Ten Minutes with Reilly Kate -- A Monologue

All who know me, know that I have the gift of the gab.  But my dear, dear daughter is outshining me in this category.  As I was driving down the road, clinging to my small shred of sanity like a dieter to a crumb cake, it occurred to me to share this with you.  So here, to the best of my recollection, is a brief snippet of our conversation:

RK:  Mama?  Mama?  Mama?

Me:  Yes.

RK:  I need my teddy bear.  Where's my teddy bear?  My pink teddy bear.  Where is it?  I need it.  Where is it?

Me:  I don't --

RK: (interrupting, not waiting for my response)  It's at home.  Turn this car around.  Go home.  I need my bear.  Where is my bear?  My pink teddy bear?  Where is him?  I need him.  He's at home.  Let's go home.  Turn the car around NOW!  Go home.  Hooooooooome. (starts crying and kicking the back of my seat as I'm driving).  Hooooooooome.   Hooooooooome.  I neeeeeeed my teddy bear. 

Me:  We're not going home.

RK:  We're going home. YEAH!  YEAH!  We're going home. YEAH!  (kicks the back of my seat for emphasis)

Me:  Do not kick my seat, please.

RK:  (continues kicking)  I need my bear.  Where's him?  He's at home.  We're going home.  YEAH!  I'm thirsty.  I'm thirsty.  I need some juice.  Mama!  I'm thirsty.  I'm thirsty.  I have a headache.  I need some juice.

Me:  You will get juice if you stop kicking me.

RK:  (kicks) I neeeeeed juice!  Gimme juice.  I need some.  I need it.  I need juice.  I have a headache.  I need some water.  I need water.  Can I have some water now?  I'm thirsty.  I have a tummy ache.  I'm hungry.  I need some food.  I need some crackers.  Gimme some crackers.... PLEASE!  Please, I need some crackers.

(I hand her a handful of crackers)

RK:  No!  I need just one cracker.  Take these.  I need ONE.  Just ONE.  One cracker.  (eats her cracker)  Where're we going?  Mama?  Mama, where're we going?  Are we going home?  No.  We're not going home.  Mama?  Where are we going?

Me:  To the clinic.  I need to get a blood test.

RK:  To the clinic?  Are we going to the clinic?  We're not going home?  We're going to the clinic?  You need a test?  You gonna get a shot?  It's gonna hurt.  You're gonna get a hurt.  You are gonna get a boo boo.  It's gonna hurt.  I'm not getting a shot.  Are you getting a shot?  I'm getting a shot.  The doctor's giving me a shot in the stomach because I have a stomach ache.  I have a stomach ache.  We're going to the doctor to get a shot for my stomach ache?  Mama? 

Me:  No.

RK:  Whatchya doing?  Driving?  Driving to the clinic?  To get my stomach out?  Is it raining?  I see raining.  It's raining.  Them's storm clouds?  Yeah, them's storm clouds.  I see 'em.  I don't look at the sun.  The sun is bright.  I don't have sungasses.  Where's my sungasses?  I need 'em.  I don't look at the sun.  I see the moon. There's the moon.  He's sleeping.  I'm not looking at the sun, though.  I see the clouds.  It's raining.  Mama?  Is it raining?  Where're we going?

Me:  To the clinic.

RK:  To the clinic?  Where's Daddy?  He's at the clinic?  No, he's at work.  He's in there?  No.  Mama?  Is it raining?

Me:  Please, for just 5 minutes, shut your mouth and be quiet.

RK:  (silent for a count of 20 then in whispered voice)  Are you driving?  I can drive. 

Me:  Reilly, please be quiet for just one minute.

RK:  (in a normal voice) I did already.  I did be quiet. I'm gonna be loudy.  I'm loudy.  (screams) Loudy.  (screams again)  I'm gonna be loudy.  I did be quiet but now I'm loudy.  My teddy bear's not here. He's at home.  We're not going home. We're going to the clinic.  We're going to get my stomach out.  Brother's not going to get a shot.  I'm getting a shot.  Are we driving?  Are we driving in the rain?  Mama?  Are we driving?  I wanna get down.  I'm done.  I wanna get doooooooown! (whining now) I'm DONE!!! I'm DONE!!!  I'm DONE!!!

Me:  You can't get down till the car has stopped.

RK:  The car is stopped.  The car is stopped.  Is the car stopped?  We're driving to the clinic?  Mama?  I want some fruity snacks.  I want some fruity snacks. (now singing) I want some fruity snacks.  I want some fruity snacks. (getting louder) I want some fruity snacks!  I want some fruity snacks! I WANT SOME FRUITY SNACKS!!!

Me:  We don't have any.

RK:  I want some.  I want some fruity snacks. We have some.  We have fruity snacks.  I want some.  Whatchya talk to, Mama?

Me:  Bad drivers.

RK:  Bad drivers?  Them's bad drivers?  Where?  I see them.  Bad drivers. You talked bad drivers?  Mama?  I see them.  Them's bad.  I have a tummy ache.  I have a tummy ache.  I want some fruity snacks.  I need some.  I want some.  Where's Daddy?

Me:  Reilly, you need to use your ears more and your mouth less.

RK:  Yeah,  I need to use my ears.  I use 'em.  Them's there.  I can't eat them.  I can't eat my ears.  I can eat my lips.  I can eat my boogers.  I can't eat my ears.  I have ears, though. I can't use 'em. 

 

Need I go on? 

The funny part is when strangers come up to the cute little thing.  Like at the clinic.  A woman came up to her and started a conversation simply by saying, "Is that your brother?"  And Reilly Kate says:

"Yeah.  I have an eyeball.  I have an armpit.  Brother has poops.  Mama got a shot.  Did you get a shot?  It's a boo boo.  The doctor's gonna take out my stomach.  I can't take off my fingers.  Them's stuck.  (pulling her fingers)  I can't get them off.  I can't get off my head.  My neck is stuck (pulls on her neck)  I can't get my head off my neck.  I have a throat.  And a stomach.  I have fruity snacks but my pink teddy bear is at home.  Mama won't drive back home.  My daddy is at work.  His back hurts.  He's got a bad back.  My baby poked my eyeball.  I have an eyeball."

I'm thinking perhaps she can get a job in talk radio.  I listened to that dick Hannity today and Reilly Kate actually made more sense.  Maybe Hannity ate his ears.  Ya think?

Our Patriotic Sons

It's been a pretty crappy day.  My van broke down and needed a new starter.   Then Mike was in a car accident that pretty much totaled our convertible (yes, he's okay).  Like I said, it's been a pretty crappy day.

But I heard something on the radio (NPR) this morning, something that is making me appreciate today.  The piece was entitled Remembering Lt. Brian Smith (click on that link and you can listen to it).  After 9-11, a 30 year old lawyer from Austin, Texas joined the military, leaving his lucrative career and wife behind.  He was killed last week.  He was checking the tracks on his tank when he lifted his arm and a sniper shot him in the one spot that the bullet proof vest didn't protect him -- under his arm.  As his father said, "He had everything to lose."  And it seems, he lost it all.

Like a toned down Pat Tillman, Brian Smith truly put his patriotism on his chest.  He walked his talk.  He carried the torch.  He sacrificed.  It amazes me how many in my generation are unwilling to do anything more than flap their gums.  They've got opinions, but aren't even motivated enough to vote.  It seems Brian Smith was different.  Although, I never even knew he walked the earth until he no longer did, my heart seems a little empty with the knowledge of his passing.  I will think of him over the years.  I won't forget him.  He left his mark.

As a mother, my heart just breaks.  I cannot imagine the heartache his mother must be feeling.  Just trying to brings a lump to my throat so big I cannot swallow it down.  I read this quote from his dad on a message board.

"We were lucky enough to love him for 30 years, and I lived long enough to see the man he grew up to become," William Smith said. "I'm glad I did ... now I have the rest of my life to miss him."

I'm the wife of a soldier.  The thought of my husband going off to war terrifies me.  It is something that we, military wives, must visualize, plan for, and cope with.  We've done the funeral plans and insurance papers.  All the what ifs have been covered, especially given these turbulent times.  It knots my insides, but it's part of the job description. 

The prospect of doing this with my son, however, grips me deeply from within, making my head spin so fast I can hear insanity rattling around.  Last week, my brother Darrell left for Iraq.  His mother, my stepmother, told me that planning his funeral was "just unnatural.  A mother shouldn't have to sit down with her son and plan his funeral."  Even the planning must be heart wrenching, something from which, even when he comes back to us safe and sound, she will never fully recover.  Such is it to be a mother.  Strong, but so very, very fragile.

As I type this, I have my sleeping son in my arms.  He is safe and sound and just a wee little baby.  Yet all too soon he will be a man, with wild ideas of his own.  Too soon he will leave the safety of my nest to venture forth in the big bad world to be big and bad himself.  So today, I will cherish him.  No matter how crappy the day, I will cherish him.

And for you, Lt. Brian Smith, I will wave my flag, vote my conscience, and put Dave's Insanity Hot Sauce all over my dinner.  Rest in peace.

A Pox on Their Houses

It's been a busy week around here.  Hard to imagine, huh?  Reilly Kate starts school in a couple weeks at a cooperative preschool.  Since no one wanted to be group leader for her class, guess who volunteered.  Yep.  Me.  Plus, I'm trying to get all our paperwork together for her admission.  You wouldn't believe the amount of paperwork to simply get my daughter in a preschool.  And, it seems, I will be getting her the varicella (chicken pox) vaccine tomorrow morning, much to my sorrow.
 
You see, this silly little island state has decided to require the varicella vaccine.  In most states it is optional.  I'd really rather her not get the varicella vaccine.  I would much prefer she just get the chicken pox the old fashioned way.  I fully intended to have her vaccinated for it by the age of ten had she not contracted the pox.  Sadly, though, it looks like "pox parties" are a thing of the past. 
 
I actually called the state's immunizations department and talked to a very nice, cheerful woman.  She informed me that had I not had Reilly Kate vaccinated against anything, then I could get an exemption.  But since I only wanted an exemption for a shot that was, until recently, optional, I was out of luck.
 
"Excuse me," I sputtered.  "Do you mean that since I had my daughter immunized for the deadly diseases, the diseases that have caused widespread death, disability, and disfigurment, but do not wish to have her immunized for a fairly benign childhood disease with a vaccine whose efficacy is questionable, then I am up the proverbial creek?"
 
"I'm sorry?  A creek?"  she questioned.
 
"I'll rephrase.  She cannot go to school unless she is completely immunized.  Or completely NOT immunized.  Is that correct?"
 
"That's correct."
 
I was stunned.  What the hell kind of Catch 22 bullshit is that?  This immunizations topic is really starting to burn me up.
 
For those of you that don't know, there is a growing movement amongst middle class Americans to NOT vaccinate children.  I'm sure to some of you who lived in fear of polio each summer during your childhood, that seems outrageous and unbelievable.  But I assure you it is out there and growing.
 
Growing thanks to a lot of baseless information poisoning the internet. I swear, I am gonna start a website about the cancer causing agents of red clothing and see what kind of following I get (especially from the Mothering.com crowd -- and before you flame me for that I subscribe and visit those boards so I'm amongst them). I can hear it now, "Oh, I don't allow my kids to wear red. Too risky. We stick with only neutral colors dyed with sweet potatoes and red dirt on hand-picked organic cotton woven by underprivileged mothers in Botswana. In the winter, I do allow my children the occasional wool sweater made from sheep who live in the Waldorf-Astoria and dine on organic grasses flown in daily from Scotland."
 
"Really?  Well, we've been red-free now for five years.  Since then our headaches have cleared up and my son no longer experiences those eye twitches that plagued him for so long.   I don't allow any red in my house whatsoever.  Not even blood.  We do all our bleeding outside, in our mulch pile.  It's so much cleaner.  But let me just suggest you do some reading on organic grasses grown in Scotland.  They're full of lead.  The soil in Scotland is so contaminated with lead that the sheep eating the grass are currently being tested for developmental delays."
 
"[Gasp]  I had no idea.  I have to go and google that.  Ciao."
 
Barf.  There's a culture of perfect parenting out there that is so obsessed they are no longer thinking clearly.  Any ninny can go and post an internet site and blather on and on about whatever they choose, using real information or stuff they yanked out the pure, blue sky.  It's dangerous.  And even more dangerous are those that are too lazy to do the real research for themselves.  Parents are just hopping on the internet and basing their parental decisions on cyber junk floating around.
 
Now, I'm not saying that there is not risk involved with vaccinations.  There are.  Of course.  Real dangers.  But if you put your kids in a car driving 50 miles per hour, there's danger.  If you let your kids ride a bike, there's danger.  Hell, I remember reading about an American child living in Japan who fell while walking down the street, hit his head on the curb and died.  I'm sure somewhere there are parents pressuring government officials to demolish curbs. 
 
I agonized over giving my precious children these shots.  I agonized, prayed, sweated, and cried for days.  And yet, I did it.  Why?  Because it is a social contract we all must abide by.  Just like when the traffic signals go out and everyone treats the intersection like a stop sign.  It's a social contract.  You stop.  Then I stop.  This way we don't have a collision.  See? 
 
What I don't understand is why these parents who are not getting their kids immunized are being allowed to put these kids in schools.  Why should I subject my children to the hazards of vaccinations just to have the Smith family refuse and potentially expose my kids to outbreaks?   It is arrogant and classist.  ""Oh, not my child. Let them, those poor people living in unsanitary conditions vaccinate their children.  But I won't do mine."  Blech. 
 
Ya know, if you don't want to vaccinate your kids, fine.  Go buy yourself a nice plot in the 100 Acre Wood and live there amongst other potential lepers and don't come out.  Stay there and grow your own food and drink rainwater and make breastmilk cottage cheese.   Just don't contaminate my kids, thankyouverymuch.
 
Unless you happen to have an outbreak of the chicken pox.  Then could you give me call? 

He Trumps Me, He Trumps Me Not

I thought I was going to get a day off. Not a whole day off. Just a got-a-cold, get-well kind of day off.

I was wrong.

You see, July 3rd was our tenth wedding anniversary. In the great tradition of our engagement, we went bed shopping. Back when Mike and I decided to marry, we began saving up for an engagement ring. Just when we had enough money to put a substantial down payment on a nice hunk of sparkly rock, Mike's bad back started acting up. We were sleeping on a cramped, old, rented double bed and Mike decided that a clean, factory new, queen sized bed would rectify what laser surgery on his disks had failed to.

Bad back trumps naked ring finger.

We bought the bed. I bitterly referred to it as "the engagement bed" and swore that I would fashion a chain to attach the bed to my finger and lug it around for all to see what my betrothed had given me. We did actually finance a small, cute, affordable little engagement ring for me with the promise that for our tenth anniversary we would do an upgrade.

Over the next ten years, while sleeping on that queen's bed, I would dream of our tenth anniversary. With our cherubic little angels looking on, Mike would get down on one knee and present to me an brilliant, diamond studded token of his affection, professing his unwavering commitment and deepening love. Romance would be thick in the air. Roses on the table. Barry White on the speakers. Champagne and strawberries. Maybe even he'd whisk me away for a weekend in downtown Waikiki, the place of our honeymoon.

But ten years of wedding bliss has broken down the engagement bed and Mike's back has never been worse. Bad back trumps anniversary band.

We went shopping for a king sized bed this anniversary, lugging our two demonic offspring from furniture store to furniture store. The anniversary bed is king sized, a true step up from the engagement bed. And it's one of those Serta Sleepers, guaranteed to induce sleep despite having a suckling infant attached to one boob all night long. Or at least that is what the salesperson alluded to.

Mike did present to me a small, cute, affordable, little Hawaiian plumeria ring with the smallest little sparkle of a diamond in the middle. It's really all a girl could ask for. I mean, throw in a Hawaiian cruise with a spa day and a $1,000 clothing allowance and I'm the Queen herself, ya know?

We had invited a couple and their year old daughter over for barbecue and margaritas on the 4th. Since we were out hunting for the perfect anniversary bed the day before, we hadn't had time for the typical pre-guests spot dusting and vacuum running. I set about that task in the early morning, 4th of July while Mike and the kids breakfasted.

Somehow, and I'm not clear exactly on the events that transpired, Roman poked Mike in the eye. Immediately Mike had to go back to bed for several hours. Now, here I was tired, cranky, and suffering from post traumatic anniversary stress and Mike was back in bed with a bum eye. I was starting to wonder how early in the morning I needed to get up in order to be able to go back to bed.

He eventually did get up and enjoyed the day with us and our guests. The kids played. The adults ate and drank. We watched the fireworks on the beach and almost got arrested for loitering (long story -- Let freedom ring). It was a nice 4th.

The next morning, however, when I awoke, I felt a tightening in my chest, indicating an impending cold. I swallowed and it stung. I sneezed and my nose ran like a loose faucet. My ears were ringing and I just felt like hell.

"HA!!!" thought I. "Today is the day that I will get to sleep in. Today is the day that I will nap and laze around in bed. Today!! Today is MY day to be sick and moan and groan and get cared for. Today is MY SICK DAY!"

"Uhhhh..." groaned Mike. "You better take a look at my eye. It hurts like hell."

I look over and Mike's entire eye, the eye that Roman poked him in, was crusted over with goo. What little I could see of his actual eye, was an angry, blood red. He could hardly keep it open.

"I think you better take me to the ER."

Scratched cornea trumps common cold.

And so that is how I spent my sick day. In the ER entertaining our two small children with Elmo toys and fruity snacks. Bribing them with juice boxes, lollipops, and promises of movies and Chuck E Cheese.

At one point a nice older lady comes up to Reilly Kate and asks, "Who's sick? You or your brother?"

"Daddy's back hurts," was Reilly's response.

"Oh, your Daddy is seeing the doctor because his back hurts?" the old lady queried.

Reilly nodded. "His knee hurts, too," Reilly Kate informed her.

"His back and his knee? They both hurt?" she asked.

"Yep."

"So is the doctor making his back and his knee feel better?" asked the woman.

"No. The doctor is making his eye feel better. His back still hurts." Reilly is well versed now.

The woman looked at me for confirmation and all I did was laugh and nod. That's all I could do. I still didn't feel very well myself.

On the drive home from the hospital, Mike informed me that they prescribed Vicodin for the pain and that when we got home he'd be taking one and going to bed.

"But I'm really sick. I wanted to take a nap." I was desperately pleading now.

"They told me I have to lay down in a dark room and rest my eye for a couple of days," Mike explained with blood red, tear filled eyes. I really did feel sorry for him. His eye looked horrible.

So he went to bed. I stayed up with the kids and suffered through a cold that really wasn't half as bad as I had hoped it would be. I did get a little nap later in the afternoon. A nap with a suckling infant attached to one boob and a toddler sprawled out in more than her fair share of the queen sized engagement bed. Not much of nap really.

Of course, this brings me back to my need for a body cast. I will have to get up in the morning, earlier than Mike. Say about 4am. Then throw myself down the stairs. What I'm banking on is a couple of broken ribs and maybe a sprained ankle. Oh, a nice slight concussion would work well. I'll have to do it, though, when Mike isn't having surgery. I'm quite certain back surgery and knee surgery trumps self induced superficial injuries.

Anybody know where I can get a body cast?

There's Gotta be an Easier Way to get Food in our House -- Part II

(After being interrupted by naps that ended prematurely, I was unable to finish the last entry. Then there was our 10th anniversary celebration, the 4th of July, and finally a trip to the ER for Mike who is suffering from a scratched cornea, the work of his delightfully curious, but dangerously long nailed son. I am now, I believe, ready to finish this story).

By the time we arrived at the commissary, it was 11 o'clock and raining. Reilly Kate had to go potty and Roman needed a diaper change. I pulled out the car potty and noticed that we only had a few bags for it left. Instead of wasting them, I figured I'd just quickly change Roman, throw them all in the stroller, and hustle it on into the shopping center's bathroom. And that's what I did.

Reilly Kate's new fascination is storm clouds. I'm sure it is the work of that diabolical Dora and her possessed talking monkey Boots. So while I'm weaving us in and out of traffic, jay walking in the rain with a stroller, running with my rather large breasts slapping up against my chin, I'm hearing, "Are these storm clouds? Yeah, these are storm clouds. Them's spitting on me." Lather, rinse, repeat.

Of course, the shopping center's bathroom is closed for cleaning (why would I expect anything else?) so I had to run into the BX (Base Exchange) and use that bathroom. I had a very good reason I did not want to go into this particular store, but it was much closer than the commissary and you never know how much time a two year old bladder is going to give you. The problem is the placing of the book section. It is right when you walk in and stretches the length of the store all the way to the back near the bathrooms.

"Books! Mama! Books!! I want a Dora book! I need a honu book! Mama! Mama!"

And thus is was until after we had used the potty and I allowed her to select for purchase one, single book. After much deliberation she chose Beauty & the Beast. To pay for said book, we stood in a line that stretched so far back I wondered if they were giving away push up bras to fat housewives. The majority of time we spent in line was right next to the candy. Why, oh why, do they do this to us mothers? God have mercy on their capitalistic souls.

"Mama, I'm hungry. I need a lollipop. My tummy hurts. I need some food. I need some emineminems (M&Ms for those of you who don't know). My tummy hurts."

With the promise of lunch, we left the BX to find the food court. It was now 11:40. Yep. I had just blown forty minutes on one trip to the bathroom and a Beauty and the Beast book. Lunchtime was now upon us and I had to wrangle the masses for some Popeyes' chicken strips and a spot to feed my children in the cramped, hot and humid food court.

We had just sat down when Roman started to do his tired and cranky, hungry and hot whimper. So while Reilly Kate ate, I nursed Roman (have I ever told you how much those military servicemen just love to see a woman breastfeeding her child while they eat? Oh, the looks I got filled me with such fiery fuel it's what kept me running at peak efficiency for the rest of the day) and reviewed my shopping list. With all these diversions and time wasters, I wanted to make my trip to the actual commissary as efficient as possible, afterall.

By the time we entered the commissary, the time was 12:25pm. The rain had ceased and the sun was typically hot and bright. Roman was asleep in the stroller and Reilly was reading her new book. Despite the setbacks, I was in good spirits when I walked through the double doors of that grocery store. I grabbed a cart (I was going to have to push the stroller and pull the cart through the store since Roman was sleeping in the stroller) and thus began our the actual shopping part of our shopping trip.

During the course of our afternoon in the commissary, we made three trips to the potty (only two were successful), one nursing session, and stops at every single food sampling counter in the store. When I finally paid the cashier, I asked her what time it was: 2:45pm. The day was almost spent and I had accomplished nothing but grocery shopping. I guessed there would be no trip to the pool that day.

I was bemoaning this fact to a teenage couldn't-care-less bagger as we made our way out to the van. She was smiling politely but I could tell her mind was adrift on such weighty topics as Britney's upcoming nuptials and Vin Diesel's true ethnicity. It was only when we turned the corner to start down the aisle in which I parked the van, that I saw it. My van with the lights on and the hatch up.

"Oh my god! Oh my god!" was all I could manage.

My outburst focused the attention of my bagger who seemed almost delighted with the situation. I am sure the tragedy of a fat housewife and her miscreant offspring breaks up an otherwise humdrum existence.

"That's yours?" she almost giggled. "I saw that when I started this morning? You've been here the whole time? I saw it when I went in to work this morning and it was still like that when I went to lunch. It's been like that all day. How long you been here today?"

"You saw the hatch up and you didn't do anything? You couldn't close it?" In my shock and disbelief this was all I could muster. I feared any more than that leaving my mouth and this poor teenage bystander would be hit with a barrage of cursing the likes of which she had never heard nor from which would she fully recover.

"I... I thought that someone did that intentionally. I thought maybe they wanted..." she drifted off I assume with the realization of her stupidity.

I finished her sentence under my breath, "...they wanted to run out their battery and be stuck with $200 worth of groceries rotting in the sweltering heat whilst their hot, hungry, and shopping weary children whine and cry?"

"Uh... do you... I mean, is there anything... uhh... Can I call someone for you?" she sputtered while loading the bags into the van's open back.

I climbed into the driver's seat, inserted the ignition key and turned. For a split second it sounded like all was good and fine with the world. It almost turned over. But then the wipers started going and the radio started playing and the car wouldn't turn over. I guess I had left the wipers and radio on as well.

"Car's dead, Mama? Car's dead? Car's dead, Mama? Car's dead, Mama?" Poor little Reilly Kate had heard me muttering and was now repeating with worried look on her face much older than her years.

"Yes, baby. The car's dead. But it'll be fine. I can fix this."

I reached into my wallet to give the teenage girl a tip (here's a damn tip for ya: Next time you see a car with the hatch open, CLOSE IT!!!!) and saw my AAA card. I would just call AAA. I grabbed for my phone and started to dial when I realized after 9/11, security was so tight that there was no way I'd be able to get a tow truck on base. Scratch that.

I called Mike figuring he might be at work and his work is just a quick jaunt from where I was. He could driven over to us and jumped me (the van that is, get your mind out of the gutter) before the groceries all went to pot. Instead, I got his voicemail. Figuring he was in a meeting, I was starting to panic. I dialed his cell phone, just in case. He answered. He had gotten out of work early and was a couple blocks from home. Home which is over a half hour away from where I was now. And as if that weren't enough, he said that I didn't even have any jumper cables in the van. He'd taken them out.

With a deep, cleansing breath, I said, "Just get here when you can. I am going to take the kids and sit under a tree and I'll see you when you get here."

After hanging up, I peered around looking for a shade tree. Just as I was sbout to start over toward the grass, two young college aged boys (men?) came out of the store and yelled, "Do you need help?"

Now, before I say anything more, let me reiterate the fact that I am a feminist. I don't make any apologies for it. I do, with all my heart and soul, believe that men and women are equals. Women can and do take care of themselves. We always have. I know I can. But there are times when a man comes along to lend a hand that makes you really feel like a damsel in distress being saved by a prince.

This was one of those times.

I almost melted when I realized that these two men/boys were going to save my almost beyond repair day. Within minutes they had my van out of the spot, hooked up to their car, and jumped. They had it running. The air conditioner was going and my groceries saved.

"Thank you. Thank you so much," I gushed like a silly girl with a crush. "You literally saved me. Thank you. I didn't know what I was going to do. I had all these groceries... You saved me. Thank you."

"Fank you," Reilly Kate mimicked. "Fank you so much. You saved me." Like mother, like daughter. She even did the sigh and smile hair flip that I had perfected in college. It's so unflattering when your children mirror you.

I handed the guys all the money that was left in my wallet, seven bucks, and said, "Go buy yourselves some beers. I'd buy you each a beer, but" I motioned toward the children "I'm kinda busy right now."

They thanked me and went off into the sunset. My heroes. My princes. I was flying high. It felt good to be saved. Something about it literally made me feel young and cute again.

It wasn't until I got home that I realized I had baby spit up in my hair, milk leaking stains on my boobs, and ketchup on my shorts. I must have been quite the sight for those young pups. I bet I scared the hell out of them. They're probably right now recounting the experience.

"Dude, that fat old chick was totally making eyes at you."

"No way. She was so into you. She gave you the money. Man, she looked like my mom."

All said and done, the groceries were safe despite the long trip home, fighting rush hour traffic the whole way.

But I insist there must be an easier way of getting food in the house.

There's Gotta be an Easier Way to Get Food in Our House -- Part I

I know I've already discussed my intense dislike of shopping with children in tow. But for the sake of entertainment, let's review using yesterday as a prime example.

Yesterday morning began as any morning does around here: Roman awoke at the crack of dark and I tried to persuade him into sleeping a little bit later. My method is to lead by example. While he lays there and babbles and pulls out my hair strand by strand, I doze in and out of an unfulfilling sleep. What finally finally woke me up on this particular morning was a rather loud thud followed by a scared little boy's cry for his mama. Yes, Roman is crawling now and crawled right out of the bed, did a double flip (I can only speculate on how he accomplished this) and landed flat on his face.

Good morning.

Reilly Kate woke up soon after and we proceeded downstairs for breakfast. Much like Old Mother Hubbard, I went to my cupboard to give my poor girl some milk. When I got there, the cupboard was bare and so the poor girl asked for some juice. No juice. Toast? No bread. Pancakes? No mix. Eggs? None. Nothing. My poor girl got some dry Cheerios, an apple, and water. She wasn't happy.

Time to go to the grocery store. I began getting the kids and myself ready. Never mind the fact that it was still just 6-ish and the store wouldn't open for another three hours. I know how these things work and if I start the preparations early, I'll get to leave early. No distractions. Stay focused on the goal. Heck, I figured, we'd be back for lunch and then do an afternoon pool break. What a wonderful day I had planned.

Three loads of laundry, two baths, and a early morning nap followed by a major poopy blow out later, we were loaded up into the van and ready to go. It was ten o'clock.

As I drove through our pristine, brand new neighborhood I contemplate the recent rash of burglaries that is forcing us all to batten down the hatches. This leads me to think about our own home and whether I actually accomplished the battening. I couldn't remember if I'd hit the garage door button. I racked my brain but came up blank. I turned the van around to make sure.

Of course, the garage door was closed and I'd just made an extra turn around for nothing. Better safe than sorry, though. The time was then 10:05.

I head out of our development a little more hurried, trying to make up for those lost five minutes. I sped up to three times the legal limit of 5 mph and out of no where something white hits my windshield. I immediately thought it was a bird, but as I peered through it to view the road, I see that it is not a bird but a pair of panties. Reilly Kate's panties. When I was doing laundry I had put a pair on the hood of the van so as to remember to bring a spare pair for accidents. I had forgotten all about them and with the additional speed, they flew off.

I rolled down the window and turned the windshield wipers on to try to catch them while driving. It didn't work. I'm no catcher. They flew off and landed in the middle of the entrance to our complex. I turned the van around and doubled back to pick up the panties.

With panties in hand, we were finally on the road. The clock read 10:12. I laughed to myself that is had taken me almost 15 minutes to get out of my housing development. I laughed until I realized that I'd left my debit card and the grocery list sitting on the kitchen counter. For the THIRD time, I pulled the van around and back we went. This time a groundskeeper stopped weedwacking and waved at me. I'm certain that the construction crew working on the last of the new houses must have thought I was lost. I was frustrated and feeling foolish.

Back at the house, I left the car running and the kids safely buckled in their carseats as I popped in and grabbed the card and list. Time of departure was now 10:18.

I put the van into reverse and then I heard, "Mama!! I need my donkey!"

Without uttering a word, I put it back into park, ran inside and upstairs into Reilly Kate's room, grabbed her donkey and ran back down. I handed her the donkey, put the van back in reverse and sarcastically asked, "Is there ANYTHING else we need before we go to the store?"

"My sun gasses," (not a typo, that's how she says it, "sungasses") Reilly Kate replied quite matter of factly. And since I had asked, there was no way I could have said no to her. Back in park went the van. Back inside went I. I grabbed sunglasses and decided to make a quick check around the house for any other item that just might be needed. Nope. I was confident this time. We were going to be on our way.

And we were. The time was now 10:24. Almost a full 4 hours from when I started getting us ready to leave the house. Not bad, eh?