In Which Tommy Loves To Swim

“Tommy, you’ll have to bring your jacket because it’s a little chilly,” I called out. I picked up his jacket and realized that it felt heavy. Then I checked his pockets and found a ton of stones. “Er, Tommy? Is there a reason for these?” I showed him the stones in my palm and he gave me a big grin.

“They’re my magic,” he explained solemnly.

I nodded as though this made complete sense. “I see,” I said. I left the stones alone because you can’t mess with magic.

“You ready to go?” I asked Tommy as he shrugged on his jacket.

“Yup!”

We were headed for his swim lessons. He’s been going all month long. Yesterday was his last lesson. Thankfully Tom has been coming home from work in time to watch Natalie so I don’t have to worry about her trying to leap into the pool. And she definitely would try, too. I just know it. Unfortunately swim lessons don’t start for her until three.

“Mommy? Do I swim super duper fast?” Tommy wondered as we drove to the aquatic center.

“Yes you do,” I said and I wasn’t telling a fib. When he first started out he was usually the last kid to touch the wall. Now he usually finishes first or second. Granted, there are only two other kids in the class, but still...in the beginning he’d get frustrated and stomp over when the lessons were over. His lips would be clenched and he’d be sulking at his feet.

“I’m always last place,” he muttered to me.

“Well. You just have to keep trying,” I told him as I rubbed him down with the towel.

When we got to his last day of swim lessons he went over to his teacher and said, “Guess what? My Mom showed me videos of people swimming!” His voice reverberated around the room. My kid has a loud voice. But he was right though: I HAD showed him videos of people swimming because he doesn’t seem to understand the concept of the butterfly stroke. So I showed him a race that a bunch of swimmers did. And okay, one of those swimmers MAY have been Michael Phelps…which is why I heard Tommy saying (loudly) to his teacher,

“And Mom thinks one of the swimmers is a stud.”

His last word seemed to echo around the room so it sounded like “Stud-ud-ud-ud…”

A few of the other mothers waiting started to giggle. One of them leaned over to me and mouthed, “Michael Phelps?” and with a red face I meekly nodded. I should have lied and said something like, “Actually, no. Mark Spitz.”

Swimming seems to be Tommy’s thing. We knew we could never put him in t-ball or soccer or flag football—sports that other parents seem to quickly want their boys to be in. The reason being is that Tommy is extremely sensitive. If he didn’t hit the ball in t-ball, he’d surely cry. If he didn’t get to kick the ball in soccer, there would be tears. If someone accidentally pushed him down in flag football, he’d probably sink to the grass in despair and turn into Nancy Kerrigan and shriek, “WHYYYYYY? WHYYYY?”

Sure, he may have improved. But Tommy is just wired to want to succeed all the time. He has Aspergers and doesn’t always understand the rules of our society.

I noticed he had a knack for swimming when we were visiting my parents over the summer. They have a pool and I’d watch as Tommy taught himself how to swim.

“Look Mommy! Look! Am I swimming?” he’d call out hopefully as he splashed across the pool.

“Yes! You are swimming!” I’d shout.

Still, I wanted him to improve because when he was in the pool, he sort of thrashed around. I wanted him to understand the different strokes.

So he started swim lessons.

And yeah, he had problems sometimes. The teacher would teach them how to kick their legs and Tommy wouldn’t always comprehend. He’d try for a few seconds and then revert back to the way he knew how. Tommy isn’t always aware of how his appendages work which is why he’s been in occupational therapy since he was three. This is another reason why other sports wouldn’t sit well with him: he’s awkward when he runs and trips over his two feet if he gets overexcited.

Tommy’s best stroke turned out to be the backstroke. I’d watch in awe as he’d get on his back and propel himself easily across the pool.

It’s humbling to know that your seven-year-old swims better than you.

He still needs some more lessons so he understands all the different strokes and how exactly to do them. When his teacher was trying to teach him to do the butterfly he looked at her and went, "I don't like that one. Let's do the backstroke again." So I’ll be signing him up for more lessons. Unfortunately the base pool is closing for renovations until March so now I have to travel off base—which is fine but when it starts to get dark, I tend to get nervous because I hate driving in the dark. But I’ll do it. I’ll do it for him. Because swimming makes him happy.

No Penguin Bathroom

Yesterday Tom didn’t have to go into work until one since he had to pick a co-worker up from the airport and didn’t get in until midnight the night before.

I was going to use this to my advantage. I planned on leaving Natalie with him and shopping at Target in peace.

But no. Natalie saw me grabbing my purse and she was immediately on high alert.

“Shopping Mommy? We go shopping?” She rushed and started trying to put her shoes on. This was not going well. She’d attempt to shove her foot in and nothing would happen. The shoe would just dangle on her toes.

“Actually,” I said kindly. “Mommy was planning on going alone.”

Tom looked startled from the couch. “What?” He appeared to have forgotten our conversation that we had a few minutes prior where I had said I’d be going to the store. By myself. Sometimes I wonder if he hears me at all. If I’m not talking about sex, boobs, or food, my comments tend to go right over his head.

“I’m going to Target and you’re staying with Natalie,” I reminded him.

Tom blinked. This does not compute. The words might have well been scrolling over his forehead.

“I go shopping, Mommy?” Natalie asked sweetly. “And Daddy come too?” She fluttered her eyelashes towards a still baffled Tom. He clearly had no idea what was going on. One minute he was lounging on the couch picking his toe cheese (ew!) and the next he’s being coerced into going shopping.

“I’ll come,” Tom grumbled because it’s hard for him to say no to Natalie. I mean, he can do it, don’t get me wrong, but then five minutes later he’s apologizing and saying, “Daddy doesn’t mean to get upset. But you need to listen.”

So I didn’t get to shop alone. But that’s okay. Sort of. The thing is, Tom doesn’t understand how to shop Target. He doesn’t get that I look in every section because you never know when you’ll stumble on those beautiful 75% off signs. So when we first walked in the store, Tom started heading down towards the electronics section.

“Woah there,” I said lightly, pulling on the cart. “Where are you going?” Doesn’t he know that I always start off in the clothes section and work my way around?

“I’m going to the only section I like in the store,” Tom replied.

“Okay. Well. I’ll meet you there,” I said and started to walk off.

“Mommy!” Natalie called out, arms outstretched.

I turned. “I’ll meet up with you later,” I promised.

“Mommy! I come!” Natalie begged. She puffed her lip out.

Oh for—so much for shopping in peace. I took the cart and started doing my rounds. Tom found me standing in front of a Tide display with a wide grin on my face a few minutes later.

“What are you doing? I was waiting forever and I decided to see what happened to you,” Tom said.

Waiting forever? It was more like five minutes! Tops. But then again, five minutes in a store to Tom probably feels like five hours.

“The Tide is on sale for $10.99 and I have a dollar coupon off!” I said in a giddy tone as I dug through my purse for the coupon.

“And…this excites you?” Tom’s brows were furrowed as though he were in deep thought.

“It does! This means I get Tide for $9.99! That’s a good price,” I felt the need to add because Tom seriously looked confused. He doesn’t comprehend how to use coupons. When he does go out, I always try to get him to use the coupons and he’s all, “I don’t know how.” What does that even MEAN? What does he mean he “doesn’t know how?” You just hand the coupons over to the cashier. It’s as simple as that.

I managed to find the dollar off coupon and held it over my head like a trophy.

“Found it!” I said and this old lady who walked past us winked and said, “Good for you, dear.”

“See? Someone else who knows the beauty of coupons. Now. Let’s do a little test, Tom. There are various amounts of Tide on sale for $10.99. Which one should I get?” I said.

Tom appeared to be a little frightened. He stared at the display of Tides for a few seconds and went, “Well. This one smells like lavender. You like things that smell, right?” He went to reach for it.

“WRONG!” I said cheerfully. “If you notice that the lavender one is only good for 40 loads. But this Clean Breeze scented one is good for 64 loads.” I tapped the bottle to show him.

Tom was agog. “Does it really matter?”

Thank goodness he isn’t in charge of the shopping. We’d be totally broke. He’d just throw the first thing he saw into the cart.

“Can we go now?” Tom asked with a sigh. Obviously my Tide lesson wasn’t enlightening in the least.

“Go? No. I still have the other half of the store to go through,” I said and started walking off.

Tom groaned as he caught up to me. “Why? Why are you going down the bathroom aisle? We don’t need anything—wait. Oh my Gosh, look! We can decorate our bathroom in penguins!” Sadly, he wasn’t even joking. Tom pulled a penguin shaped trash can from the shelf and hugged it to his chest. The penguin even had a pair of sunglasses on.

“Um. No Tom,” I said gently and tried to take it from his hands.

“No?” He looked genuinely shocked and shifted away so I couldn’t take his treasure.

“We’re not children anymore. I don’t want to decorate our bathroom in penguins. I like the way it looks now,” I explained as though I were speaking to my son when he’s begging for a toy.

“Our bathroom is boring,” Tom fumed.

It’s decorated in blue and white by the way. And okay, that probably sounds a little boring but up until the penguin, Tom wasn’t complaining.

“Tom. That penguin will creep me out when I go to the bathroom at night. I’ll feel like something is staring at me,” I attempted to try another tactic. And I wasn’t lying. I startle easily and I probably WOULD jump when I shuffled into the bathroom at night. My bladder isn’t what it used to be thanks to my two kids who used it as a punching bag so I’m usually up at least once per night to use the bathroom.

“I’ll turn the penguin around before I go to bed,” Tom said graciously.

I rubbed my temples. He was starting to give me a headache. “Tom. Please. We’re adults. I’d like my bathroom to convey this. If we decorated in penguins, I’d feel like I was walking into Toys R Us.”

“But look at this awesome penguin soap dispenser!” Tom said, pointing it out.

“It’s nice. Really. But no,” I said and pried the penguin trash from Tom’s hands.

“The kids get a duck bathroom,” Tom muttered.

“Yes. Because they’re CHILDREN,” I answered.

Honestly. Sometimes I feel like I have three kids, not two.

Silence!

“So who died? What happened? Why is everyone crying?” Tom asked me on Thursday night as I watched Grey’s Anatomy. This wouldn’t bother me if he had asked these questions during a commercial. But no. He has a bad habit of asking questions during the actual show. And yes, I suppose I could have paused it but sometimes I’m just not in the mood to converse.

“No talking,” I said to Tom and pressed a finger to my lips. I had just got the kids down and was relishing in the fact that I could stretch out on the couch and watch a show in peace.

“Who died? Who is George?” Tom continued, not getting the hint. Apparently he doesn’t comprehend the words “no talking.”

“It’s quiet time!” I tried again.

He continued to yak again when I started to watch FlashForward on my DVR.

“What’s this? What’s going on?”

Is he KIDDING?

He thankfully lapsed into a silence for a few minutes and then practically fell off the couch when he shouted, “Seth MacFarlane! That’s Seth MacFarlane, creator of Family Guy! I knew he sounded familiar. I kept going, ‘Why am I hearing Brian the Dog?’ and now I know why. Because it’s SETH MACFARLANE!”

Oh my dear God.

You have to understand that Seth MacFarlane is sort of like a God to Tom. He loves Family Guy and loves to quote the show.

So basically, since Tom kept asking me questions during MY show, I decided I’d do the same to him when he was watching his beloved Family Guy.

“Wow, is that a dog? Why is a dog talking? It’s not a Disney movie after all,” I said as I plopped on the couch. (For those who have never seen the show, it depicts this dog named Brian who behaves like a human.)

Tom pulled his eyes from the screen and stared at me as though I had a bra wrapped around my forehead.

“So does the entire family understand what Stewie is saying? Or it is really just his thoughts like they did in Look Who’s Talking? ” I continued sweetly. (Stewie is the one year old in the show.)

Of course I knew the answers to these questions but I just wanted Tom to feel the frustration that I experienced.

“Amber,” Tom said, speaking to me as though I were a complete idiot. “You’ve seen this show a lot. Why are you asking me dumb questions?”

Dumb questions?

Excuse me!

“I’m surprised that other people don’t question that a dog is walking around behaving like a human. If a dog was walking on two legs around me and talking in English, I’d be scared shitless!” I said, completely ignoring Tom’s statement.

Tom frowned as he tried to concentrate on the show. “Amber, please. I’m trying to watch.”

A HA!

“Just like I try to watch my shows in peace,” I said.

A commercial came on the screen so Tom stared at me again. “What?”

“It’s annoying when people speak during your shows, right?” I pressed.

Tom was clearly bewildered. “Right…” he replied slowly.

“Well, you seem to love asking me questions during my programs so I decided to do the same during yours to teach you a lesson,” I explained.

Tom made a face. “I never ask questions during your shows!” he argued. Then he seemed to remember jabbering on while the show was running and he looked slightly guilty. “I mean…well, sometimes I just need to know what’s going on.”

“And I’ll be happy to answer your questions. During the commercial break,” I said. I stuck my hand out. “So do we have a deal? No talking during shows?”

Tom gave me a limp shake. “I guess…”

He’s going to totally forget. I can almost bet when I watch Grey’s Anatomy this week he’s going to be all, “Wow, so there are LESBIANS on this show?”

When You Live With A Two Year Old...

This is a door.

Correction.

This is a locked door.

Correction again.

This is a locked door that has a crack in it because I lost my temper awhile back due to it being locked. I may have tried to do karate moves to bust it open. It did not work because A) I have no karate moves and B) I have no karate moves and only wound up with a sore foot. Oh, and a cracked door.

But that was another story.

This is a completely different one.

Because this time, someone was actually on the other side of the door.

Do you know who that someone was?

That would be my daughter.

Natalie.

She’s two, by the way.

My two year old rushed upstairs, ran into my bedroom, and locked the door on me.

Do you want to know why?

Oh, it was a series of events that led up to the locked door. So it’s best that I start from the beginning.

What happened was, Natalie and I went to Once Upon a Child to drop off some items to sell. Contrary to my husband’s belief, I actually can get rid of things. Fine, so I get attached to some items but I can’t help it. He thinks I need to throw out my high school notebooks but hello, maybe there will be a time when I want to look and see what I had for seventh period when I was in eleventh grade. You just never know. (And by the way, it was journalism.)

So I dropped off the bin of stuff and while the store workers were going through it, Natalie and I looked in the toy section. I love to buy books from Once Upon a Child because they range from fifty cents to a buck fifty. I hate to pay full price for books because my daughter usually ends up either A) coloring in it or B) ripping it up. This hurts my heart because a book should never be defiled in any way. Unless it’s Heart of Darkness which I could not get through no matter how hard I tried. And then I had to write a report on it and I wrote something like, “It’s about some guy on a boat.” I imagine I wrote more because I ended up getting a B but honestly, that book was hard to read. I felt so lost in class as other students yakked on about imperialism and I was all, “All I can remember is some dude shouting ‘The horror, the horror,’ and that’s basically the same thing I say when I’ve discovered I’m out of chocolate.” No one laughed when I said that by the way. They just went on talking about imperialism which made me think of Star Wars.

Anyhow, the store worker let me know that she was done going through my clothes and that they’d give me forty bucks for it. This excited me because forty bucks mean new clothes to buy! I’m kidding. I really am trying to cut back. I told Natalie that it was time to go and she had to say goodbye to the diseased looking bear she was holding.

“No thanks,” Natalie told me primly and stuck the matted bear in a toy stroller. She started walking away in the opposite direction.

I rushed over and stood in front of the stroller. “It’s time to go,” I tried again, attempting to pry the stroller from her grasp. This was not easy. For a two year old, she’s surprisingly strong. Or maybe I’m surprisingly weak. I think I’m going to go with the former.

“No THANKS, MOMMY,” Natalie screamed into my ear. This kid is seriously going to render me deaf one day. It seems my ears ring on a daily basis thanks to her and that can’t be good.

“You may not speak to me like that. I understand that you want to stay and play but we’re going home,” I said firmly. I gave the stroller another tug and Natalie refused to let go. She gave me a defiant look before turning around and walking off in the opposite direction leaving me standing there partially deaf.

“PLOW! PLOW!” some other kid shouted and rolled a toy pony right into my legs.

I was beginning to lose my patience. I wanted to go, my left ear was ringing and now my legs hurt. I limped over to Natalie, who was in the corner talking lovingly to her bear. I was a little insulted. How can she be so nice to a diseased animal but be so mean to me? I mean, I gave her life. The diseased bear will probably give her the flu. I’m not understanding her rationale.

“It’s time to go,” I said and then scooped her up before she could escape again. I had her tucked under my arm and I walked over to the cashier to get my money. Natalie had started to thrash and shout angrily because her freaky looking bear had been left behind.

“How would you like your money today?” the cashier said calmly, seeming oblivious to the fact that my daughter was turning into Linda Blair right in front of our eyes.

“Whatever is easiest,” I replied in a rushed tone. (What I wanted to say was, “In bills, thanks,” but people don’t always comprehend sarcasm.)

The woman slowly pulled out some money. I was starting to lose my grip on Natalie.

“PLAY MOMMY! PLAY!” Natalie was crying. She twisted around in my arm and tried to struggle free. “LET GO! LET GO!”

The cashier gave her a bright smile. “Are you having a bad day, sweetheart?” she inquired. Even when Natalie is blue in the face, people are still nice to her. I believe it’s because of the ultra adorable outfits I put her in and the fact that I put her hair in pigtails. Not many people can resist a kid in pigtails even if they are in the middle of a fit.

But Natalie, who is going through a shy phase and doesn’t like other adults to converse with her, promptly covered her face with her hands.

“Are you shy, honey?” the woman continued as she slid two twenties at me.

“AHHHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHH!” Natalie bellowed her hands still over her eyes.

The cashier gave me a baffled look. “Did I frighten her?”

I grabbed the bills and shoved them in my purse. “Well…she believes when she covers her eyes that you don’t exist. So the fact that you still were speaking freaked her out because she assumed you were gone,” I explained gently.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” the cashier said to Natalie, who yelped again.

It was definitely time to leave. I said thank you and rushed out of there.

We had to stop off at Wal-Mart next because Tom is obsessed with these mini apple pies that they sell. And they’re Wal-Mart brands so that’s the only place I can get them. All morning he had hounded me to “remember to get those pie things,” and then when I was in Wal-Mart he called and went, “did you get the pie things? Two boxes of them?” After I hung up with him, there was this lady giving cereal samples. My stomach was growling at that point so I said I’d try them. First she gave me a tiny bowl of that Kashi Krap. I decided I’d give it another try even though the last time I tried the stuff it reminded me of flavored bark.

I took a bite and made a face.

It still tastes like flavored bark.

Then she let me try this cereal:



I was a little wary because any cereal that claims that it’s healthy usually tastes funky to me. Hi, I’m Amber and I’m twenty seven and I still prefer Lucky Charms and Cookie Crisp. Oh, and Reeses Puffs.

I was pleasantly surprised. This cereal, the one that claimed that it was vanilla almond, tasted delicious. I just tasted sweet, not nuts. (That’s what she said!) So I decided to buy a box.

When we were done, I stopped at McDonalds and asked Natalie if she wanted the nugget Happy Meal or the cheeseburger one.

“NO EATS!” she screeched.

Seriously, this girl sometimes behaves as though eating is a chore. Eating is one of my favorite parts of the day and here is this kid, MY kid, who seems to hate it.

I got her the nuggets and obviously as soon as they were handed over, she wanted the cheeseburger.

I just cannot win.

She was upset the entire drive home.

“Burger Mommy! BURGER!”

“Sorry. You didn’t tell me so you’ll be eating the nuggets,” I replied.

“BURRRRGERRR!” she yelled as I rolled down my window to give the base policeman my ID card.

“Sounds like a party in there,” the guy quipped as he gazed at my card.

“It’s more like a zoo,” I answered, wincing.

When we got home Natalie abruptly stopped shouting and sniffed, “I’m happy now.” I believed this. I believed it because I wanted to believe it. I believed it because now both of my ears were ringing. I believed it because I wanted a little peace and quiet.

We went inside and I said I’d get her some ketchup for her nuggets. I was off in the kitchen doing this when I heard a bang from upstairs. Oh no. I rushed up the stairs and found the closed door. I put my hand on the knob, turned it and….nothing. It was locked.

“Natalie! Please open this door!” I said in a cheerful voice. I didn’t want her to know that I was both irritated and frightened. Irritated because hello, that’s MY bedroom. You don’t lock someone out of their own bedroom. It’s just poor taste. Frightened because then I start to worry that Natalie would get hurt and I was in no mood to rush to the ER and wait for hours on end while Doogie Howser assured me that everything would be okay.

“NO!” came Natalie’s voice.

“So you lied to me? You said you were happy now. You said you were HAPPY NOW!” I said dramatically as I struggled with the knob.

“GO away!” Natalie yelled.

I knew how to get the knob open from the last time it was locked on me. So I got the wire thing that I knew I could stick in the middle of the knob and started fiddling around.

“I’m coming in!” I said, after hearing the knob click. I went to turn it and only ended up banging my shoulder on the door because it turned out it wasn’t unlocked after all.

Ouch.

So I kept messing with it and finally, mercifully, I did get it open. I swung open the door and went, “AHA!” expecting to find Natalie going through my jewelry or pulling out all my clothes in the dresser. Instead she was sitting on my bed, sucking her thumb. She glared at me as I entered.

“Go away,” she fumed from the side of her mouth.

Of course she got punished for her behavior. Locking a parent out of their own room is bad manners. But after she sat on the naughty step, she did apologize.

“Are you ready for some lunch?” I asked.

Natalie nodded.

“Great. Let’s go have some nuggets,” I said, leading her to the table.

Natalie’s brows furrowed. “Cheeseburger!”

I'd Love To, But I'm Sick

Tom is sick.

It sure is fun to be around a grown man who whines about not being able to breathe out of his nose.

It’s just a ball of laughs to hear “I’d love to, but I’m sick,” for every request I give him.

For example: I asked him to entertain Natalie while I made dinner.

“I’d love to, but I’m sick,” he replied while stretched out on the couch. Which is another thing: I never get to stretch out in the couch when I’m sick.

“Tom, give the cat some food,” I said.

“I’d love to, but I’m sick.”

I was close to smothering him with the couch pillow, let me tell you.

He’d also stretch out his words in this horrible whine. Like when we were eating dinner (which, by the way, he made a big show from getting up from the couch—he lifted his body up and made this loud moaning sound) he was all, “My throat hurttsssss so muchhhhhhh.”

At this point, I had enough. So I said, “I imagine your throat does hurt Tom. You know what also hurt? When I felt as though my stomach were about to rip apart and I pushed out a HUMAN BEING.”

This shut him up for a little bit.

Then he shuffled to the computer to play his game. He speaks to other plays via a headset and he sounded perfectly fine to me.

I was grateful when he announced he was going to bed around nine. Finally. Some peace and quiet. I went upstairs to say goodnight and his hands started to roam over my body.

“Excuse me? I thought you were sickkkkkk,” I said, slapping his hands off my breasts.

“I’m never too sick for sex,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows up and down.

I can’t believe he didn’t even worry that he’d pass the germs onto me. If I’m sick, I don’t get to lounge on the couch. I still have kids to tend to. So I can’t afford to be sick.

So I looked at Tom and just said, “I’d love to, but I’m sick,” before rushing out of the room.

Fashion Shows R Us

So it's no secret that I love buying cute outfits for my kids.

I can't help it.

Some people are all, "I don't bother getting the cute outfits because my kids outgrow it in a month." Not mine. I gave birth to incredibly skinny children who can remain in an outfit for over a year. Heck, my daughter is 2 and she can still fit into some 12-18 clothes.

Anyhow, I have some pictures. It's getting chilly over here which means it's time to break out the fall clothes!



I fell in love with the owl vest and had to have it.





How do I get her to laugh? I jump around and sing creepy Yo Gabba Gabba songs. Yes, my neighbors think I'm crazy. They've walked by several times. One guy shouted, "Nice song!" when I was singing about not biting your friends.

My neighbors also think I'm nuts because I do things like this:



What? So it's not normal to pose in sixteenth century clothing in your front yard? I once went outside and attempted to tend to the plants that I attempted to grow over the summer in this dress hoping that it would make gardening more exciting. It didn't. I was still bored and still wonder what people see in it. I suppose the outcome is nice but the problem is, I can't GET to the outcome. Oh well. And yes, I will be wearing this dress on Halloween. Maybe I'll even curtsy to the kids who come to the door and be like, "How does thou do this evening?"



Then Natalie started a conversation with a stick. Should I be concerned?

***Cue Muzak for the outfit change. La la la why do birds, suddenly appear....***



This would also be perfect for Valentine's Day.



Love this picture even though she seems really attached to those stick things..



She's all, "Yo. If you like these clothes, shop at Crazy8."



Her reaction when I told her we were out of Hershey Kisses. She's all, "WTF woman? You best be getting me some more chocolate."



She's all, "I know. I don't get the purpose of Dancing with the Stars either. If the show went away, there could be so many other shows in its place. It's on the air too much!"

The Cheese Shirt

Okay, so I admit it. I probably don’t dress like a typical Mom. A lot of my shirts depict funny sayings on them which apparently is a big no no to wear if you’re an adult. The people on What Not To Wear claim that worded tees are tacky. Tacky or not, I love them. But at the same time, I don’t want to embarrass my kid. So before we left for Parent Information Night at his school I asked Tommy if I could wear this:



(And if you can’t read backwards, the words say “You Monster!”)

“You can wear that. I like cheese,” Tommy said cheerfully.

Thankfully we didn’t have to take Natalie with us since Tom got home in time. Natalie tends to get insulted whenever we go into Tommy’s classroom because she assumes she’ll also get a desk and a chair. She’ll shout, “Where’s MY chair? WHERE’S MY CHAIR?”

She’s also going through a shy phase. If an adult speaks to her, she’ll instantly cover her face because if she can’t see you, you don’t exist.

Weirdly, she’s not shy around other kids. No, with other kids she marches over and says, “Who you?” to the startled child.

Well, that night I wouldn’t have to worry about Natalie frightening the kids or dodging the adults because she was staying with her Daddy.

“Remember to cut up her hot dog and give her some ketchup,” I told Tom as I grabbed my purse.

Tom rolled his eyes. “You act as though I don’t know how to take care of my own kid.”

Well. Maybe so. But he once stayed home with Natalie and when I came home, the house reeked because Natalie had pooped and he had claimed not to smell it even though his eyes were watering. He says that changing poop diapers makes him gag. I always joke that he’ll risk his life for his country, but heaven forbid a poopy diaper comes at him. It just doesn’t make sense.

Anyhow, Tommy and I went to his school and found seats in the auditorium. The Principal was going to speak before we were able to go to the classrooms. I had sat through this same speech twice before. A lot of people don’t bother to show up until a half hour later when the classroom visits begin—I’d do this but then there is no parking which means you get to park on the dirt and get boxed in.

The thing is, I’m awful at backing out and if you park on the dirt, people practically park on top of you and I know I’d hit something.

So I always come early which means I get to sit through a speech about responsibility from the Principal. She started her speech and I started to find ways of entertaining myself. Sometimes I’ll play Count the Gymboree. This is when I take note of the kids wearing the clothes. I had spotted two and then, oh my God, a family with five kids walked in all clad in Gymboree! Do you want to be my friend? I wanted to call out to the woman.

When the Principal was done, we were able to go to the classrooms. As we walked down the hall, Tommy waved hello to a lot of people. He’s well known because he’s a great kid. And, okay, because in Kindergarten he totally screamed. I’m proud to say he does not do that anymore.

Thank goodness there were adult chairs set up in Tommy’s classroom. It’s a little uncomfortable when the miniature chairs are set up—I mean, I can’t get my entire butt on that thing! I get one ass cheek on and the other hangs off. It’s especially comical to watch tall men sit down on the tiny chairs—their knees are practically up to their cheeks.

“Big people chairs!” I blurted out as I settled down. The woman who sat down beside me raised an eyebrow. Apparently she’s never had the misfortune of sitting in a munchkin seat.

I learned all about the expectations of second grade. When the teacher went over the discipline method—it’s a traffic light and if a kid gets a warning, they go from green to yellow and if they are really naughty, they go to red. Tommy whispered to me, “I’ve only gotten green lights since school started.” He nodded his chin to another little boy sitting with his Mom. “That kid always gets red lights.” I pressed a finger to my lips and Tommy was all, “I was just SAYING…”

Tommy is doing well in school. I’ll find out more during the Parent/Teacher conferences next month but for now, there are no issues which is always a plus. In Kindergarten I dreaded the sound of the telephone ringing because it was usually always the school telling me that Tommy was crying again.

So far, so good…

Natalie is Part Animal

“Your daughter is part animal,” I informed my husband Tom. I had rushed upstairs and found him emerging from the bathroom because he had just enjoyed a leisurely PIP (poop in peace.) I suppose I should at least be grateful that he had done it upstairs so we wouldn’t have to smell the wafts of his creation downstairs. Of course it would be nice if I could enjoy a PIP but whatever, beggars can’t be choosers right?

“Huh?” Tom replied, scratching the side of his head. I really hoped that he washed his hands when he was finished using the bathroom. I read in a magazine that 86% of men admit to not washing their hands after using the toilet. I find this disgusting. Do they not realize that URINE can transfer to their fingers? And thus, if they touch other people or FURNITURE in the house that said urine will get on that? This is why I try not to think about it.

“Your daughter is part animal,” I repeated. “Do you know what she did? I was on the computer writing my novel and all of a sudden I heard this dripping sound. I assumed she was dumping out her sippy cup again and I swirled around and was in the middle of asking her to stop it when I saw her standing over a VENT and PISSING INTO IT!”

Tom started to chuckle.

“It’s not FUNNY!” I shrieked. How could he be laughing? Did he not hear me when I said that his daughter peed into a vent like a common vagrant? How could that not bother him?

Tom quickly wiped the smile from his face for fear of my wrath. “Well,” he said, struggling hard not to laugh. “Why did you take her diaper off?”

I threw my hands up in frustration. “I didn’t! The little minx took it off herself! You know she’s been stripping these days. Which is another issue: should we be concerned? Is she starting to practice early for a future job as an exotic dancer?”

Tom smirked. “I doubt that.”

“So anyhow, you get to clean the pee up,” I added casually, heading downstairs.

Tom was at my heels in an instant. “What?”

“You get to clean the pee up,” I said again. “You got to enjoy a PIP, thus you get to deal with the pee.”

Tom seemed genuinely confused. “That doesn’t seem fair…”

I got to the bottom step and whirled around. Tom nearly collided into me. “Jesus! Don’t just stop like that,” he complained.

“Tom, it’s only fair that you take care of the mess,” I said sweetly. I went into the kitchen and picked up some paper towels and the carpet cleaner.

“But..But..” Tom sputtered as I placed the towels in his baffled hand.

I pointed out the vent that Natalie had mistaken for her potty. Maybe she needs glasses?

“I peed,” Natalie told us grandly as we entered the room. She was sitting naked in the living room, coloring a picture.

“Natalie peed in the vent!” Tommy tattled.

“Make sure you get all the pee. I’m not sure if the liquid will like, cause the house to blow up when the furnace kicks on,” I told Tom. Obviously I’ve been watching too many action movies. It’s not my fault. Tom always puts on True Lies whenever he sees it on cable.

“This is so gross. Ew, there’s pee surrounding the vent too!” Tom whined. “Natalie, sweets, what were you doing, writing out a signal?”

Natalie looked up and grinned. “I peed!”

“Maybe she was trying to spell out her name,” I said jokingly.

Tom was not amused. “Oh, laugh it up.” He made a face as he started dabbing the pee with the paper towel. “This is so gross. It’s still WARM!”

Please. How can he find that disgusting? If he wants disgusting, he should try cleaning a diaper where the poo has gone up the back. THAT’S disgusting because you’re not quite sure where to start when that occurs. But sopping up some pee? That’s nothing.

Tom opened the vent and stuck his hand down to scrub off the liquid. “When I pictured myself as adult, I never pictured doing this,” he fumed as he struggled to wipe up everything.

“Welcome to my world!” I said sweetly. When I pictured myself as an adult, I never thought I’d utter phrases like, “Penises belong in your pants,” (spoken to both my son and husband, I’m sad to admit..) and “We don’t suck on rocks.”

Children definitely bring plenty of surprises, that’s for sure.

But I don’t mind.

It gives me something to write about, after all.

Some Exciting News

“Whooooooooo!” Tom bellowed as he walked through the front door. He had his arms waving victoriously in the air.

He startled me, to be honest. I was in the middle of drinking water and I nearly choked on it. I mean, you don’t just come bursting through the door shrieking. It’s just not cool.

“Guess what?” Tom sang at me. He looked positively thrilled and I half expected him to do a pirouette, which by the way, would have been hilarious. My husband is six feet tall so watching his limbs twist around would be a sight to see.

“You got expert?” I wondered. I knew he had just come home from firing his gun and he usually always gets expert.

“No. I mean, yes I did but that’s not why I’m happy,” Tom said, standing in front of me. I could smell his breath. It did not smell good. Has he not heard of Tic Tacs?

“Then why are you happy?” I asked impatiently. At this point I had been stuck inside with a cranky two year old and my son had come home from school grumpy and I had just burned my finger while cooking dinner. I was not in the mood to guess.

“What would make you incredibly happy?” Tom replied. He had a goofy grin on his face.

I stroked my chin. “Hmmmm. For the Gosselin family to go away and for there to be no such things are calories,” I answered.

Tom made a face. “No. Something else,” he said, twirling his arm impatiently.

I scratched the side of my head. “Um….not to move?” (For those who don’t know, Tom got orders to a base in Montana and we were planning on moving next month.)

“Yes,” Tom said, his goofy grin expanding.

My face brightened. “Yes as in…we’re not moving?” I was practically doing a happy dance. My feet started to tap on the carpet and a goofy grin was beginning to form on MY face.

“My orders were cancelled. We’re staying here,” Tom said proudly.

I whooped and jumped in his arms. He smelled like dog and gun powder but I didn’t care. We were staying! We didn’t have to move!

This is apparently what happened: see, Tom is a K-9 Handler and he called the base in Montana to make sure he’d get a dog when we got there. The guy told him that he couldn’t promise that which confused Tom because the reason he got orders there was because they needed handlers. So then Tom told his boss and his boss said he’d look into it.

To make a long story short, apparently the base in Montana forgot to update their lists. Basically the list that said that they needed handlers was over a year old.

I’m thrilled. I was thrilled when Tom told me. I kept squealing and then I said something like, “We need to thank your boss. What does he want? Does he want a two-year-old? Or maybe he’d prefer a boy? Tommy, you’re going to go live with a nice man!” I called out.

Tommy looked up from the book he was reading with a start. “WHAT?” he shrieked.

I laughed. “I’m kidding. But really, we need to do something. I’m going to write him a letter and bake him cookies!” I rushed into the kitchen to check and make sure that we had the ingredients.

“I thought you wanted to thank him?” Tom said, following me in.

I rooted through the cupboards. We have a lot of crap in there. When in the WORLD did I pick up minced onion?

“I do want to thank him, Tom. I need to make sure we have the stuff to make chocolate chip cookies,” I explained, pulling out a bag of chocolate chips. Yes! Score! One ingredient down, er…maybe eight more to go?

“Cooking for him seems like a punishment. I’ve tasted your cookies,” Tom pointed out.

I swatted his arm with the chips. “You be nice! I’ll make the best cookies ever.”

I ended up writing Tom’s boss a thank you letter and giving him some cookies, which by the way, turned out really good.

I just want him to understand how grateful we are.

We get to stay!

Stop Yelling!

Okay.

Everyone is yelling.

Why is everyone yelling?

For starters, my son was upset because I accidentally picked up Cinnamon Toast Crunch when he wanted Froot Loops. He looked at the box with disgust and went, “What’s THIS? I wanted Froot Loops?

I reminded him to watch his tone. And I said, “Look, I’m not a short order cook.”

He said, “I know! You barely cook at all!”

Touché, son. Touché.

But still, I told him that he needed to be grateful for what he had because some kids get nothing for breakfast.

“I guess I’ll eat the Cinnamon Toast Crunch,” Tommy sighed. “But I won’t be happy about it.”

Fine.

Then my daughter had a famous two-year-old meltdown. It was the over the same thing I wrote about yesterday. She asked for some oatmeal so I made some. I brought it to the table and said it was ready.

“No THANKS!” Natalie shrieked, arms crossing her chest.

“You have to eat,” I urged. Seriously, Natalie is nearly two and a half and is only about 21 pounds.

“No THANKS MOMMEEEEEEEEEE!” Natalie shouted.

Does anyone want to borrow her for a few hours?

“Fine. I’ll eat the oatmeal,” I said and scooped up the bowl and took a big bite. “Mmmmm,” I said dramatically. I even rubbed my stomach for emphasis.

Natalie instantly took offense.

“Hey! THAT’S MINE! THAT’S MINEEEEEEEEEE!”

Who talks that loudly at eight in the morning? Who has the strength?

Apparently my daughter does.

Then she came hurling at me and I thought she might bite my ankles. Instead she stuck her face against my knee and whimpered, “That’s mine.”

So I offered it to her.

“NO THANKS!” she yelled, backing away as though I were offering her gruel.

We played this song and dance for about a half hour. Then Natalie decided that yes, she was hungry and took all of three bites.

At least it’s something.

Then my car yelled at me. Well, sort of. It’s a hybrid and the display turns this angry shade of blue if you’re using the gas too much. It turns a festive happy shade of green when you’re being kind to the Earth. Look, I’m all for being kind to the Earth but sometimes I have to put my foot on the gas. Sorry car, but I do. I was driving to Target and the display turned blue and I went,

“Why is everyone being so MEAN today?”

I got home and put Natalie down for her nap. She wasn’t pleased. She yelled some more. When she finally went down I went on my WiiFit. The thing told me I had gained two pounds and asked me why.

“Because I bought some pecan pie and consumed nearly all of it myself,” I told it in a snippy tone.

Then Tom came home and whined because he didn’t like what I was making for dinner.

“You’ll eat it and you’ll like it,” I said through clenched teeth.

Basically, I had a long day.

But I perked up.

Why?

Because I found this in my mailbox:



A book can always make me happy.

I bet Nicholas Sparks doesn’t complain about his wife’s cooking.

Life with a Two Year Old

Help!

For the love of chocolate, help!

My daughter is posessed.



She'll ask me for something, right? So I'll bring it to her. Then she'd decide that she doesn't want it. So I'll put it back.

Then she does this:



She'll be like, "FOOL! Did I TELL you to put it back?" Her arms will immediately cross and she'll look offended.

EVEN THOUGH SHE TOLD ME SHE DIDN'T WANT THE ITEM!

So fine, I'll bring the thing back. Sometimes it's food, sometimes it's a toy...

And she does this:



What does she want from me?

Is she PMSing early?

I DON'T KNOW WHAT SHE WANTS!

So I take the thing away.

And she does THIS:



Maybe she has short term memory loss and didn't realize that she asked for the item in the first place?

Maybe she HAS been posessed.

Or...maybe she's just being two.

A Little Praise

I was mad.

I’m not going to lie.

I was also annoyed. How could he stroll inside and not even notice? How was he able to pull off his stinky boots and plop right down in front of the computer without saying anything?

I pressed my lips together in a tight line. I was trying to keep my anger inside even though I could feel it bubbling, desperate to come out. Maybe he’d say something in a few minutes. Maybe he just had to unwind.

But then an hour passed.

This is when I realized that he didn’t even notice that I had mowed the lawn, which by the way, is not the easiest thing in the world to do. I had mowed the lawn even though it was HIS job—I had done it to be nice because that’s just the kind of wife I am. And okay, I also did it because I had consumed three slices of pizza and I needed to burn it off. It’s not my fault! Pizza is my weakness.

I had assumed Tom would come home from work and realize that the grass was cut. Then he was supposed to burst through the door and shout, “Sweet wife of mine, thank you ever so much for doing the lawn!”

Okay.

So he wouldn’t exactly say it like that.

He’d probably say something like, “The lawn is done. Cool.”

But I got nothing.

This irritated me because Tom practically expects a song and dance when he takes out the trash. Let’s not even mention that taking out the trash is one of his chores to begin with. But when he actually does it he’ll say, “I took out the trash,” and look at me expectantly as though I’m meant to toss my arms around his neck and shriek, “Thank you, my Manly Man for getting rid of our rubbish!”

I usually praise him. I admit it. On Dr. Phil I saw some husbands moan that they’d do more around the house if they felt appreciated.

But the thing is, sometimes I don’t feel appreciated. Do I get praise when I change a disgusting diaper? I mean, some of those are horrible and I sometimes wonder if it’s entirely healthy to be breathing in fumes like that.

Do I get praise for vacuuming? Sometimes I do get a, “It looks different in here. Wait, I think it’s because it’s CLEAN!” and I’m not sure how to take that.

So fine, I’ve made peace with the fact that I may not always get a celebration when I do things.

But when I mow the yard, manual LABOR, I expect some sort of recognition. I mean, I SWEAT when I did it. I was nearly attacked by a bee who was pissed that I mowed away some of his flowers. It tried to sting me, I swear it did, and I went tearing across the lawn screaming, “BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” Then I went back to the mower that I could have just abandoned. But I’m a tough soldier, I have to finish what I start.

I went over to my husband who was starting up a game on the computer.

“Did you notice anything different?” I asked sweetly.

Tom blinked at me as he pulled out his headphones. “A new…shirt?” he guessed, looking a little nervous. No man likes to be asked about what he notices because it’s usually very different than what the woman is talking about. Like one time I pointed out this woman with neon yellow hair and I went, “Look at her,” and Tom went, “I know! She has huge breasts! I’m surprised she hasn’t fallen over!”

“Tom, I’ve had this shirt for years,” I said with a sigh.

“Could you just tell me then?” Tom practically begged.

I gestured to the front door.

“Did you paint?” Tom was flabbergasted.

I was close to jumping up and down in frustration. “Did you notice anything when you pulled up?” I wondered.

Tom frowned. He was contemplating this and coming up blank. “You cleaned the garage?” he replied hopefully.

Cleaned the garage? No, I’m mad at the garage. I went in there to organize and it attacked me. All sorts of boxes came toppling down on my head and that’s just not cool.

“The lawn, Tom!” I shrieked. My patience was gone and I needed to give the kids a bath.

“Did you put the feed down on it?” Tom inquired.

The FEED?

“I mowed it! I mowed the lawn! I was attacked by an angry bee and I got all sweaty and nearly mowed my foot off!” I yelled.

Okay, that last bit wasn’t true but I was going for a dramatic story.

“Oh. Thank you,” Tom said, turning towards his game.

That’s it?

“That’s it?” I blurted out.

“Thank you very much,” Tom tried again.

I stared at him.

“You’re the best wife ever,” Tom said.

I grinned. “Thank you for saying so! You’re too kind!” Then I walked away, satisfied in my praise.

“You’re weird!” Tom called out as I went up the stairs.

“You’d be bored if I were normal!” I answered.

“This is true,” Tom shouted back without missing a beat.

The Twilight Crazies

So I was outside the other day watching Natalie drive her Power Wheels Barbie car around in the driveway. She’s a frightening driver. She totally thought it was funny to collide into my legs. I think I’m going to be afraid when she’s sixteen.

Some of the neighborhood ladies were outside and I waved politely at them. Then I nearly fell on my face because Natalie rammed her car into me.

“Shit!” I shrieked and then quickly corrected myself. “I mean...shoot. Natalie, we don’t run into people. It’s rude.” Not to mention against the law.

The neighborhood ladies must’ve wanted to check that I still had functioning feet so they wandered over. There were two of them and I was slightly distracted by the fact that they both had neatly brushed hair. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I had brushed my hair before stepping outside but you’d never know it because it’s so unruly. I could already feel some strands poke out from my ponytail.

“Are you okay?” the blond asked sympathetically.

“It looked like she got you pretty hard,” the brunette added.

“I’m okay,” I said even though I knew I’d have a gigantic bruise. I hate that I bruise so easily. It’s not exactly stylish to have disgusting blue and purple circles going up your legs. This is why I rarely wear shorts.

“So tell her what you told me,” the brunette urged the blond.

The blond clasped her hands together as though she had a fantastic secret. “I scored tickets to New Moon!” She looked at me expectantly.

For a brief second I had no idea what she was going on about. New Moon? What’s a New Moon? Was that a new band or something? I’m so out of the loop with current bands. I just found out that The Fray was a band—for the longest time I thought it was a restaurant that served a variety of soups.

But then I knew what she meant.

New Moon. The second Twilight movie. The second Twilight movie that isn’t released until November.

“Yikes.” The word slipped out of my mouth before I thought about it. It just….CAME OUT. Plus I felt duped. I totally thought the blond had something interesting to say. Like…Michael Phelps was coming to the base to offer swim lessons for kids or that The Office was going to be filmed in Wyoming now which meant there was a good possibility of bumping into John Krasinski.

But no. I get told that she’s already bought tickets for a movie that doesn’t even come out for two months.

Still, maybe she got the tickets for her kids. Maybe her kids are the ones that are into the whole Edward thing that I don’t seem to comprehend.

I realized that the two mothers were gaping at me and this is when I remembered about uttering the whole “yikes” thing. This is probably why I don’t have a lot of friends. I tend to go off into space and say things that aren’t entirely appropriate.

“Well, I imagine your kids will be happy,” I corrected myself. I knew she had two older girls one of whom has called my son a baby and nearly got the hose sprayed on her because of it.

The blond burst out laughing. “Oh, the tickets aren’t for my kids,” she guffawed.

Oh.

Well.

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“That’s...cool...” I choked out.

“Did you see that New Moon trailer that leaked on the Internet?” the brunette wondered. “Apparently it wasn’t meant to be shown because they wanted to air it on the VMAs.”

“The….VMAs?” I echoed stupidly.

The brunette looked stunned. “The VMAs! You know, the Video Music Awards?” She was staring at me as though I had a giant booger on my cheek.

Of course I know what the VMAs are. Of course. I just…don’t exactly watch them because most of the music of today gives me a headache. I mainly stick to oldies because I can actually hear the lyrics. (On my iTunes list? Songs from The Beach Boys, The Beatles, The Crystals, The Everly Brothers, and Tom Petty…)

“That Jacob is a hottie with an H!” the blond cooed.

I started to squirm. Isn’t the actor who plays Jacob like 17? And the blond was in her late thirties. That just seemed….weird…I mean, I get a little uncomfortable liking Michael Phelps because he’s three years younger than I am. I feel like I’m totally robbing the cradle.

“Oh, I know. He almost makes me want to go Team Jacob,” the brunette agreed.

Okay. That’s it. It’s official. The whole world has gone Twilight Crazed. I’m the only one left. I’m the only one who believes that Edward is somewhat mentally abusive. I’m the only one who doesn’t swoon over Edward. I’m the only one who plans on seeing New Moon for the sole purpose of making fun of it.

I needed to get away from these ladies.

“Well. I better get Natalie inside,” I said. Natalie was blazing across the driveway laughing maniacally. She’s definitely going to be watched when she’s sixteen. Maybe I can lie and say that the new driving age is eighteen and that all her friends are terribly mistaken.

At that moment, the brunette’s cell phone rang which made her blissfully stop going on about Jacob. (Lady, hello, the kid is 17. You’ll be sent to jail if you boinked him. FYI.)

“Oh, it’s my daughter!” the brunette said cheerfully. She started jabbering into the phone for a few seconds saying things like, “Okay sure, I’ll meet you in an hour then, bye…” Then she hung up. “I’m so glad I got Avery a cell phone,” she said.

I knew Avery was eight.

“Wow. She already has a cell phone?” I blurted out. My son Tommy, who is seven, has been begging for a cell phone because apparently a lot of his friends already have one. I told him that it’s ridiculous, that maybe he can have one when he’s 13.

“Well, the cell phone helps a lot. Avery can let me know when she’s ready to be picked up,” the brunette explained.

She’s eight! Do eight-year-olds already have a social life? I mean, really? Aren’t they still playing Barbies?

When I was younger I’d just tell my parents that I’d meet them at a designated spot and it all worked out. There is no way I’m giving Tommy a cell phone at his age. No way. Not only because I feel he’s too young but, bless his heart, he has a habit of losing things. We’ve already been to the Lost and Found bin twice to retrieve his jacket. At this rate, he may never have a cell phone.

I said goodbye to the Twilight Crazies a few minutes later. Natalie nearly drove into the blond’s legs but I leaped in front of the car right in time and got knocked in my knees.

“Have a great day,” I coughed out to the women who scurried off so they wouldn’t be my daughter’s latest road kill.

I peered down at Natalie. “Sweetheart. Be nice. I know Twilight freaks you out too but it’s no reason to injure a person,” I lectured.

“Twilight bad!” Natalie shouted and honked her horn for emphasis.

“This is true. But we mustn’t say that in public. People might, I don’t know, revolt or something...” I explained seriously.

You just never know.

It’s a strange strange world we’re living in....

The Story of the Dent

Tom loves his truck.



Sometimes I wonder if he loves it more than me.

Sometimes I’ll catch him staring at it when he’s supposed to be mowing the lawn. It’s like he’s thinking, “Look at that beauty. All shiny and red.”



He takes excellent care of his truck. He washes it all the time and winces when he sees someone drive by in a filthy truck.

“How can a guy let his truck look like that?” he’ll moan.

If he can keep his truck neat, then why can’t he get his dirty clothes in the hamper? This is what I want to know. I’ve asked him and he winks and says, “It’s fun to see you frazzled.”

I don’t know what to think about that.

Tom freaks out if the neighborhood children get too close to his truck. He’s yelled at one for daring to touch it. Tom also freaks out if he feels I’m abusing it. Apparently I slam my door too hard. I did this a few times and Tom will suck in his breath and go,

“What has my truck done to you?”

“Excuse me?” I’m always confused.

“You don’t need to slam the door like that,” Tom will lecture. Once he actually showed me the proper way to close the door.

“Lightly, yet firmly,” Tom said, pushing the door. “Do you see what I’m doing here? Lightly...yet....firmly....”

I rarely pay attention. Maybe I like to see Tom frazzled too. Maybe this means we have a sick relationship. I don’t know.

We have antelope that wander the neighborhood. Tom once scared a bunch off because he was worried they were getting too close to his truck.

“Shoo! Shoo!” he yelled, waving his arms in the air.

I never wanted to know how he’d react if something did happen to his truck. I mean, awhile back, someone backed into it and you’d have thought that he lost one his balls or something. Thankfully it got fixed because Tom made sure the guy gave his insurance information—he would never let someone escape after harming his baby.

Well, this is what happened on Saturday when we went out:



See, what happened is we went to Dennys and the parking lot was full being that it was a Saturday morning. Who can resist a breakfast from Dennys? There were people walking around and this one guy was getting into his vehicle next to the empty spot Tom was backing into. Suddenly, the guy got out of his vehicle (maybe to admire the truck, men admire Tom’s truck all the time) and Tom was worried that he’d accidentally hit him. So he turned the wheel a bit to give the guy more room.

He was so busy concentrating on doing this that he didn’t realize that he had backed far enough.

He didn’t realize that until the whole truck shuddered.

“What was that?” Tom demanded as we rocked for a few seconds.

“Erm...you may have hit the pole back there,” I said this gently as though I were preparing a person for awful news.

Tom looked sick. “My truck!” And then he was trying to get out of his seat but he forgot he still had his seatbelt on so he struggled for a few seconds.

I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. It was so funny to see this grown man thrashing in his seat.

I actually got out first. Tom was still trying to pull free as I stepped onto the ground. I cautiously went around to the back and this is when I saw the dent.

Uh oh.

“Is there damage?” Tom called, finally free. He marched over, he jaw set tightly.

I leaped in front of it. “No damage at all!” I lied.

Tom stared at me in disbelief. “No damage? But the truck shook…”

I shrugged. “We got lucky, I suppose.”

I knew he’d eventually find out. But I just wanted to enjoy my breakfast. I knew if Tom noticed the ding that he’d—

“Wait a minute. Wait. What’s that?” Tom was craning his neck around me.

“Bird poo! Those damn birds. Scientists really need to teach them how to use a communal bird toilet or something,” I rambled.

Tom gently pushed me aside. “That’s a dent.” He looked a little pale as he ran his finger around it. “That’s a dent.”

I was worried he was going to hyperventilate, actually.

“It’s not that bad,” I said. “Really.”

“That’s a dent on my truck.” Tom was still a pasty white color.

“How about we go eat?” I suggested, pulling on his arm.

I got the kids out and pulled a dazed Tom towards the entrance. I kept hearing him mutter, “dent” and “truck.”

When we settled down at a booth Tom distractedly perused the menu.

When the waiter asked us what we wanted to drink Tom went, “Truck.”

The waiter furrowed his brow. “Huh?”

“We’ll both have cherry cokes,” I said in a rushed tone.

As I was deciding between the French toast or the omelet, I heard Tom say, “Why did I move aside for that guy?”

I looked up with a start. “Erm, you moved so you wouldn’t hit him and go to jail.”

“But if I didn’t move, I wouldn’t have been as distracted and I wouldn’t have hit the pole,” Tom moaned, putting his head into his hands.

“Tom. Darling. I’m starting to question your sanity now. You moved so you wouldn’t hit and kill the poor man,” I reminded him.

Tom lifted his head up and nodded. “Right,” he said. “Right.”

He wasn’t quite there when we got our food. He still ate but he seemed lost in thought.

“This omelet is delicious,” I gushed.

“Dent and truck,” Tom basically answered.

“And aren’t these pancake puppies scrumptious?” I continued.

“Truck and dent.”

So yes. It wasn’t the best meal ever.

Tom has made peace with it now. Sort of. If he glances at the dent he sort of tenses up and goes pale again. But other than that, I think he’s okay.

I hope.

Maybe It's Not So Bad...

Well.

I survived.

Tom was off of work Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday.

When he wasn't following me around and asking ridiculous questions
("what's for lunch?"), he was doing this:



I lost my temper several times because Tom was doing this:



I forced Tom to watch an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba with Natalie because he kept doing this for hours. He claims he is now traumatized.



I went on a shopping spree because of this:



It's fun to ask questions when Tom is distracted. I'm all, "Hey Tom, can I buy this?" and he's so involved in the game so he's all, "Sure, fine." Of course then when he sees what I've bought he's all, "Wait, where did that come from?" and I'm all, "Oh, you said I could get it while on the computer, remember?" And Tom won't want to admit that he wasn't really paying attention so he's all, "Oh....right.."

My Poor Neck

Cinnamon.

Sweet cinnamon.

This is what I breathed in when I woke up on Sunday.

Mmmm, cinnamon.

Wait. Cinnamon.

I sniffed and then realized that it was cinnamon rolls baking. Normally I wouldn’t mind. But I had told Tom a few days earlier that I planned on making them for our Sunday lunch. I realize that sounds a little odd but hey, it’s an easy lunch. This means I don’t have to scrounge around and find something to make.

When I had told Tom that I was making the rolls for lunch, he had laughed and said, “Those aren’t lunch,” and patted my head as though I were a child.

“He doesn’t listen!” I shouted as I sat up in bed. This was when I realized that my neck hurt and that I couldn’t turn it without a pain shooting through my body. Great.

I went downstairs and found Tom on the couch.

“You made the cinnamon rolls!” I accused, keeping my neck very straight.

Tom blinked innocently at me. “Yup. Is there a problem?”

At this point he had been home from work since Friday so I was losing my patience. A part of me longed to run outside to the neighbor’s house and say, “Excuse me? Sir? Would you mind taking my husband off my hands for a few hours?”

“Yes Tom, there is a problem. Remember I said that the rolls for lunch?” I said this through clenched teeth because not only was I irritated, but I had accidentally shifted my neck and a spasm of pain had gone up my face.

Tom waved a hand in the air dismissively. “Rolls aren’t lunch, sweetheart.”

“Yes they are! They can be lunch! There are no rules!” I shrieked, keeping my head still.

Tom raised an eyebrow at me. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like…you have something wedged up your butt. Why aren’t you moving your neck?” Tom stood up and came over to me.

“Because I’m annoyed!” I insisted.

Tom raised an eyebrow at me. “You’ve never yelled at me without moving your neck before,” Tom said.

“Fine. My neck hurts,” I admitted.

“You know what’ll help? Cinnamon rolls!” Tom said cheerfully and went into the kitchen to pull them from the oven.

I slathered mine with the frosting. Tom seems to think that two small pats of icing is enough so I always have to add more.

“Gee. Do you want some cinnamon roll with that icing?” he joked.

Later, the neighborhood kids starting ringing the doorbell. I still couldn’t move my neck.

I heard a crash coming from the garage a few minutes later and stomped outside to find a bunch of my plastic totes knocked over.

“What’s going on out here?” I demanded. I pretended that my neck wasn’t killing me because children latch on weakness.

A bunch of kids spoke at once.

“Well Tanner was—”

“She was climbing on—”

“Someone pushed me into—”

“Why do you look all stiff?” an older kid inquired, gaping at me.

I feigned confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You look weird,” he said bluntly. Apparently his parents forgot to teach him the lesson of tact.

“My Mom doesn’t look weird!” Tommy cut in.

Aww! My boy, coming to my rescue. Isn’t that—

“She just has a bad neck!” Tommy continued.

Blabbermouth. My kid is a blabbermouth. I swear all the kids started leering at me.

She’s wounded! Get her!

“Just...be careful in here,” I quickly said and practically ran inside. Running with a sore neck is not easy, mind you.

Thankfully I was feeling better by the evening. And Tom went to see Inglorious Bastards so I had the house to myself. Well, sort of. The kids were there but they were sleeping.

When Tom got home he said, “They showed a scalping in the movie!” He looked totally enthused over this. I’m wondering if I should be worried.

“That’s gross, Tom,” I said.

I’m surprised he didn’t break into a song about blood and gore, to be honest.

The Rain Shower

“Guess what?” my husband Tom said to me when he came home from work on Thursday.

A part of me was hoping that he’d say, “We don’t have to move after all! We get to stay here!” (For those who don’t know, we’re moving next month. To Montana. And no, I am not happy about it.)

That was just wishful thinking on my part. Because of course it had nothing to do with the move.

“I have Friday, Saturday, Sunday AND Monday off,” Tom gushed and punched the air with his fist.

When he worked his old job, he never got this many days off. In fact, he used to rant that he thought the base was full of a bunch of lazy asses who never did any work.

“I mean, why do they need all these days off? You don’t see security forces having all these days off!” he’d shout.

Of course he’s singing a new tune now.

“Why?” was the first word that tumbled from my mouth. I pictured Tom following me around the house, invading my space, HOGGING THE COMPUTER…

Tom’s face fell slightly. “Why? That’s what you ask me? You’re supposed to be thrilled.”

I forced a smile on my face. “Why?” I repeated, my voice squeaky high. I was trying to convey a chipper manner even though I kept thinking, “You mean I have to share this tiny house with my husband for four days?”

“I don’t know. I guess Friday is considered a Family Fun day or something,” Tom shrugged, pulling off his boots.

I held my breath when he did this. You do not want to suck in air when Tom is removing his disgusting boots. I learned that the hard way and nearly passed out from the stench.

“A Family Fun day?” I snorted.

Tom yanked off his other boot. “I’m not going to complain.”

I was tempted to complain.

When I woke up on Friday, there Tom was with the remote in his hand watching The Military Channel. If you want to learn all about how a M4 is made then The Military Channel is for you. As it is, I could care less, so I was not amused to see it flashing across the screen first thing in the morning.

Then Tom kept asking me what I was doing throughout the morning.

I’d go into the kitchen.

“Whatcha doing?” he’d wonder.

I’d go upstairs.

“Whatcha doing?” he’d question.

If he wasn’t doing that, he was hogging the computer. We’re probably the only household in America who doesn’t have wireless set up. So the only way I can get on the Internet is via our computer. And my husband likes to play online games so he’d be on there for a few hours and I’d get angrier and angrier by the minute.

Finally I had had enough. I went over and plopped down on the computer chair even though it was currently occupied by Tom.

“Excuse me?” Tom said as I settled down.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said lightly. “I didn’t realize you were still on here. Being that you’ve been on here for over two hours, I thought that for sure you’d be gone by now.”

Tom mumbled something. I overheard “psychotic wife” but I let it go since he eventually got up so I could check my e-mail.

Then when I got off the computer Tom was following me around again.

“Okay Tom, you know how you said that Friday was Family Fun day? Well, I’m here to say that I’m NOT HAVING FUN!” I shrieked.

I said I was going to see a movie a few minutes later. I needed out of the house.

I went to see All About Steve which was an odd movie. I munched on my popcorn slathered in butter as I watched the strange turn of events unfold. Bradley Cooper, he’s easy on the eyes but he’s too much of a pretty boy for me.

As I was driving home it started to rain. This was followed by hail. I gripped the wheel because I hate driving in foul weather. Plus I was worried that the hail would damage my poor car. When I pulled up in front of the house my plan was to wait until the rain dissipated because at that point, it was still coming down in streams. I watched as drops bounced off the windshield and reached over to take a handful of leftover popcorn.

I was too busy enjoying the buttery goodness that I didn’t even see Tom come out of the house. Then I heard a thumping against my window and I screamed and nearly choked on a kernel.

Tom was standing there holding his jacket over his head to protect himself from the rain.

He had come out to bring me inside so I wouldn’t get wet.

Suddenly I felt bad for getting irritated with him. He doesn’t mean it. He just, I don’t know, loves me or something. And I’m grateful for it, of course I am, but I’m an Only Child and am just used to silence. And alone time.

“You came for me!” I said and then realized Tom couldn’t hear. He was still standing there, motioning for me to get out.

I cracked open my door. “You came for me!” I said again. I threw my arms around his neck and he stumbled backwards. He couldn’t return my hug because he was busy holding the jacket up.

“Can we do this inside?” Tom asked as the hail pinged down around us.

“We could kiss in the rain,” I suggested. The movies make this look so romantic but it’s really not. Tom and I kissed in the rain once and a big drop went down my back and caused me to screech in Tom’s poor ear. But still, I imagine that was just a fluke. Surely kissing in the rain can be romantic.

“Amber, it’s not only raining, it’s hailing,” Tom reminded me as a ball hit his shoe.

True. Suppose a piece of hail went down my back this time? That would probably hurt.

So Tom and I walked towards the front door with our makeshift umbrella above us. When we got inside I gave Tom a kiss.

“Thank you for coming to get me,” I said.

Tom grinned. “I’d come and get you anytime.”

Awww! Romance! I knew Tom had a romantic side to him, I just knew it! Even though he totally scratches his balls in front of me but no matter!. This proves that—

“Now how about thanking me properly?” Tom added, wiggling his eyebrows up and down.

Oh geez.

Attack of the Tree Aliens!

I trudged into bed at eleven at night. I’m a night owl and would prefer to stay up later, but I knew I’d have to wake up early to get Tommy to school the next day. And so I must force myself to be in bed by eleven because otherwise it’ll be much harder for me to wake up.

When I got to the bedroom, Tom’s massive man leg was stretched out over my side. I sighed and tried to push it away but it wouldn’t budge. In the end I just climbed into bed and shoved it away with my own legs.

“Cut it out!” Tom barked, but he thankfully withdrew his offending leg.

I started to drift off. I was about to sink into a world where there were no such things as calories or Spencer Pratt and then—

CRASH! BOOM!

I sat bolt upright in bed. My husband didn’t even move. How could he have not heard that?

I was close to waking him up and telling him that he had to go check it out. Suppose it was a burglar? But I didn’t have time for him to wake up and throw on some pants since he sleeps in the buff. (I really wish he wouldn’t do this. I’d rather not have his bare ass cheeks pressing against my sheets.)

I took a deep breath and decided that I’d be brave. I grabbed my book that was beside me and figured if it was a burglar, that I could hurl it at his or her head. It was a pretty thick book so it could do some damage. (It was The White Queen by Philippa Gregory if you’re curious.) I cautiously stepped out the bedroom door and craned my ear towards the stairs to see if I could hear anything.

I didn’t. The house was silent and dark. The only noises I could make out were the whirl of the fans.

I slowly descended the stairs, holding the book out in front of me.

But then I saw what made the noise.

This:



Our cat Max must’ve spotted a moth and had jumped up to get it and the whole blind came crashing down.

I’m grateful that Max eats the moths, I really am, because those dang things like attacking me in the face. I screeched when one did it the other day and Tom mocked me for it.

“Oh no! Attack of the moths!” he joked as I ran screaming down the hall.

I’m sorry, but they’re disgusting. I don’t want one inches away from my mouth.

The blind was too high to put back up. I knew Tom would have to do it. I was about to turn and head up to bed but then I saw it.

An alien.

Coming at me!

I knew it! I knew they existed! I was right all along. I was—wait. That’s not an alien.

It’s a tree.



Well. You can see how I’d mistake that for an alien, right? Picture the silhouette of the tree in the dark.

See?



Having the blind down and being able to stare out freaked me out. I ran up to my bed and fell asleep with the cover over my head.

Then the next day I told Tom he’d have to put the blind up.

“Why?” he asked.

Sometimes I don’t get men. What do you mean, WHY? If something falls down, you put it back up. And plus, I didn’t want the scary tree-aliens to peek in on us. Or our neighbors, for that matter. Suppose I decide to walk around the house naked? I mean, I never WOULD but I’d like to be able to make that decision without having to worry about someone gaping at my pale body.

“The trees look like aliens at night,” I explained to Tom, who knows that I get easily spooked.

The hooks for the blinds are way at the top so Tom had to step on my poor stand to get it back up.

“Be careful of my stand!” I warned.

“Be careful of your STAND?” Tom repeated, all insulted. “What about, ‘Be careful dear husband?’”



Oh. Right.

“Be careful dear husband,” I echoed. “But also, please don’t break my stand!”

He managed to get it up, thank goodness.

So whew. No more tree aliens.

A Gymboree Fashion Show

I parked the car and my heart thumped with excitement. I could feel my hands start to tingle with anticipation as I stepped out of the vehicle. I sucked in a deep breath of air and grinned as though I had an important secret to keep. I headed for the trunk and pulled out the stroller for my daughter Natalie, who was watching me from her cow print car seat. When I pulled open her door I went, “Are you going to sit in your stroller like a big girl?”

She nodded, her brown curls bouncing against her neck. I knew she was fibbing, God bless her. She’ll sit in her stroller for all of five minutes and then climb out. “All done!” she’ll say cheerfully, as though she had just accomplished a big favor for me. I’ll attempt to get her to sit back down but she’ll go stiff on me, refusing to bend her legs.

“Seriously,” I told Natalie gravely as I put her in the stroller. “You need to sit.”

“Okay Mommy,” she said sweetly even though we both knew she was lying through her teeth.

We walked into the mall and passed the boring stores that mean nothing to me. I used to like Spencer’s Gifts until they started filling it with all sorts of Twilight crap. I’d rather not have Edward’s creepy eyes following me as I giggle at the edible penis pasta, you know?

Natalie and I continued to blaze past the stores that didn’t interest us and then suddenly, there it was in its beige glory. A big smile formed on my face as my heart started to quicken again. I started to wonder if this was how Columbus felt when he discovered America—I mean, the poor guy was surrounded by water for months on end and then, oh my gosh, LAND!

Okay, so the two aren’t quite the same thing. But still. Whenever I see Gymboree I can’t help but feel ecstatic. My hands gripped the handle bar of the stroller and I headed determinedly towards the store. As I was approaching, a woman walked out with two bags stuffed with clothes and this was when my heart dropped.

She took everything! What if she’s taken all of Natalie’s sizes? What if she’s taken everything I wanted?

The thoughts swirled through my head and I craned my neck to try and see what she had in those bags as she clomped by. She clomped because she had on a pair of high heels that looked dangerous to walk in. She had on a smart pencil skirt with a button up blouse and her hair was twisted up in a neat bun on the top of her head. When I saw her, I immediately thought that she had to be a lawyer.

So, did the lawyer take all the clothes I wanted?

Could I SUE her for that?

When I walked into Gymboree my favorite worker was there. She gave me a wide grin, probably because she knows that I’m a great shopper. I’m not one of those annoying customers who ask a billion questions because by the time I get into the store, I basically know what I want. I know the clothing lines by name and I know exactly where Natalie’s section is.

“I take it you’re here for the Baby Sale,” the worker said knowingly.

I nodded. “Of course.” I always show up for the sales. The Baby Sale, in case you weren’t aware, means that all the items have $10 and $20 pricemarks. Plus, you can use a 20% off coupon which makes them $8 and $16. And if you have a Gymboree Visa (which I do for obvious reasons) you can save another 5%.

“Do you need help with anything?” the worker inquired as I spotted the dress I wanted.

“No. I think I’m set,” I replied and then started pushing the dress along the rack for Natalie’s size.

Did the lawyer take the size 2T?

At first I thought she had because I couldn’t find it. But then there it was, in the very back. I pulled it down and gazed at it lovingly.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” I cooed to Natalie.

Who was no longer in the stroller.

My poor heart, it was obviously abused that day because now it wasn’t thumping with excitement but now it was thumping with panic. My eyes scanned the store—it’s not that big—and then I found Natalie pressing her face against the ceiling to floor glass window.

“Natalie!” I admonished, rushing over, “We don’t do that! There are germs. Do you want to get the swine flu?”

Natalie giggled. “Yes!”

I scooped her up. “No you don’t want to get the swine flu,” I corrected, and carried her back to the stroller.

Of course she turned stiff on me. No matter how hard I tried to get her to sit, her legs refused to bend. Natalie just grinned up at me as I tried to set her back down as if to say, “You can try all you want, woman. I’m not sitting.”

I eventually gave up and placed her on my hip. But then she started reaching for a bunch of different clothes.

“No, Natalie,” I lectured. “You can’t touch.”

“EEEEEEEEE!” she went, right into my ear which immediately started to ring.

I set her down beside me. “Do you want to play with my cell phone?” I asked, digging it out of my purse. I handed it over.

Natalie turned it around her palm for a few seconds and then opened it. “Heddo?” she said into the receiver. “Heddo?”

I started to gather the other clothes I knew I wanted. This isn’t as easy as it sounds. Of course I had a list of things I knew I wanted to get in my mind. But then when you see OTHER clothes you start to long for those too. But then you remind yourself, no, you have a budget, you can’t get the adorable polka dot boots and the brown tutu....

It can give you quite a headache, really.

“All done, Mommy,” Natalie said, sticking the phone back into my purse. And then she started walking off.

“Natalie. You have to stay by Mommy,” I said firmly, trying to take her by the hand. She immediately yanked her hand from mine and shouted, “NO!” and stomped off into the boy section. She crossed her arms around her tiny chest and stuck her tongue at me.

Shopping with a two-year-old is almost as bad as shopping with a man.

I went over to her and squatted down to her level. “You may not behave like this. I understand that you’re bored and you’re welcome to watch the TV,” I said, pointing to the television that Gymboree has set up. The singing vegetables were on again. Vegetales which sort of creeps me out because I don’t want broccoli singing at me. Then again, the other shows Natalie watches aren’t exactly the picture of sane either.

Natalie thankfully decided to watch the television.

“A tomato!” she said cheerfully as she sat down in front of a tomato who was singing about...gee, I don’t know, being happy? I wasn’t paying attention.

It took me awhile to figure out if I wanted to buy the adorable brown tutu. I kept twirling it around in my hand and sighing at it. Tutus really aren’t practical but they look adorable on a little kid. But...Natalie already has a purple and pink tutu. I reminded myself of this as I stared wistfully at it and wished that I had a rich family member who would volunteer to buy whatever clothes I wanted.

I put the tutu back and realized that I better get going. Natalie was turning on the singing produce and I can tell from her expression that I had less than two minutes before she went running off. So I placed all the clothes on the counter and chit chatted with my favorite worker as she rang me up.

“Weeeeeee!” Natalie shrieked, racing past me as I paid. She stood at the entrance of the store. “Hi! Hi peoples!” she said, waving.

“She can be our greeter,” the store worker said.

Can she get paid in clothes? I wanted to ask.

When the worker handed me the orange yarn handles of the bag of clothes I felt a sense of satisfaction as I took hold of it. I couldn’t wait to try them on Natalie.

This is what I got:







The boots are not Gymboree. I got them from Target last year for 75% off.





I asked her to smile for the camera and she's like, "I just did, lady."









Then I put the pumpkin hat on her. I bought this last year on sale.



I asked if she wanted a sandwich for lunch and this was the look she gave me. A simple "no thanks" would have sufficed.



She's all, "Hi. My Mom is nutso!"



I just love love LOVE this dress. Oh, and if people are all, "Oh gosh, she probably spent a fortune on all of this!" just know that everything was $100 and I totally used the money I made from eBay from selling last year's clothes.



I asked if she wanted a chicken patty for lunch. She was thinking about it.



Natalie was all, "Circles on dress!"





On went the hat. I LOVE hats on kids. Sometimes Natalie just rips them off and I'm all, "No no darling, it's part of the ensemble." I think she's starting to comprehend this...









So run to Gymboree and tell them the crazy blog lady WhisperingWriter sent you!