wetting Housewife” because here I go:

The emails as they were in my hotmail account will appear in plain font. My words will appear in bold. A bit complicated for you ditto-heads out there. I hope you can follow along.

A New Constitution

The following has been attributed to State Representative Mitchell Kaye from GA. The guy should run for President.....

This particular piece has been warped and changed and misattributed through its meandering from inbox to inbox. The majority of the drivel here was written by Lewis Napper of Mississippi in 1993. For more information, see snopes.

"We, the sensible people of the United States, in an attempt to help everyone get along, restore some semblance of justice, avoid any more riots, keep our nation safe, promote positive behavior, and secure the blessings of debt free liberty to ourselves and our great-great-great-grandchildren, hereby try one more time to ordain and establish some common sense guidelines for the terminally whiny, guilt-ridden, delusional and other liberal bed-wetters. We hold these truths to be self-evident: that a whole lot of people are confused by the Bill of Rights and are so dim that they require a Bill of No Rights."

I’m prone to uncontrollable fits of giggling every time I’m called a liberal bed-wetter primarily, I guess, because it reveals the mentality of the name caller. If I’m a bed-wetter, conservatives are diapers since they are full of dookie. As a mom to two small children and the daughter of two big Republicans, I know of which I speak.

ARTICLE I:
You do not have the right to a new car, big screen TV or any other form of wealth. More power to you if you can legally acquire them, but no one is guaranteeing anything.

You also don’t have the right to pollute the air my kids breathe with deregulations and corporate exemptions. You don’t have the right to clear cut forests and build redwood decks. You don’t have the right to fill up your oversized luxury SUV with the cheapest gas in the world and whine that gas taxes are too high and the smog is too thick.

ARTICLE II:
You do not have the right to never be offended. This country is based on freedom, and that means freedom for everyone -- not just you! You may leave the room, turn the channel, express a different opinion, etc., but the world is full of idiots, and probably always will be ... and like the rest of us you need to simply deal with it.

Agreed. So the next time Janet Jackson flashes her tit on tv and you don’t like it, turn the channel! Get your mind out of the gutter and the rest will follow. My kids saw that and thought “LUNCH!”

Also, if gay marriage offends you, don’t attend the wedding. If abortion offends you, don’t have one. And if multiculturalism offends you, stay at home and reread your copy of Mein Kampf.

ARTICLE III:
You do not have the right to be free from harm. If you stick a screwdriver in your eye, learn to be more careful; do not expect the tool manufacturer to make you and all your relatives independently wealthy.

You don’t have the right to jeopardize the safety of my family to accumulate another dollar. If the design for the product is faulty, don’t bring in bean counters to assess whether fixing the problem will cost more than the lawsuits. Fix the problem because it is the right thing to do.

ARTICLE IV:
You do not have the right to free food and housing. Americans are the most charitable people to be found, and will gladly help anyone in need, but we are quickly growing weary of subsidizing generation after generation of professional couch potatoes who achieve nothing more than the creation of another generation of professional couch potatoes.

You do not have the right to flatter yourself into thinking we are the most charitable people around. Sadly, we are not. In terms of percentage of GNP, we are the least charitable of any industrialized nation in the world. In order: Denmark, Norway, Netherlands, teeny tiny little Luxembourg, Sweden, Belgium, Ireland, France, Finland, Switzerland, UK, Canada, Germany, Spain, Australia, Portugal, New Zealand, Japan, Austria, Greece, and Italy are all more generous than the grand US of A.

You don’t have the right to belittle those stuck in a cycle of socio-economic poverty. You haven’t a clue what it is like to be an inner city kid with parents addicted to drugs and gang bangers for neighbors. These kids go to schools that lack adequate plumbing and lighting and are taught by teachers unable to give each child their own textbook. They see violence and crime and no way out. Try reaching out a hand to help them up rather than looking down your nose at them to make yourself feel better about your own pathetic accomplishments.

ARTICLE V:
You do not have the right to free health care. That would be nice, but from the looks of public housing, we're just not interested in public health care.

I don’t think anyone is asking for free health care. Nothing is free. But equal access to quality health care regardless of income should be a basic right. Those without health care are usually the working poor, meaning they are not your so-called professional couch potatoes but those people who due to their low pay cannot afford insurance. The biggest sufferers? The children of these workers.

Oh, and don’t think you don’t pay for it in the end. Ultimately, we all do. It is the reason why an aspirin at the hospital costs $15. You see, these working class people without healthcare cannot get any preventative care or routine medicines. They are forced to wait until an illness becomes life threatening and become an ER charity case which we all pick up the tab for.
Ain’t nothing free.

ARTICLE VI:
You do not have the right to physically harm other people. If you kidnap, rape, intentionally maim, or kill someone, don't be surprised if the rest of us want to see you fry in the electric chair. (Yeah!)

What really bumfuzzles me is this asinine comment coming from the mouths of supposed Christians. I have a couple of questions for those of you who call yourselves Christians and yet believe in capital punishment. First, and foremost, what part of “Thou shalt not kill” is unclear? Have you ever seen an exception or an addendum to that? Second, which part of “Ye who is without sin cast the first stone” is confusing? Is it the “ye” because I can clear that up for you right now. It’s just a fancy way of saying “you.” And lastly, how do you think a man who was wrongly put to death would feel about capital punishment? Did you ever think to ask Jesus?

ARTICLE VII:
You do not have the right to the possessions of others. If you rob, cheat or coerce away the goods or services of other citizens, don't be surprised if the rest of us get together and lock you away in a place where you still won't have the right to a big screen color TV, pool tables, etc.

Okay. I’m good with this. As long as we count corporate thieves as well. Oh, oh, oh! Can you say ENRON? I know! Let’s start with the crook that’s holding the White House hostage. Martha Stewart ain’t got nothin’ on that guy.


This is where it gets really interesting. The original Article VIII is what follows. You’ll see why it was cut. Remember, this was written in 1993 when Clinton was in office.

ARTICLE VIII:
You don't have the right to demand that our children risk their lives in foreign wars to soothe your aching conscience. We hate oppressive governments and won't lift a finger to stop you from going to fight if you'd like. However, we do not enjoy parenting the entire world and do not want to spend so much of our time battling each and every little tyrant with a military uniform and a funny hat.

I would find this to be highly amusing given the current quagmire “W” has gotten us into if it weren’t for the men, women, and children in Iraq, both American and Iraqi, that are being killed each and every day. Watching a six year old American accept a triangular folded flag from his father’s casket or a four year old Iraqi mourning the loss of her parents, grandparents, and two of her four limbs doesn’t make for amusement to me.

We do not have the right to invade other countries to settle Daddy’s debt, to make Haliburton richer, gas prices lower, boost our defense contractors’ bottom lines, or to flex our might. We do not have the right to unilateral aggression simply because we have the brute strength to do so. We do not have the right to set up a puppet government in underdeveloped nations and force our values and ideals on a people very different from ourselves.

We have a right to defend ourselves. We should be focused on finding Osama Bin Laden and destroying Al Qaida and all its Taliban minions. Then again, we should have been doing that 15 years ago when feminists in this country were protesting the Taliban’s harsh regime in Afghanistan and American oil companies’ monetary support of it. Maybe if you conservatives would have seen it as preventive diplomatic care rather than “soothing a liberal conscience” or “nation building” thousands of Americans wouldn’t have had to die on 9-11.

ARTICLE VIII:
You don't have the right to a job. All of us sure want you to have a job, and will gladly help you along in hard times, but we expect you to take advantage of the opportunities of part time jobs, education and vocational training laid before you to make yourself useful.

Let me see here. You don’t have a right to a job. But if you don’t have a job, then you are a slovenly couch potato, which you have no right to be. Do you have a right to education and vocational training? If so, do you have a right to a good, quality, public education with text books and adequate plumbing and lighting and teachers with up to date certifications?

ARTICLE IX:
You do not have the right to happiness. Being an American means that you have the right to PURSUE happiness --which by the way, is a lot easier if you are unencumbered by an overabundance of idiotic laws created by those of you who were confused by the Bill of Rights.

And pursuing happiness is a lot easier if you are allowed to love and marry whomever you please, see a doctor when you are sick, get a good education and have access to higher learning, breathe fresh air and drink clean water, and watch the Superbowl halftime show with a flash of guilt free boob.

ARTICLE X:
This is an English speaking country. We don't care where you are from. We welcome you here. English is our language and like the one you left behind, we also have a culture. Learn it or go back to the country and the living conditions you were fleeing. If you agree, share this with a friend. No, you don't have to, and nothing tragic will befall you if you don't. I just think it is about time common sense is allowed to flourish -- just call it "The Age of Reason Revisited

I’m tempted to not even touch this one since it was added on to make up for conservative peace nik #8. But there are so many misguided souls out there yapping about this English only garbage that I just have to.

Yes, the majority of us speak English here. It would be a great advantage to any immigrant to learn the language. But it is not necessary. Ya know, I have personal experience with this. I lived in Korea, a homogeneous society, for two years. During that time, I learned just a tiny, little bit of Korean. Interestingly, not a single Korean thought I should speak their language or adopt their culture. It was completely acceptable for me to just be me living and working there.

Why is it that we Americans, who for the most part are descendents of immigrants, expect newcomers to adopt the mainstream language and culture? Why do we so harshly judge those who don’t? And why don’t we put an emphasis on our children being able to speak a foreign language? Our children are at a distinct disadvantage competing in a global economy with a monolingual education. The majority of the world does not speak English.

Our culture is unique. It is multicultural. Don’t squelch it. Celebrate it. Embrace it. Be proud of it.

And stop reading crap like this. It’ll rot your brain and that warthog in the White House will get re-elected.

Ahhh... but alas, what do I know? I'm just a fat housewife.

Waiting in Line for Brains

On Tuesday I packed up a cooler and the kids (separately, of course) and sat out for seven and a half hours waiting in line to register Reilly Kate for preschool. Now, seven hours ain't nothing when compared with our four day long vigil for the new house. That was insane. I was newly pregnant and there wasn't a bathroom. I had to pee in a disposable tupperware bowl, for crying out loud. This time they at least had bathroom facilities. But this was nonetheless tedious and hot hot hot. Have I ever mentioned how dang hot Ewa Beach is?

When I was a teen, my parents didn't allow me to attend concerts. So unlike my peers, I never had that teen rite of passage involving days in line for concert tickets. I am getting it all in now as a parent. I stand in line for real estate, preschool, and flu shots.

As we sat there, several people came up to discuss the school (which aside from requiring a crazy ass wait in line, requires the parents co-teach several days per trimester), including the teacher, Miss Maureen.

Any parent can tell you that a child will act up in precisely the situation that they absolutely should behave like an angel. It's like some sort of parental physics. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Take me for example. I just prayed that she wouldn't say or do anything outrageous while talking to her new teacher and her reaction was to poop her pants. Parental physics. As simple as New Math.

She also refused to talk to the teacher. Yes. Reilly Kate refused to talk. When asked her name she responded with, "I'm two." Then she shoved her finger up her nose and walked away. I just stood there staring blankly at Miss Maureen and contemplating her clear resemblance to Olive Oil. I was deep on this thought when we were interrupted by Reilly who came and stood between the two of us, fanny sticking out and stinking up. It was obvious that she had pooped. The number one rule of this preschool is that they must be potty trained. Lovely, huh?

The good news is that school doesn't start till the end of July. So we have plenty of time to straighten out the details of her potty training (like not pooping in your pants in front of the teacher). If we fail in that, I'll just sue on the grounds of discrimination. It's obvious that my child is anally challenged.

An Oldie but a Goodie

I am still working on the Easter tale. It's gonna be long. Actually, maybe I should do it in installments. Anyway...

Instead of not having anything for you to read until then, I thought I would post an oldie but a goodie. I wrote this on March 22, 2002, when Reilly was just three months old. Time sure flies...


Today. Fun day. I had an eye doctor appt. Fortunately, I had a sitter for Reilly since they dilated my eyes. Never telling me that I should have someone with to drive me. After the appt. I ask her when I can drive and she said whenever I want.

So I get in my car and drive. Of course, I live damn close to the equator so the sun is VERY VERY bright. And my eyes are dilated. So I put on two pairs of sunglasses and continue driving. Until I realize somehow I've gotten myself lost. I have no clue where I am nor can I see any street signs to help me. I reach for my cell phone....Where is it? AH HAH!!! No cell phone!! I forgot it at home.

Finally, with the help of God and a toothless dude named "Hi" at the Tesoro gas station, I get back on track. I stop at the Walmart to buy burner covers (I'm getting lazy in my motherhood -- faster to cover the burners than to clean them). Except, again, I cannot see. I ask one of the worker bees to help me. In order to see close up, I must take off my sunglasses which are prescription. I do so and the worker bee screams. My eyes are so dilated she thinks I'm a freak.

Now, I'm off to the grocery store. I wanted to pick up some bread and cheese. I pick up a block of cheddar for 3.95 and a loaf of french bread for 1.69. I take it to the counter and she rings me up. A wopping 12.78. WHAT?!?!? I asked her and she told me the cheese was 8.95!!!! Yes, I still cannot see. I take my almost 10 dollar cheese and go to the post office.

There is a line out the door at the post office. The lady in front of me has the cutest baby. I asked her and she said he's 5 months. He is so cute and I'm looking at him and he at me. He squeals. I squirt. Yep, my milk came POURING out. Right down the front of my shirt. When it's my turn, I am dripping wet, blind, and frustrated.

I was mailing some pictures home and the bill came to 10 bucks. I open my wallet and I am short. Why the hell am I short? Oh, yes. I have ten dollar cheese in my car.

I charge the postal bill.

Then I pick Reilly up, take her home, and am playing with her. She feels warm. I take her temp and it is 100 degrees. Is she sick or teething? I gave her some baby tylenol and will keep checking it to see if she's okay.

But what do I know about that stuff?

I think I'll go and have some cheese. Since my eyesight has come back, I've realized that I have a block of cheddar the size of the Big Island.

Not a night for bloggin'

I've been working on a little ditty on our Easter adventure. But I haven't finished it and I'm pooped. I just wanted to post something to let you all know that I am alive and well and just haven't the energy tonight to finish. Stay tuned.

Oh, and tomorrow should be another good adventure. We'll be sitting out in line for 7 hours. What for?, you ask. Concert tickets, perhaps? Dora's autograph? A picture with Sponge Bob? No, no, no. Nothing quite so fun. We'll be in line for 7 hours to get Reilly Kate signed up for preschool. It's the only one in the area that is decent and reasonably priced.

I'll have the cell phone on. Take pity on me and give me a call.

The Dance Class Drag

It's a safe bet that we will not be making any friends at dance class.

This was our second class with this particular group. They've been together for several months, practicing a couple of routines that they'll be performing in the coming weeks. All the little girls have their matching tutus and fairy wands and they all know the choreography. All that is but the new girl and her mom -- that's us. So we're already starting out on the outs.

There are other little things that also set us apart. For example, all the other little girls are dressed head to toe in pink frills. In our last class, Reilly was one of the few in pink. The other girls were in trendy streetwear black and glitz. When she outgrew her old pink and frills, I bought her funky dance attire. Then we switched classes. She is now the only girl in black. In contrast to the others, she looks like a two year old stripper.

Another difference: the other moms are all thin and cute and seemingly have it all together. One mom handed out birthday invitations to the class (sans us) which were hand made. Another mom made Easter treats in little plastic eggs. And another has her hair all neatly blown out and perfectly coifed. These ladies are all smiles and Martha Stewart, pre-prison.

In we came, literally running in five minutes late, dropping baby toys and sippy cups as we went. The quiet of their previously calm studio was shattered by my son doing his high pitched baby whine and the squeak of my stroller wheel saying, "WD 40. WD 40. WD 40," with every rotation. My hair, untethered by a scrunchy, was free and wild and whipping around due to the industrial fan they have blowing to keep the studio cool. And my daughter, in her glitter and glitz, black and silver, sexy toddler garb strutted in, stood in front of the whole class and announced, "I eat birdy poo poo!!"

"No, you do not, Reilly Kate," I lied in a desperate attempt to fool the others into thinking we're just a normal, have-it-all-together family simply having the odd, off day.

"Yes, I do. At the pool. Mama say, 'Eeew, yucky. It's gross.' But I say, 'Isss goooood. Mmmmmm.....'"

"Just get your shoes on, Reilly. They're all waiting for you," I shut her up and temporarily shut her down.

They began the class with stretches. Reilly was stretching with the other girls, trying to imitate the teacher with hands over the head lunges and pointy toed side bends. Then they each sat down, knees bent, soles of the feet pressed together. They bounced their knees up and down, making what the teacher calls a "butterfly." Reilly was digging it. She loves butterflies. I'm thinking, at this point at least, she is really going to like this class.

The teacher then instructed them all to bend over and smell their toes. She tells them this as a way of getting them all to stretch out. All the little frilly pink girls bent over and sniffed and when they came back up said in the sweetest, daintiest, little voices, "Stinky feet!"

Reilly Kate bent over, didn't sniff, but instead lickrf her feet and said, "Mmmm... Smells good. Smell it. I smell it. Smells good."

The entire class, frillies, Marthas, and teacher all looked at her like she was from the planet Gross. And quite possibly, she is.

While they practiced plies, Reilly got bored and threw herself onto her belly in the middle of the room. As she hit the wood floor with a thud, she bellowed, "Sucks!"

The normal reaction of any mother who hears a bad word escape from their child's mouth is to correct the child with a gentle, but firm, "We don't say words like that, honey."

I have learned that "normal" does not pertain to any mothering situation that comes my way. Particularly when it comes to bad words. Last week, we were in the religious section of the video department at Walmart. I was looking at the old Jesus movies (as I've said before, Reilly loves Jesus). Suddenly, unexpectedly, and seemingly out of nowhere, my beloved daughter, the one who is a big Jesus fan, yelled out, "These god damn stickers are always in my way!!!" Then she threw out some stickers that I thought I had hidden in the cart so as to surprise her with them on Easter morning.

I caught the stickers and sweetly, gently, and kindly said to her, "Dear heart, we do not say such things. Taking the name of our lord in vain is a sin. Only say "God" when speaking to him while in prayer."

"Mama say that. Mama say, 'god damn!'" All within earshot, a whole crowded aisle filled with pious Polynesians perusing the Easter movies, were staring straight at me, listening to the entire conversation. So I did whatever any level headed mother in complete moral panic would do. I lied.

"Well, then, I'm going to have to speak with your mother about that. I don't want her saying stuff like that around you if you are going to repeat it. I dislike that kind of nasty talk and will not allow it around me. If it continues, I will refuse to babysit you and then where will your mother be? I suggest you both clean up your mouths." And with that, I hightailed it on outta there.

From this experience I gleaned I must lie in situations like this so as to cover my own potty mouth. Better to lie than to reveal myself a toilet talking mama with no hopes of reforming.

"Socks? No, no. No, Socks, Reilly. We don't wear socks to dance class, silly. We wear tights. You have on tights." I was bailing as fast as I could.

"No socks. SUCKS!! Sucks. Sucks. Sucks, " insisted my clear speaking two year old as she began pounding on the floor with the toes of her tap shoes.

"We don't wear socks in Hawaii. I don't have on socks. No one here has on socks. I didn't even bring you any socks. But if you really, really want some socks, we'll buy you some after class." I yanked her up and whispered in her ear, "Don't say 'sucks,' Reilly. Please don't say it. These other girls won't be your friend if you say 'sucks.'"

Replying in her loudest, most defiant voice, Reilly said, "Mama says "sucks." Not socks. No socks. SUCKS!!!"

There could be no denying my maternity in this crowd. I took the best path available to me at the time. I just said nothing, hung my head in shame, and prayed that she would just let it drop. Eventually, she did. She moved on to picking her nose... and eating it.

What exactly is the proper way of correcting a child whose favorite snack is stored right up her nose? All the experts suggest diversion. I was leary of diverting her attention since the nose picking/booger eating had gotten her away from the "sucks" repetitions. But I knew if I didn't do something, we'd be in for an all you can eat booger extravaganza.

Sadly, motherhood has left me little in the way of intellectually acuity. My clunky thought processes are similar to the whirling emitted from George W's when he's in front of a Coke machine. So many, many choices... hard to choose... what to do next... can't decide... forget Coke... invade another country. I don't have an army, though, so I usually just sit blankly. Basically, I'm about as sharp as a stick of butter these days. So as I sat there, feeblely attempting to devise a diversionary tactic, my booger eating, potty mouthing, hoochy mama toddler comes up to me and says, "I love you soooo much! I make you happy. Are you happy, Mama? I make you happy when I build you a sand castle. I build you a sand castle on the bed."

She was referring to an incident yesterday involving a load of clean clothes that were neatly folded and awaiting a chance for me to put them away. She climbed on my bed, unfolded them, and stacked them up one on the other. She insisted the mound was a sand castle and if you closed your right eye, and looked squinty with the left while cocking your head to one side, you could see the resemblance.

"Yes, Reilly Kate. That sand castle made me very happy. I love you, too."

"And I peed on Mama-Daddy's bed, too!" she added enthusiastically. "I peed all over the bed. Made Mama mad. Made Mama angry. Her yelled. I peed on the bed," she sing-songed as she tapped on over to the teacher who was now asking me if she was wearing a diaper because they had just installed new Pergo flooring and it can't withstand wet messes.

But I cannot blame our lack of friendship possibilities solely on Reilly Kate. No, I had my share in it as well. While the girls were on stage performing their dress rehearsal, us moms all sat together to watch. I noticed one little girl talking almost as much as Reilly, who, as you should know by now, does not shut up (I've actually taken the liberty of carving down most of her ramblings into nice, short, sound bites which actually fit into the story. If I were to quote her word for word, you wouldn't leave my blog for days.) I turned to her mother and with the hope of creating an ally said, "Wow. It's really nice to meet another child who talks nonstop."

With a scowl on her face akin to receiving an oil change as an anniversary gift, she said, "I think that's normal for this age."

Thinking I could still save the situation with some of my infamous self deprecating humor, I continued. "Yeah, right. The rest of the class is quietly following the teacher's direction as our two just yammer away. And not even to each other. Just bathering on and on to no one in particular..." I dropped the rest in light of the daggers she shot my direction.

I had just dug myself a ten foot hole with both my feet in my mouth. Yum. I spent the rest of the practice rehearsal just trying to melt into the background, despite my still whining baby disrupting the mood and making it hard for the frillies to hear the music.

As soon as the practice rehearsal was over, while the frillies were on stage taking their bows, Reilly Kate climbed down and began running to me. I bent down, thinking she was coming to give me a great big hug overcome with excitement in performing on stage. As she got closer, I realized that she wasn't slowing down. She was, in fact, increasing in speed. It didn't look like she was planning on stopping. In fact, it didn't look like she was coming to give me a hug at all. Just as I was straightening up to brace myself for the hit, she tackled me. Hard. Down we went. Both of us. Almost taking Roman and the stroller with us. There I was flat on my back, my child on top of me giggling with sheer delight. It was, on all counts, an excellent tackle.

Maybe we should try football lessons. I bet they'd love her black, glitzy get up. I wonder if they make black helmets with glitter butterflies and rhinestone hearts...

Boogers in my Bra

What's with all the bodily excretions? My life as a mother is cluttered with bodily excretions. Just today I had to deal with pee and poop, saliva, snot and boogers (yes, they are two different things -- ask any mom), regurgitated breastmilk, tears, sweat, and ear wax. And this was an easy day. I got out of blood, pus, eye boogers, vomit, toe cheese, and belly button gunk. Lucky me.

The first time I noticed a booger in my bra, I was floored. How could a booger have gotten in my bra? Was someone sneaking in my room while I was asleep and using my uber expensive nursing bras to store nose goo? Boogers don't just leap into bras, ya know.

I spent a couple of days perplexed and on high alert for the booger bandit. Then while nursing Reilly, I saw it. It was a big, fat rubbery baby booger perched at the very tip of her nose. As she nursed, the thing rubbed off her nose and clung to my breast. So this was how I was getting boogers in my bra.

Now that I solved that mystery, I had an even bigger problem to deal with: What to do with said booger? I was sitting down nursing, no where near a box of tissues. No one else was home to get me a tissue. And there it sat -- an ugly, gooey baby booger right on my breast, in full view. Staring at me. Mocking me. Grossing me out. A booger on my breast. And not even my own booger.

I decided to fling it off with a finger thwack. First, I needed to decide where to aim. I didn't want it to go somewhere that would be obvious. It needed to fly to a spot where it could live out it's short booger life in relative obscurity, drying into a nice crusty piece to be vacuumed up at a later date. I decided that behind the television was as good a place as any. I took careful aim and gave it my best finger thwack.

I didn't see it fly anywhere but it was no longer on my breast so I was satisfied. Until I reached out to the remote control and saw the damn thing on my finger. The booger hadn't flown anywhere. It had just relocated to another part of my body. Why hadn't it just stayed in its body of origin? I was starting to get more irritated than grossed out.

I attempted to flick it with a finger on my other hand, but that only resulted in it transferring over. I tried shaking it off, but it was stuck to me like a barnacle to a barge. I thought about relocating it to the recesses of the couch, but the image of a booger hiding out with the lost change and old M&Ms that reside there would have kept me from ever again sitting on it. I even went so far as to try rubbing it into the fabric of my jeans. But denim is no match for the rubbery consistency of a baby booger. It just balled up and turned blue.

I must have sat there for ten minutes contemplating my next move. That's when it happened. I snapped. I went from a normal person averse to the bodily fluids of others to a booger hiding miscreant devoid of all normal distaste for excretions.

I took the booger and hid it in my bra.

From there, it's been a steady decline into the realm of the disgusting. I wipe snotty noses with the hem of my shirt. I use spit as a facial cleanser on messy mouths. Regurgitated breastmilk gets rubbed into the carpet. Not even pee can scare me. I just mop it up with whatever is handy and toss it into the dirty clothes bin.

And on any given day, you can almost guarantee I've got a booger in my bra.

A Prayer for Mother

Yesterday, at the little Lutheran church down the street, a young mother made an announcement following the service. She walked slowly and sadly up toward the front, paused, and then turned to face the congregation. Her eyes were red and welled up with emotion. Her voice, small and weak, trembled as did her bottom lip. She looked so small and frightened. Fragile.

She set her jaw and began, "I don't know how to tell you this, so I will just say it..." And with that the tears started to stream down her face as she told us about the skull surgery her infant daughter must endure in a few weeks. The gruesome details brought every mother in the room to the edge of her own world. Not a one of us could hold back the tears.

We unconsciously grabbed our children to feel that they were still near us and physically well. We silently prayed for little Anna Grace's well being while we secretly thanked God it wasn't our child. I personally found myself flashing back to Reilly's first week of life. All the IVs and the needles and the screaming and crying. It all came crashing down on me, twisting my insides and torturing my soul.

For those that don't know, Reilly was hospitalized for a week following her birth due to an incompetent nurse's inability to take an accurate temperature and an overzealous pediatrician willing to sacrifice a new mother and her first born child to teach her students a lesson about infant sepsis. The experience has colored every single moment of my motherhood. It was my initiation into the sisterhood, wholly a baptism by fire. Nothing, absolutely nothing can cut through a mother like the cry of her child.

There is something about motherhood that changes a woman. I've described it before as a shift in your soul. It is that profound. You are never quite prepared for how different you will view the world or how much deeper you will feel. The connection you have to your child is stronger than any connection you have ever made before. It would actually baffle me at times that I couldn't feel her physical pain as they inserted yet another IV. How could I be this connected, but feel nothing? It was the worst anguish I have ever known.

There is a scene in Mel Gibson's movie, The Passion of the Christ, where Mary turned away so she wouldn't see her son stumble by carrying the cross to his death. She turned away because she couldn't bear it. But then she flashed back to a time when he was just a small boy and he fell. The sound of his cries brought her running to his side, to kiss the scraped knee, to make it better, to dry his tears. And so, Mary the mother of Jesus, turned toward her now grown son, to share in his pain as only a mother can. Watching that scene stirred such emotion in me that I let out an audible sob. I know that pain. Every mother knows that pain.

So when this young mother looked into my eyes and asked me to please pray for her daughter, I did. Immediately, I did. And then she asked me to pray for the surgeons and I did also. For the blood bank and for the blood donors and for the nurses and care staff and for her parents... on and on she went. But she never once thought to ask for a prayer for herself. And she is going to need them.

I pray that she finds the strength to smile at her scared infant daughter as they wheel her into surgery. I will pray that she is given comfort while her daughter is away and I pray for her to have patience. I pray that she has the endurance needed to cope with her own pain as she soothes her crying baby with sweet songs and strong arms. And I pray that she lets this experience color her motherhood as it has mine. For I appreciate my children's health and never take it for granted. It is the greatest gift I could ask for.

Maternal Easter Insanity

Yesterday, I paid 30 bucks so my kids could sit on a giant bunny's lap and I got the pictures to prove it. It's like seasonal insanity. Some holiday hits and I completely lose all grips on reality. In reality, a teenage girl puts on a big fuzzy yellow bunny costume and lets my children sit on her lap whilst her girlfriend snaps crappy pictures with her digital camera and then prints them out on less than premium photo paper and I pay an outrageous sum of money which is sure to end up buying a Britney Spears CD.

So basically all I did this weekend was contribute to Britney's megamillions which supports her lavish lifestyle including trips to Vegas where she marries some poor sap only to divorce him hours later. It all boils down to the destruction of American marriages and how the Easter bunny at the mall is, at least in some small part, responsible.

Falling prey to the Easter-Bunny-at-the-Mall trap isn't all I did this weekend. I also dressed my kids up in pastel outfits with little duckies on them and forced bunny ears upon their heads. Then I put them in various poses and bribed them to smile. Reilly is easily bribed with candy or some such forbidden sweet. Roman is harder to bribe. Basically, I have to flash him a boob since breastmilk is the only thing he eats. Picture it if you will: My two kids in bunny ears and me shaking my bazongas and making yummy noises while dangling candy with one hand and snapping pictures with my other. Yet another example of my maternal holiday insanity.

I also dyed Easter eggs with Reilly Kate. She has quite the future in egg dying. Straight away, she picked up an egg, eschewing the dipper and instead used her hands like an eggy Jackson Pollack or something. Dip in here, dip in there, dip dip dip. I really thought they'd turn out horribly. Much to my surprise, however, they looked like a psychodelic, tie dye job. Really quite colorful. I watched her carefully for several minutes and tried to imitate her moves. Every egg I made turned brown and ugly. It's all in the wrist, I'm sure.

The problem with Reilly Kate and egg dying is really the drying part. She thinks that once you finish with the dying you then pick up the egg and either throw it on the floor, crack it on the table, or just plain take a big old bite out of it, shell and all. We now have a dozen beautifully colored but cracked and bitten eggs as well as the dozen ugly brown eggs I made. We'll be eating a lot of egg salad in the next few days.

I am trying, though, to impart the spiritual meaning of Easter on my kids. I want them to know that it is more than just giant fuzzy mall bunnies, psychodelic cracked eggs, and Mama's boobs. Being that it is Palm Sunday, we took the kids to the local Lutheran church. As I was busily snapping pictures of them in their bunny ears before we left, I must have told her we were going to God's house to see Jesus. Reilly loves Jesus. She's a big fan.

When we walked in, Reilly announced, "Jesus isn't here. I don't see him. He's not here." I assured her that he was, that indeed this is Jesus' house. "No, it's not," she stated most matter of factly, "I can't see him anywhere! Where is him?"

"He's up there," I pointed to the altar. "He's up by the cross."

"No, he's NOT!!! Wheeeeere is heeeeeeeeeee?!?!?!"

She was starting to get agitated at this point and I didn't want to have a scene. So I said, "Ask your father."

Mike answered without even looking up from the hymnal, "He's thinking." Now, I'm not sure if it was Mike who was thinking or if it was Jesus, but it shut Reilly up for the moment which was the goal. We all settled in and I thought the subject was forgotten about. However, as soon as the processional began and she caught a glimpse of the pastor, she shouted, "There he is!! That's Jesus right there!!!"

"No," I corrected her. "He works for Jesus. Jesus is his boss. Just like you are Mama's boss." I let out a little chuckle at my snide witticism, thinking myself quite clever.

She nodded. She is clear on the concept now. Jesus is too busy thinking to actually appear in church and pastor is his Mama.

I should have just stuck to eggs, boobs, and bunnies.

Lazy Perfectionism - My Housewifery Malady

I'm on day three of my house cleaning reformation and I think the program is working to some degree. It's actually fun to go downstairs in the morning and walk through the livingroom without embedding a child's toy in my foot. And I love pouring my morning coffee while gazing at my reflection in the shiny, clean sink. Well, my morning reflection isn't all that to gaze upon, but the clean sink... it's enough to make me think about brushing my teeth before 9 am.

I've made a few discoveries about myself so far on this journey. I have discovered that I dislike lemon scented furniture polish and prefer instead the old church smell of oil soap. I have discovered that it takes exactly 52 minutes to dry a load of towels. I've also discovered that my fridge is an evolution acceleration chamber. Things go in there mere vegetables, but after several months have passed, they come out sentient beings. I had a conversation the other day with a 9 month old carrot who sounded astonishingly like George W. Bush. It kept saying something about weapons of mass destruction hidden in the meat drawer. But when I looked, all I found was a half eaten bologna sandwich trying to date a two year old cheese stick with a PhD. It's a wild, wild world in there.

Most importantly, however, this journey into the realm of order and organization has brought about self-discovery. I have determined that I am a lazy perfectionist with a mean obsessive-compulsive streak thrown in for color. Let me explain.

Basically, it is in my nature to have a clean, perfect house. When I mean perfect, I mean Better Homes and Gardens' cover perfect. But who can accomplish that with two kids, two dogs, a late working husband and only 24 hours in a day? Well, I mean besides my friend and fellow mom, Amy. Her house is so clean you could lick her carpet and come away without even a single fuzzy on your tongue. Her house screams "clean." I've never actually been there to see it for myself, but I hear it screaming "clean" in the background when I call her. While we chat, Amy usually scrubs her floors. On the other hand, I play hamper hoops with dirty socks or pull dog hair out of the baby's mouth.

But the reason I act like this is because of my perfectionist nature. If I do it, I want it to be perfect. But I don't want to work that hard because I'm lazy. So, I do nothing. Today is a perfect example.

I was told by the almighty to do list that I was to vacuum the upstairs bedrooms, loft, and hallways. In order to do this, thinks I, all toys, books, clothes, the occasional mixing bowl and grapefruit spoon and the rest of the miscellany cluttering the floor must be picked up and put away. I did this for over an hour and then looked into my daughter's room. The place looked as if it were an airsick bag for a Toys R Us on a turbulent flight. Toys and clothes intertwined with books and bedding. Had I picked it all up so I could vacuum, it would have taken me the remainder of the day. I couldn't do that since I had promised Reilly Kate I would take her to the pool. Now, I can't go back on a promise like that, can I?

My natural inclination was to scrap the vacuuming idea altogether. I do this kind of scrapping often, in fact. If there is just too much to do to make the job perfect, I scrap it. This is why with two shedding dogs, my Berber carpet feels more like a dog skin rug. I can actually pet my carpet. My daughter offers it milkbones. It either needs to be vacuumed or sent to the groomer. And so, I took one more look at my ever present to do list and vacuumed around all the junk. I just made a path to her bed and hoovered that. Then I hoovered all the other rooms that I had already picked up.

My upstairs is so much cleaner now. No, not perfect. But cleaner. I feel better despite the episode still playing in my mind obsessively. I still want to go in and pick up her room then hoover what remains in there. But at 11:30 pm, I'm sure to wake her. I guess I'll just take a nice cleansing breath and go downstairs to talk quantum physics with the eggplant living in the crisper.