To My Future Daughters-in-Law: You're Welcome

So he may not have done a perfect job, but in Joey's accidental spilling of an entire box of Raisin Bran in the pantry, he tried multiple avenues of clean-up:

The kitchen towel proved somewhat ineffective

After successfully scattering every last piece of bran flakes and raisin to the four corners of the pantry with my kitchen towel, Joey then implemented an "eat and sweep" technique:

I have instilled a deep responsibility for any mess my boys create.  Therefore, they frequently attempt to rectify gross negligence in the areas of spilling, leaking, and messing before discovery is made.  Being as they are only 7, 5, and 3, I can usually spot the work of an amateur from a mile away.  Despite this, they persist.

Which is far more than I can say for certain other people:

Joe finished prepping the wall 4 days ago.  Perhaps he feels a shrine to his work is warranted.

The T-Shirt

I watched the news for hours yesterday while folding laundry.  The coverage of the Oslo bombing and shootings left me feeling angry and sad.   So I diverted my eyes back to my piles of unfolded clothes.  And then I  recognized the shirt I was holding.  It was the very t-shirt my husband wore on our 2nd date.  The man throws nothing away.  It made me smile:

I wore a dress.

Joe continues to wear this shirt regularly.  For him, it's one part tongue-in-cheek and one part, "No, really."  If only those who commit horrible crazy acts of violence could choose a similar method to express their displeasure, discontent, or overall disturbed nature.

I'm sure for that reason alone, millions of people worldwide would give the very shirts off their backs.  And I would have one less vintage t-shirt to fold each week.

The Book of Daniel

Watching the recent Diane Sawyer interview with kidnap victim Jaycee Dugard, I was left an emotional basket case. My husband unsuspectingly walked into our bedroom that Sunday evening to find me sobbing my way through the interview and demanding GPS tracking devices immediately installed in all 3 children. 

Besides the obvious empathy a person would have for Jaycee and her family, I also felt an enormous amount of gratitude towards the two campus police officers who simply got a bad vibe off kidnapper Phillip Garrido and finally brought Jaycee home after 18 years.

The women described their basic "maternal instinct" as the reason they chose to act. It got me thinking about my own maternal instincts and whether or not I actually have any.  After all, I am not a particularly focused or alert person.  I lost Daniel at a block party when he was 2.  I never remember to tell the Prompt Care doctors that my kids are allergic to penicillin.  I let the boys march up to the counter at McDonald's to get me scalding hot coffee while I run Joey to the bathroom.

Am I a neglectful mother?  Didn't I just allow my 7-year-old to accompany his father on some kind of raucous "we're all turning 40" party at some random lake this past week?  Initially, I had strictly forbidden any of my children to participate in this adventure, citing the deadly combination of alcohol, water, and small children.

Then I got to thinking.  Was I being selfish? Who would save my husband in my stead? Who could report on potential dangers? Who is observant enough to alert people if anything went askew? Due to my belief that this entire weekend water event had not been properly vetted, I felt a trustworthy chaperone needed to be assigned.  I just wasn't up for it.  But who?

The answer was clear:  Daniel.  Captain Morality. King of Righteousness and Order. The Prince of Piousness. After all, isn't this the kid who spent the last 2 years advising teachers on which children ran with scissors?  In Daniel's book, there are only extremes: good vs.evil, right vs. wrong, what mommy says vs. what daddy says.

The child thinks nothing of telling adults when they are breaking the rules ("excuse me, ma'am...I do believe the life guards said there is no eating on the deck and I'm fairly certain that big bag of Fritos you have there constitutes food, albeit a poor choice and perhaps lacking in basic nutrition...").



Yup. Daniel would make sure my husband and perhaps several of his friends would come back alive and well. Three years of swimming lessons. A strong moral compass. Unyielding focus. I couldn't think of a better appointment.

Daniel did return his father safe and sound in time for a family christening on Sunday. I realized that whatever maternal instincts skipped over me landed squarely on my son's shoulders instead. He is a marvelous watchdog, protector, and humanitarian - at times annoyingly righteous, and other times remarkably kind and loyal.

Now if he could just keep the rest of his family flying right....

Perhaps Having "Deathly Hallows" in the Title Should Have Been a Tip?

Miniature-Friend called me a couple of days ago as I was driving back from piano lessons and asked if Daniel wanted to go to the movies. Instead of instantly agreeing (like I would have done as a child, delighted at the opportunity to go anywhere with people who were not my family), Daniel asked, "What are they seeing?"

I don't know Dan.  A MOVIE.

Daniel quickly outlined his conditions: Call them back, mom.  I will go if it's 'Transformers' or 'Harry Potter.'  If it's anything else, forget it.

I knew my odds of reducing the child load for a few hours were zero when I heard the selected movie was Winnie the Pooh.  Thankfully, Miniature-Friend and I agreed to meet up the next day for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2.  It was an exceptionally hot one in Chicago yesterday, and I was feeling bloated.  Air conditioning and Swedish Fish seemed the perfect antidote.  Maybe I could even get a nap in.

So I lined up the babysitter (Joey hates loud movies) and firmed up plans.  I was surprised to see my husband walk in yesterday morning after his 24 hour shift at the firehouse.  No 2nd job call.  Do I cancel the babysitter?  Which parent goes to the movies?  Joe suggested we keep the babysitter and head out together to see Harry Potter.  Like a date even.

I didn't have the heart to outline how this was going to go down, so I played along. 

Yes, like a date.
 
Well one hour later, my husband was annoyed that I insisted we make a Target candy run (I mean did he think I of all people was really going to pay $5 for one box of Junior Mints at the theatre?).  We drove into the parking lot right at the movie's posted "start time."  He continued to grumble about being late and got even testier when in a heat-induced snit, I snapped, "you have heard of previews, right?  They take like 20 minutes."

Distracted as I dolled out Target candy to our group, I couldn't dissuade Joe as he snuck off to buy $20 popcorn. We were sitting directly behind our boys and their little friends. Did my husband honestly think the little beggars were going to be happy with their discounted Kit Kats once the smell of movie popcorn wafted past them?

The moment the hungry little gaggle realized popcorn was in the possession of an accompanying adult, the requests started.  Thankfully, I am well-versed in the rules of $20 popcorn purchases and the free-refill amendment.  I couldn't tell you what the Bill of Rights encompasses, but free popcorn I know.  I assured the kiddies that Mr. Crabby Toes would eat the first bag of popcorn, and I would turn over the refill to them for the 2nd half of the movie.  I shot daggers at my husband who just looked at me like "what?"

Not having a clue about the storyline since the first Harry Potter movie, all 3 adults were completely baffled by the plot.  But all 3 adults were keenly aware that this was a far more violent and less child-friendly movie than the first.  My husband continued to look at me with horror each time a particularly upsetting scene came on the screen.  What was I exposing our children to?  The Swedish Fish sugar crash caused me to snap again:

Those freakin' flying monkeys in 'The Wizard of Oz' were ungodly frightening, too.  Leave me alone.  You're not coming next time.  You can stay home and watch 'Swamp People' or 'Storage Wars' or whatever makes you happy.

Maybe I Should Have Paid More Attention to the PG13 Rating?

And with that, we got the twelfth request inside of 20 minutes to take another kid to the bathroom thanks in large part to the free-refill quart of pink lemonade. 

Just like a date. 

Miniature-Friend was worried about the kids having nightmares.  I figured they spent half the time in the bathroom and the other half of the time asking when Joe was going to be done with the first round popcorn so they could have their free refill.  I tried to assure her:

They're fine.  I saw 'The Shining' when I was 7, and I'm perfectly normal and well-adjusted.

Miniature-Friend did not look convinced.

Pointy & Sticky

I was ready for the tie-dye shirts.  The camp sent home notices so I had some time to wrap my brain around drippy & messy t-shirts making their way into my home. I reminded myself that this kind of activity was a right of passage for little kids during the summer. I rehearsed the scene in my mind. I discussed coping devices with friends. So when I picked up my minivan full of campers toting leaky plastic bags of disaster, I was able to maintain some passable version of sanity.

$2 craft shirts on sale at Michael's last week...perfect timing

What I wasn't ready for was pointy & sticky. Pointy & sticky made their appearance in the minivan yesterday without any warning. No note. No time to seek counsel or Valium.  Giant plates of sticky marshmallows stabbed with pointy sticks greeted me as I claimed my campers.

Dan's "art."  I wanted to photograph Jack's plate of pointy & sticky as well, but he ate it on the ride home.

Pointy & sticky exist on a whole different level than drippy & messy. Drippy & messy impact the prefrontal cortex of the brain. Pointy & sticky attack the entire central nervous system.  A head's up from the camp counselors or local neurologist should have been required.

Now there are probably some moms out there who do not fully appreciate the differences between drippy & messy and pointy & sticky. Let me explain. Drippy & messy intrude on a mother's desire to maintain a certain amount of order in her world. Non-washable dye dripped on leather interiors (albeit used leather interiors) violates that basic human need.

Pointy & sticky cunningly deliver a two-pronged attack on a mother's psyche. First, there is the obvious safety issue.  Amped up little boys should simply not be allowed to run around with plates full of mini-daggers and a complete disregard for long-term vision care.

Second, we have the sticky issue. Contrary to drippy (whose path can be easily followed and maintained), sticky is akin to an aggressive cancer, spreading its unpleasant nature to all elements of car, home, clothing, remote controls, etc.  Even when you believe you have sent sticky into complete remission, you often find it persists somewhere.  Like your hairbrush or telephone. 

Unlike Jack, who devoured his pointy & sticky offering within moments of bouncing into the car, Daniel opted to save his project.  He asked me when we could go have it laminated.

I don't think the laminating experts at Lakeshore Learning would be able to cope with that idea without a neurologist's express written consent.  And possibly some Valium.

The Little (Lotto) Things

I sat down at my computer the other day and noticed that my husband had dropped a stack of cardboard codes on my desk - all torn out from boxes of Coke products.  He knows how much I enjoy a good rewards program and I only recently came to terms with no longer being a Pampers' Gifts to Grow member.  I should have known that potty training Joey could only bite me in the ass one day.

Codes, magical codes

Joe is currently the firehouse "treasurer" (translation: guy who fills the vending machines).  Don't repeat that, please.  He feels he's finally putting that EIU finance degree to good use. 

Regardless, the position has its perks.  Every time Joe fills the pop machines, he tears out the codes for his crazy code-collecting wife.  I'm Chicago's version of John Nash in A Beautiful Mind.  If there's a code which can lead to a free t-shirt or monogrammed towel, by God...I'll find it.

I started rifling around my desk to see if he had left any more and noticed a stack of unchecked Little Lotto tickets.  I love Little Lotto.  My husband prefers the big games - PowerBall, MegaMillions, etc.  He has dreams of paying off all his friends' mortgages, retiring, and moving all his buddies somewhere warm.

 I'm not sure if he's planning on taking me.

Little Lotto, Little Dreams

I don't like those big games. I know that statistically, Little Lotto has better odds, but that's not why I play.  I have seen one too many of those curse-of-the-lottery television shows.  The winners all end up sick, miserable, and broke.  I like Little Lotto because the money wouldn't change our lives that dramatically. Things are pretty okay the way they are.  A Little Lotto win would only mean that Joe wouldn't have to work every day of the week. Perhaps we'd get HBO. I'd add cello to the boys' musical rotation. We'd have a fund for their future therapists. Nothing too crazy.

I suppose at the heart of my not wanting to win millions is the joy that would be stripped from my existence.  It wouldn't feel the same getting a free oven mitt with my Coke points if I had $300 million in the bank.  People would laugh at me for wasting my time.  I currently have $5 waiting to be spent at Kmart with my rewards card there, and I am giddy.  Every time I get a CVS $10 ExtraBucks reward, I buy Tide because it makes doing laundry, I don't know, happier.

I have enough for this 300 pt. gift, but I'm saving for Season 1 of Glee (1800 pts)

The people I know with a lot of money all seem to be good, decent folks.  Yet there is always a sense that their right to complain has long-since been revoked.  I mean what do you think the reaction is to a multi-millionaire moaning about the line at the DMV?

"Dude...you own a yacht.  Shut the f*#$ up."

I for one like to complain and wouldn't give it up for all the money in the world.  My husband would second that if he hadn't already gone to bed lamenting his having to fill up the vending machines this week. 

And I'm just that much closer to Season 1 of Glee.