No Bake Cookies?

“Do you wanna buy something? My school is selling stuff and….” the little girl pressed the cookie catalogue into my confused arms.

I took it and inwardly groaned. It seemed like I dealt with kids selling stuff on a weekly basis. Just last week I forked over $15 for air freshener from a JROTC member. I was about to tell him no, but as the word formed on my lips I saw his shoulders slump and immediately felt guilty.

I guess it surprises me when people actually do the fundraisers. Truth be told, I throw all of Tommy’s out that he gets from school. I’d rather not knock on doors and beg people to purchase magazines. Instead I just send a check to the PTO.

But other kids come out in full force. Last year I bought a sausage from a boy who claimed that they tasted, “pretty cool.” (It didn’t taste cool at all, it tasted like wet bark.)

Maybe I’m too nice. It’s okay to say no, after all. I didn’t have to say yes to the overpriced cookies.

Only, I did.

I told the girl that I’d buy some sugar cookies and scribbled out a check.

See, I assumed the cookies would already be made. In the catalogue it showed perfect looking sugar cookies and I thought, yum, a Friday night snack. Or, you know, a whenever I felt like a cookie snack.

Imagine my surprise when the girl dropped off this:



“Um,” I said. “What is this?”

The girl blinked up at me. “Your cookies?” She stared at me as though Charlie Sheen were doing a jig on top of my head.

I stared at the container. “I thought they’d already be made.”

“You cook them.” The girl definitely thought I was a complete idiot.

“It’s just, the catalogue was a bit misleading. It showed the cookies already made and—”

But the girl wasn’t listening. She turned and started walking away, probably thinking that I was a complete nutter.

Fine then. We’ll see if I buy anything from her again.

I really need to learn to say no to the neighborhood kids. The next time someone bangs on my door asking me to buy an overpriced candle, I’m saying no.

If I’m asked to buy cookies, I’m going to—well, probably say yes, because HELLO who can say no to cookies? Especially Girl Scout cookies. Mmmm…but I’m going to make sure that they’re already MADE before I fork over the money.

So mark my words.

I’m going to remind myself that it’s okay to say no to things.

And I’ll do it.

Unless the kid is really cute.

Or starts to cry.

I don’t deal well with sobbing children.

I Like...

The world can be a crazy place.

So every once in awhile I like to post the things that I like.





I like hanging out with the elk in town. Sure, I’ll occasionally get some strange looks from the cars passing by but oh well.





I like Natalie’s Halloween PJs. I almost want a pair in my size.





I like how Tommy can take random objects around the house and make it into something like this.





I like how Glen the antelope invites all his antelope friends to eat my plants. Actually, wait. I don’t really like that at all.





I like how Natalie will walk around with her hands on her hips. She can be bossy as anything but I can’t help being amused.

I'm No Carving Expert

I placed the tools on the kitchen counter and eyed them closely.

Sure, I didn’t know exactly what each of them did. But that was okay. I’d figure it out.

Right?

I lifted one of the tool things up. “This is to....cut the pumpkin,” I said.

Yes. Everything that I had laid out was for carving pumpkins. I got one of those pumpkin tool kits thinking that it might help.

I picked up another tool. This one looked exactly like the other one I checked, only slightly bigger. “This is....also to cut the pumpkin,” I mumbled knowledgably.

I hoped I wouldn’t mess up. Tom usually does the pumpkin carving. I did it once before, a long time ago, and the pumpkin ended up looking like that Sloth dude from The Goonies. One eye was up, one eye was down, the nose was off to the side, the mouth a gigantic mess...

So I vowed to do better this year. And when my friend Amanda mentioned that she’d print out special stencils I thought, “I’m up for the challenge. I just cut out bits of pumpkin out, how hard can that be?”

Amanda and her family came over to carve pumpkins so if I lost a finger, I’d have help right away.

The two stencils I had were batman and Brobee from the creepy Yo Gabba Gabba show.

But first I had to open the pumpkin.

I took one of the pumpkin tools and poised it over the pumpkin. I took a deep breath. I felt like a surgeon, about to perform a life saving operation. Then I thought about Patrick Dempsey, who plays a doctor on Grey’s Anatomy and got bitter because it’s not fair when a man has better hair than you do. It’s just seriously not fair! It’s—oh, wait, I had to concentrate on the pumpkin. Not man hair.

I stuck the knife in.

And the thing almost snapped off.

So I used the next best thing: a regular knife.

I managed to get the top off and then came down to pull out the seeds.



Natalie did this for like a second before she declared it “too gross.”



Oh, but when Tommy tried to remove some seeds, she took great offense and was all, “This is MY pumpkin, brother.”



Here she is telling me, “Tell brother that this is MINE!”

I quickly opened Tommy’s pumpkin so Natalie wouldn’t have a full flown tantrum.

Then I got started on the Batman stencil. At first I had no idea where to begin. I picked up a knife. I put it back down. I surveyed the pumpkin in a businesslike manner as though I believed it would talk to me and explain what I needed to do. I picked up another knife. Looked at the stencil. Realized I should probably tape the stencil to the pumpkin. I did that and I poised the knife over the stencil.....

.....and when I was done, the pumpkin actually looked like Batman.

I was stunned. And a little bit impressed. I mean, for my first stencil, I did a pretty good job.

Next came Brobee.

Ugh.

Brobee was harder.

But I managed. I cursed a few times, but I managed to get it done.

And actually, I think both pumpkins turned out.



Cool, huh?

(And yup, Amanda and her husband did Wubzy and Kai-lan.)

**Oh and thanks to all the people who volunteered to read my novel. I'm only having 2 people read it so far, so I keep track on who all has it**

Hey, It's Okay Tuesday!

I got this idea from Glamour magazine. They have a section called Hey, It’s Okay and will list a bunch of things to be okay about. You're welcome to join in and do something like this on your diary. Doesn't have to be on a Tuesday either.

--------------------------


To not understand rich people food. Everything is so flipping tiny.


To never let my own kids pole dance like those mothers on The Talk who claim that it’s “like gymnastics.”


To wish I had the option of saying, “No thanks, try again,” when the weatherman spouts on about an impending storm.


To wonder if the chicks from Glee accidentally forgot their pants for that photo shoot they did for GQ. Then again, it seems a lot of people who go on that magazine are forgetting bottoms. Maybe I’ve watched too many episodes of The Tudors but half nakedness really doesn’t faze me.


To hope that Patrick Jane finds Red John, the serial killer who killed his family on the show The Mentalist.


To need to figure out how I go about getting people to read my novel. I hear other writers talk about “beta readers” or something like that. I write chick lit, so I imagine I’d have to find readers who like that genre.


To have had no idea what I was doing when I carved pumpkins.


To have wanted to say, “How did you find the strength to have sex?” when the parent of one of the kids in Natalie’s class admitted that her kids were 11 months apart and that she got pregnant when one was 2 ½ months old. When my kids were 2 ½ months old I felt like I was walking in a cloud and usually smelled like old milk.


To wonder why in preschool the teachers are call Mrs. *Enter first name* but in elementary school they’re suddenly called by their last name. It’s probably kinda confusing to kids.


To still not know exactly how Natalie got her big cut written about in the previous entry. I was busy making dinner so I didn’t see what happened. I think Tommy might have pushed her and she either A) landed on the corner of a toy just right or B) crashed into the couch, which has staples in the back because it sucks and we need a new one.

On ERs and Dermabond

I heard the scream but honestly, didn’t think much of it.

You see, our house is a loud house.

My kids are not what you call....quiet.

So when I heard Natalie wail, I just thought, ugh, now what’s happened?

That’s when I saw it.

The blood.

Running down Natalie’s stomach.

I immediately thought to a horrendous scene in The Tudors when a guy was disemboweled. I remember seeing the blood flood down his stomach and I remember covering my eyes because I do not do well with blood.

Which is why I immediately felt faint when I saw it all over Natalie.

“What happened?” I shouted. I scooped her up as the blood trickled onto my fingers.

“It wasn’t me,” Tommy answered.

I grabbed a paper towel. “What’s HAPPENED?” I repeated dramatically. I really wish I could react calmly sometimes. But it’s just not in the cards for me. Like when I thought the car was breaking down I wailed, “What is going ON? What is GOING ON?!” It turns out nothing was wrong with the car, it was just a loud train rumbling past in distance.

“Did you push her?” I snapped at Tommy. “Did you push your little sister?” I pressed a paper towel down on Natalie’s wound.

“I didn’t!” Tommy said.

I managed to get a look at Natalie’s wound. It didn’t look good. It was deeper than any other scrape she had ever gotten before.

“I don’t know what to do,” I mumbled to myself. “I don’t know what to do. Go to the ER? Just slap a band-aid on it?”

Of course I couldn’t get a hold of Tom. If I could, I’d have called him on Skype and lifted Natalie up to the web cam, “Do you think,” I’d have said, “I should take her to the hospital?” I mean, he should know about wounds. I’m sure he was trained in how to take care of them.

But Tom was at work. And in Korea, halfway around the world.

Should I ask the neighbor? Knock on his door, shove Natalie’s gash at him and go, “Excuse me, sir? Should I take my kid to the doctor?” But no, that seemed weird.

I’m a mother, I should KNOW when to take her in to the hospital. Where was that instinct that mothers had? I shut my eyes for a brief second, willing the instinct to come. Nothing happened. The only thing I pictured was chocolate, which was so inappropriate at a time like that.

The only thing I could think of to do was ask my friend Amanda if she thought I should go to the ER.

She arrived a few minutes later and thought that I should go to the ER and offered to take Tommy home with her.

I agreed and bundled Natalie into my car. She wasn’t crying anymore, just sniffling in her seat. There was a band-aid on her gash and every few minutes I would ask Natalie if she was okay. Because then I started to worry that the gash had somehow punctured her lung.

Or....what if she got internal bleeding?

Internal bleeding? I pressed my foot down on the gas. What if she passed out on the drive to the hospital?

She didn’t, thank goodness.

No, instead she started to regale me with her rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. In fact, I almost wanted to tell her to hush by the time I parked in front of the hospital. But I didn’t, because hello, bleeding wound.

I walked into the ER with Natalie in my arms. A part of me wanted to rush up to the check in counter and shriek, “My daughter is BLEEDING and I’m not sure if she’s punctured a lung or has internal bleeding and what if she always has a scar there and blames me?”

I composed myself and calmly told the check in guy what happened. I had to peel back the band-aid so he could see and he winced and went, “Yeah, that might need a stitch.”

Oh God. Natalie would NOT be happy. She’d scream the place down.

We were told to sit in the waiting room—which was empty so I thought, “Hooray, this shouldn’t take long.”

But…

Then it seemed like a button was pressed and all the sick people in Wyoming came barreling in.

There was an old lady who broke her leg.

A newborn with a cough.

A little boy with a sliced finger. (I tried not to throw up when I saw his blood.)

A tween who got a hard knock to the head. (I was sitting beside the check in desk, it wasn’t like I was listening in or anything. I just happened to hear…)

Many of these patients got priority over us so we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And all the while Natalie was acting as though she didn’t have a disgusting gash on her side. She crawled around on the floor, she rearranged some magazines, and she knocked over a display about the hospital.

The people in the waiting room immediately looked over at me when there was a crash.

“Sorry,” I said, putting the display back up. “Sorry. Natalie, how about we sit. Aren’t you in pain? Here, read this AARP magazine.”

“I don’t LIKE this magazine!” (Yes, gone are the days when she’d pronounce like YIKE. I sort of miss it because at least when she was being defiant it sounded a little cute.)

“Here. Have my phone.” I pressed it into her palm.

Why wasn’t she sitting? You’d think after losing a bit of blood that she’d be out of it, but no.

When I felt like I was about to lose my patience all together, we were called back. (Seriously, I was on my last straw, Natalie had leaped from her chair onto me and then tried to run off with my ponytail holder that she had tugged free from my hair.)

“It’s not the best room,” the nurse said and then led us into the psycho room where they put the patients who are crazy. White walls, no windows, bare….

It was a little unsettling. And actually, we had been in the room before. Last year I had to take Natalie to the ER because she had a huge cyst form on her leg. Ugh, Natalie. She was always giving me a heart attack. You’d think it would have been Tommy always in the hospital, always scaring me because the kid literally doesn’t sit still. But no, it’s always been Natalie who has terrified me.

I told the nurse what happened and showed her the wound. “I’ll get a doctor to look but I’ll for sure come back and clean it up before we decide.” Her eyes flicked over to my chest and she looked taken aback. I followed her gaze and realized that I had my Happy Bunny sweatshirt on that said Hi, Loser! on it.

Oops.

I had rushed out of the house so fast that I didn’t even think about what I was wearing.

We waited around, the doctor checked it out and she felt that it wouldn’t need stitches, that she could use Dermabond.

I thought Natalie would scream when her wound was washed but no, the weirdo laughed because it was ticklish.

The nurse said, “She’s doing great, that’s the worst part.”

But Natalie didn’t agree, because when it came time to put the Dermabond on, she screamed at the top of her lungs.

So obviously she didn’t puncture them.

After that was over, we were told our discharge papers would be given to us quickly...

....and then a half hour later, someone came back with them.

This is her owie all Dermabonded up:



When we finally got home, Natalie started jumping off the couch as though nothing ever happened.

“Natalie,” I said. “Stop it. Do you want to go back to the ER?”

She grinned at me. “I like the ER!”

Of course she does.

Romantic Bits

Look, you have to understand that Tom isn’t the most romantic person in the world.

His idea of romance is to say, “You look nice.” Only, he doesn’t exactly look at you when he says it, he’s usually in front of the computer and tosses the compliment over his shoulder.

I’ve tried to get him to watch The Notebook a number of times and he’s just made fun of Noah and asked where he balls went. “Maybe they blew off when he went to war,” Tom said bluntly and I didn’t speak to him for three hours after that.

He loves to buy cards and not write a thing in them. He’s all, “Why should I write in the card when the message on it is what I think?” I can’t tell you how often he’d hand me a card in high school with nothing in it. I’d open and close it, twisting it left and right, searching for Tom’s message. Then I’d ask him about it at lunch and he’d tap the front of the card. “My message is right there.” “Yes but,” I said slowly. “You haven’t personalized it.” I should have known then what I was getting into.

Lately he’s been writing in cards because he knows if he doesn’t that I’ll say something.

So when a card came in the mail, I wasn’t sure if anything would be in it.

He joked on Skype that he had sent a card, but nothing was in it. “I don’t have to worry about you complaining in person about no writing so I didn’t bother,” he said.

However.

Look.



He WROTE in the card.

And he was romantic about it!

And then, a couple days later, I got personalized M&Ms in the mail. He made them himself. Well, not completely, he didn’t like MAKE MAKE them. He just ordered them. But he put his own messages on. (The messages are “I love you,” “Forever Yours,” “Always With You,” and “I miss you.”)



“What made you think to send me candy?” I asked him on Skype as I munched on the M&Ms.

“Oh. I was eating my M&Ms and saw the ad on the back of them. I thought, why the hell not,” Tom answered and then let out a tiny burp.

Ahh, how sweet.

Why the hell not followed by a belch.

Still, I’ll take it.

The One with Tommy

It’s true.

There aren’t as many photos of my son Tommy on my blog.

It’s mainly because he does this:



And he asks me to take pictures of inappropriate things. Like his butt.

Or a dead bug with its guts spewed out all over the sidewalk.

But I decided I’d try my hand at getting some good pictures.

It didn’t go so well at first.

As he did this, he was all, “Hey, baby.”



“Tommy,” I cut in before he started to ask me to take a photo of his backside. “Think of something nice. Maybe that’ll help.”



“MUFFINS!” Tommy said.

Okay. I get that. Muffins do rock. So long as they’re the good kind. Not the bran tastes-like-bark kind.

“So tell me how you’re doing at school, Tommy.” Because Lord knows, usually when I ask I get the dreaded “fine” and sometimes, on really good days, I get “It was fine.”



“School is a strange place,” Tommy answered.

“Can you expand?” I pressed.



“I’m in a BAND!” Tommy shrieked. He has the attention span of a gnat.

“Well, what’s your favorite subject in school?” I tried again.



“Who be eating all my chocolates?” Tommy responded. (Me, probably.)

“What are you going to do on school picture day?” I pleaded.



"This," Tommy said.



"Or this."

Um. I think I might pass on buying photos this year.

A Girl and Her Slinky

This is what happens when you leave a three-year-old with a slinky.






Oops.

Hey, It's Okay Tuesday!

I got this idea from Glamour magazine. They have a section called Hey, It’s Okay and will list a bunch of things to be okay about. You're welcome to join in and do something like this on your diary. Doesn't have to be on a Tuesday either.

--------------------------

To scoff at the experts who ramble on how fattening Thanksgiving dinner is. Who cares? I’m not going to pass up a piece of pecan just because it has a billion calories in it. It’s THANKSGIVING.


To have wanted to say, “I really don’t care,” when the Crazy Twilight Lady went on about how the final Twilight movie is starting to film.


To be amused that the chick who voices Dora the Explorer wants more money. She deserves it saying as she repeats the same thing OVER AND OVER AND OVER again.


To be tempted to put Natalie in gymnastics but worry Natalie will be like, “No thanks. Not right now,” when the teacher asks her to do something.


To rarely make anything from scratch.


To be a fan of Steak Um sandwiches. Remember awhile back how I blogged about not knowing how the crap to even make them?


To be a little weirded out that Marcia Cross who plays Bree on Desperate Housewives has no wrinkle lines.


To still be amazed when people give up soda. I’d seriously keel over and die. That’s how I get my caffeine since I don’t drink coffee.


To be amused that a reader of my blog sent me an e-mail that said, “That dude you liked on The Tudors, the one who lost his head, he’s on a Canadian show called Heartland. I’m Canadian and don’t watch it much, but I think he messes around with horses in it.” Many dudes lost their head on The Tudors but that kind reader was talking about Torrance Coombs who needs to make it big in America, so I can watch him in more things. And I’m amused that he messes with horses on a Canadian show. I’m curious now.


To enjoy shocking other mothers by saying things like, “We had eggs for breakfast. Non-organic. And we’re having hot dogs for dinner. Also, non-organic, probably made of cow ass.”

The Pink Apron

Want to see something cute?



Well.

Don’t pay attention to the crying child.

Pay attention to the ultra adorable apron.

No, I didn’t make it. Are you kidding me? If I tried to sew, I’d probably thread my fingers together by accident.

Andrea over at Las Vegas Mama made it.

And Natalie loves it, despite her tears in the photo. I believe she was pissy because I said she couldn’t have cake for dinner. Granted, I understand her disappointment, sometimes I’d love to have cake for dinner.

But anyhow, when Natalie got the apron, she was thrilled.

“A princess!” she bellowed, grabbing it.

She wore the apron as she played house.



She wore the apron as she made silly faces.



She wore the apron as she watched TV.



She stuck a grasshopper in the apron pocket and scared the crap out of her Mommy. No photo, because I was too busy yelping, “Get it out, get it out, get it out.”

She even wanted to wear the apron to bed, but I made her take it off.

Maybe the apron will inspire her to become a fabulous cook! Then she can make these elaborate dishes for me and she’ll be all, “And it was all because Andrea made me an apron when I was three.”

Are you lusting for an apron for your little one now?

If so, head over to Andrea’s blog and enter her giveaway! It’ll run for a week.

And who knows, maybe the apron will inspire your little one to become a famous cook too.

An E-mail To Tom

Since Tom is in Korea until 2011, I'll occasionally share the e-mails I send to him.

---------------


Dear Tom,



Do you want to know that that is?

It’s a muffin.

Well, it was a muffin, before your daughter completely destroyed it. I’m really not sure what her rationale was. All I know is when I left the room, it was a perfectly delicious chocolate muffin. When I came back, it was mush. She didn’t even seem apologetic. She just said, “I made it fun.” Actually, she did NOT make it fun, she made it a mess. There were crumbs all over the couch and the floor that I had JUST vacuumed.

While I was cleaning that up, your daughter wandered into the kitchen. I should have known better to leave her there but I was just happy to not have her hanging onto my leg as I cleaned. But then I realized that she did this:



Those are empty egg shells that Natalie got out of the TRASH. The TRASH, Tom. Did she just think, “Lalala, I think I’ll rummage through the garbage and put my treasure in the fridge?” I really wouldn’t know, because she didn’t tell me. She just said, “I made eggs.”

I know you think Natalie can do no wrong, but I’m here to tell you that she does LOTS of wrong throughout the day.

And I’m pretty sure she called me a rude name the other day.

She looks all innocent and sweet when you see her on Skype, but Tom, she has a different side to her. A sinister one.

As I write this, she’s trying to eat a crayon so I better go.

I am counting down the days until you are home.

I love you,

Amber



PS—No Tom, I haven’t been allowing Natalie to watch Spongebob. She watches Dora and Yo Gabba Gabba and yes, the shows are annoying but at least she learns lessons from them whereas thanks to Spongebob, she now thinks snails meow like a cat.

There Is An Entry

“This is hard,” Tommy grumbled, hunched over his homework paper.

I peeked over his shoulder. The homework was about the different uses for ‘there’, ‘their,’ and ‘they’re.’

“Oh,” I said. “It’s okay, even grown adults struggle with that.”

“Huh?”

“Seriously, if you go on Facebook, grown adults don’t use the words right and it takes all of Mommy’s strength not to mock them profusely. I know my grammar isn’t the best but really, one should know the different uses of ‘there’, ‘their,’ and ‘they’re,’” I rambled.

“You won’t let me on Facebook,” Tommy complained.

“That’s because you’re eight. Now. Let’s figure this homework out,” I said, settling beside him. “So okay, an example for they’re. It means they are. So....Mommy wonders why Billy Ray Cyrus allows his daughter to forgo her pants in her music videos when she’s under 18. THEY’RE a strange family. Do you understand?”

Tommy stared at me with saucer eyes.

“And here’s an example for their. Mommy wishes more of your friends would use THEIR manners. Get it?”

Tommy looked down at his paper. “So they’re means they are.”

“Yes!” I shouted, elated. He understood!

“There are my Reeses Peanut Butter Cups. You better not eat them,” I finished.

“What?” Tommy scowled.

“I just gave you an example for the final there. And that sentence is true, by the way. Never eat my Peanut Butter Cups. Trust me, I need them more than you do. Now. Can you give examples back to me?”

Tommy bit his lip. “There is your mustache,” he said, pointing to my upper lip.

“Excuse me, I don’t think so,” I fumed, my fingers immediately going above my lip. Actually, crap, when was the last time I waxed? Since Tom has been gone, I haven’t quite kept up. Sometimes being a part of a hairy family isn’t always fun. It’s not like Burt Reynolds up there but if you’re standing close enough to me, you’ll definitely see some major fuzz-age.

Tommy giggled. “I’m kidding,” but I think he just said it to make me feel better.

“So an example for t-h-e-i-r?” I continued.

“Girls look pretty in their skirts,” Tommy finished.

“Right! But...yes, that’s right but, we don’t gape at girls. Okay?” Gosh, eight years old and he was already going girl crazy.

“The final they’re means they are, right?” Tommy questions. He chewed on the top of his pencil. He’s constantly biting off his erasers. It’s disgusting.

“Yup.”

“Ummm....I like Nintendo DS games, they’re cool and I hope Santa brings me a lot of them or else I’ll be sad,” Tommy said triumphantly.

Note to self: buy DS games for Christmas.

“Exactly. You get it!” I said excitedly. You have to understand that schoolwork doesn’t always come easy to Tommy. We’ve sat doing homework for HOURS before and a lot of times we wind up in tears. Especially if it’s math, because I’m not the best at describing it seeing as I think it’s the Devil’s Work.

“There is a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup that I’m going to eat,” Tommy taunted.

“Son, we don’t joke about matters like that.”

Inappropriate Question

“So, what is the cool thing to do at school these days?” I asked Tommy.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Eat, I guess.”

Um. What? Eat? Seriously?

Why did I ever think going to a restaurant with the kids was a good idea? I mean, striking up a conversation with an eight and a three-year-old isn’t the easiest thing. Not that Tom and I would chatter the entire time when we’d go out. Usually he’d get distracted by the television and I’d be prattling on, thinking he was listening, but then he’d shout, “YES!” when his team made a touchdown which would always startle me.

I decided to take the kids to Texas Roadhouse because I was craving the steak. How I love steak. I was working hard on getting my offspring to converse with me so it would help pass the time along.

“What’s your favorite subject at school?” I inquired.

“Mommy!” Natalie cut in. I looked over and she stuck her straw up her nose. It’s something she would have never done if Tom were with us.

“Take that out. It’s disgusting,” I ordered.

Natalie listened but then she took the cinnamon butter and stuck her tongue all over it. Excuse me, I was EATING that.

“I like science,” Tommy answered. He was working hard on coloring his picture that the waitress had given him. I noticed in the corner he had written the word BORED. Well, excuse me.

“Hey Mommy?” Tommy said.

I leaned forward. He was TALKING to me. He wanted to CONVERSE.

“Yes?” I tried not to sound too hopeful. Sounding too hopeful might make him snap back into one word sullen responses. I bit into a roll—how I love the rolls—and sipped my sweet tea.

“My friend at school told me something,” Tommy began. He looked nervous and my heart dropped. Oh my God, what if his friend told him about crack? Can that start this young? Third graders whispering back and forth about drugs?

“What is it?” I placed my hand over Tommy’s. I noticed his nails were all bitten down. He takes after his mother.

“He said,” Tommy swallowed. “He said that cock was another word for penis.”
I nearly spit out the tea I had just taken a drink of. Did I hear that right? Did my precious son say the c-word at me?

And should I lie and say that no, his friend was misinformed, that cock was an inappropriate name for a chicken?

But then what if we’re out and he sees a chicken and he’s all, “A cock!”

Oh God.

Why wasn’t Tom here? Why did I have to go through all of these embarrassing questions on my own? And why did Tommy always ask about the male appendage in restaurants? Last year we were at Chilis and he bluntly asked where Max’s penis was—right as the waitress cane by. I was mortified. At least the waitress at Texas Roadhouse didn’t hear this.

“That word isn’t appropriate,” I finally said. “It’s an inappropriate word for…” I lowered my voice, “penis.”

Please don’t let Tommy continue to prod about this. Please....

“Here, have the last roll,” I said, shoving the basket in his face. “What do you think about these rolls?”

Tommy picked it up. “Good.”

Oh. Lovely. Now he was back to sullen responses.

“Natalie,” I said, focusing on her. She had cinnamon butter on her nose. “So what’s going on with you?”

“I like butter and I like flowers,” she responded.

So okay. Not exactly stimulating but at least she hadn’t uttered an inappropriate word.

And, she actually seemed interested to let me know that she was a fan of butter and flowers.

I will take it.

Hey, It's Okay Tuesday!

I got this idea from Glamour magazine. They have a section called Hey, It’s Okay and will list a bunch of things to be okay about. You're welcome to join in and do something like this on your diary. Doesn't have to be on a Tuesday either.

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To find it annoying when actors are cast as siblings and they look nothing alike. This is distracting to me.


To love Mozart’s laugh in the movie Amadeus.


To not be positive if The Event is a good show or not. It’s definitely not as good as Lost. How I miss Lost.


To be impressed that Tom is washing his sheets all the way in Korea. I knew I’d get to him with all the bed bug talk.


To wonder why people look at me funny when I say that no, the kids don’t sleep with me since Tom has left, that they sleep in their own rooms. One of the pluses of Tom being gone is that I get the bed to myself.


To want to check out that new show The Talk starting next week. Only because Sharon Osborne and Sara Gilbert (Darlene from Roseanne ) are in it.


To already be looking forward to Black Friday.


To be stunned that Courtney Cox and David Arquette are splitting up? Why, celeb universe, why?


To like the Pumpkin Spice Hershey Kisses—I’m a big fan of fall foods!


To wonder why TLC constantly has shows about women who pop out 5 or more kids. Basically, to get a reality show these days you have to carry a butt load of kids, be a polygamist, be a little person, or swear a lot.

Birth Control

And to think, all this happened because I told her she couldn’t watch another episode of Yo Gabba Gabba. I had to, for my sanity. There is only so much DJ Lance a person can take.

Tale of the Pumpkin Pie Pop Tarts

I had heard rumblings about it for a few weeks and knew I had to try one.

I mean....Pumpkin Pie Pop Tarts? Yes, please.

I made it my mission to find a box.

I heard they were available at Target so I headed over there. It was no problem going to Target because I’m usually there at least once per week anyhow. I love Target. When I first walked into the store, I became distracted by a beautiful red peacoat. Oooo, it was lovely, and I plucked it from the rack and held it against my chest.

But Amber my annoying Voice of Reason piped up. Don’t you already have a peacoat?

Yes. But in black. This one is a beautiful shade of red.

But Amber. I thought you were going to cut back since you’ll be moving next year.

Ugh. This was true. I promised Tom that I’d start getting rid of things so the move would go smoothly. When we moved from England, Tom was appalled over how much stuff we accumulated. (Actually, he didn’t call it stuff, he called it crap and every few minutes I’d hear, “What’s all this crap?” and I could hear the movers grumbling, “I’m with the husband, what IS all this crap?” And excuse me, can a girl not own more than one pair of pants? And so what if we had three plastic bins filled with girl clothes even though we hadn’t yet had Natalie? I just KNEW I’d have a girl someday so I planned ahead.)

I put the beautiful red peacoat back and momentarily forgot what I was doing.

OH! The Pumpkin Pie Pop Tarts!

My heart lifted as I headed into the Halloween section. I was so sure I’d find the display but instead I found a blank shelf. There was a price tag underneath that told me that this is where the Pumpkin Pie Pop Tarts would live. If there were any left.

Which there weren’t.

I felt personally offended. Who ate all the pop tarts? Did someone grab all of them? How rude! All I wanted was one box.

“Can I help you?” a target male worker asked. He probably noticed me staring in horror towards the empty shelf.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m looking for some Pumpkin Pie Pop Tarts. They should be here,” I slapped the shelf for emphasis, “but they aren’t.”

The guy looked confused. “You’re looking for Pop Tarts?”

Um. Yes. Why was that so baffling? And they weren’t REGULAR Pop Tarts. They were Pumpkin PIE Pop Tarts.

“Yes. Are there any in the back, do you know?” I asked sweetly.

He shook his head. “No.”

I wanted to say, “Could you go check?” but I didn’t want him to call security. So I said, “Is there a list?”

“A list?” He wrinkled his nose.

“Yes, a list where I could give you my name for when the Pop Tarts come in. I must try one,” I explained.

He still looked bewildered. What part of this was baffling? I wanted a Pumpkin Pie Pop Tart. End of story.

“There is no Pop Tart list,” the Target employee said slowly. I could see the edge of his lips twitching, which probably meant he was trying hard not to laugh. I’m sure I gave him a story to tell to his friends. If you hear the one about a Target customer asking for a list in order to purchase Pumpkin Pie Pop Tarts, that was me. Hi.

So I didn’t get the Pop Tarts at that Target trip. But it wasn’t a total bust, I did find some shorts for 75% off as well as some Flip Flops. And obviously Tom wouldn’t understand because he’d say, “Don’t you HAVE Flip Flops?” and I’d be all, “Yes, but not in brown.”

I tried to find the Pop Tarts a week later.

I could feel that THIS would be the time when I’d get them.

I marched back in the Halloween aisle and there they were, staring back up at me.

“Pumpkin Pie Pop Tarts!” I said, elated as I hugged one to my chest.

I startled a woman who was walking past me. “Huh?” she grumbled, probably thinking that I was talking to her.

I guess that would be less weird so I played along with that. “Pumpkin Pie Pop Tarts!” I waved the box in the air.

She frowned. “I don’t like pumpkin.”

Well, whatever lady.

“You found them,” the Target worker that I had confused the week before said, walking over.

“Yup. I guess I didn’t need to put myself on a list after all,” I answered.

He snorted. “I guess not.”

Now I just had to hope that I actually LIKED the things. Suppose I took one bite and wanted to throw up? Wouldn’t that be depressing?

When I got home I unwrapped a Pop Tart and stared at it. It definitely looked tasty. Then I put it in the toaster and waited.

When it popped up, I eagerly grabbed it.

Here it was. The moment of truth.

I took a bite.

And....

....it was fabulous.

Delicious!

Sure, they are kind of fatty. Like, one pastry is 200 calories. But I pretend that calories don’t count before noon, therefore I can enjoy both of them in the morning with no guilt.

It rocks.

A Louder Voice?

Natalie got her first month report on how she’s doing in preschool.

A part of me figured they’d say that she had to work on sharing, because she’s not the best at sharing. Like, the other day I was brushing out her My Little Pony’s hair and thinking, “Actually, purple hair with glitter doesn’t look so bad..” when she snatched it from me.

So I did not expect to read that she needed to work on having a louder voice in class.

She needs to work on having a louder voice? Did I read that right?

I immediately flashed back to that morning.

“I DON’T WANT A POPTART!” screamed Natalie, her face bright red as she pushed aside the delicious pastry that I had lovingly warmed up in the toaster.

And then I thought back to the night before, when Natalie bonked Tommy over the head for daring to touch her stuffed pumpkin.

“NO BROTHER. THIS IS MINNNNNEEEEE!”

Louder voice?

Really?

On the plus side, at least she seems to have manners in the presence of others. It’s just me she feels the need to act up for.

Awesome.

The Sprinkler Speech

“Sometimes in the morning I get pushed into the sprinkler.” Tommy said this casually, as he ate his breakfast. (Dry cereal, no milk as he detests milk.)

My Mommy radar went up. Well, partially up. It was early and I was still half asleep.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Tommy munched on some cereal like it was no big deal. Chew, chew, chew. Get on with it, son.

“Well, the people who live in front of the bus stop have their sprinkler on. And sometimes the other kids push me into it,” Tommy finally admitted.

“Those little shits,” I said without thinking.

Tommy’s eyes went wide. “Mommy. You said a bad word.”

Right. Oops.

“What I meant to say,” I corrected. “Is that you shouldn’t be pushed into a sprinkler. It’s rude.”

“I don’t get that wet,” Tommy said. “Just a little.”

“Still. It’s rude. Have these kids learned no manners? I’m going over there and talking to them.”

Tommy looked stricken.

“I’m not going to embarrass you, I’m just going to remind them that it’s impolite to push other children in the sprinkler. That’s all,” I promised.

(And I feel I ought to point out that I used to walk to the bus stop with Tommy until he hit second grade and thought it wasn’t cool anymore. I was the only parent there.)

When it came time to head to the bus stop, I walked over with Tommy. I could hear whispers amongst the other kids.

Why is Tommy’s Mom here? Is he in trouble? How long is she staying?

“Right, you monsters,” I began. “There will be no more pushing my son into the sprinkler and if you do it again, I’m writing to Santa and telling him not to stop by your house. Am I understood?” And then I grabbed them by their ears, marched them to their homes and demanded to speak to who was responsible for raising such a brat.

I’m kidding.

That’s just what I imagined happening.

(And for a brief time, I played around with giving them a moving speech like they do in those sports movies where the team sucks in the beginning but then becomes champions in the end. I was going to say while pacing back and forth in front of them, “Listen up, children. You are being granted a privilege of being here without an adult. It’s because we trust you all to do the right thing. I know you all have it in you,” and then I’d pause meaningfully, “to do the right thing. So will I hear anymore stories of kids being pushed in the sprinkler?” [the kids would be so moved that they’d all chant at once, “Nooooooo!] And then I’d say, “I knew you all had it in you to behave. Rudy, Rudy, Rudy!” Um, oops. Was getting my sports movies mixed up with my rousing speech. Which is why I decided NOT go to with a rousing speech.)

Anyhow.

What really happened was this:

I said, “Are people being pushed into the sprinkler?” I purposely used the word people so as not to single out Tommy.

No one would look at me. They were treating me like I was a scary mom with unbrushed hair and mismatched clothes on.

Well.

I sort of did look like that. I hadn’t brushed my hair yet and I had green sweats on with an orange t-shirt.

But still. Have they not learned to respect their elders even if they aren’t coordinating?

This meant that I had to turn scary.

“No one will be pushed into the sprinkler again, okay?”

No reaction. Well, there was a bit of reaction due to Natalie, who had to come with me. She started racing through the sprinkler.

*Sighs*

She wasn’t supposed to make it look FUN! She was supposed to stand beside me and glare at the kids.

And why did someone have their sprinkler on at 8 in the morning?

“If I hear that someone has been pushed into the sprinkler again I’m—” I started. I’m what? I’m WHAT? Think, Amber, think. But my brain was still snoozing away. What is scary to kids?

Then it hit me.

“I’m going to grab my lawn chair and sit with you all. Every day. Even when it starts to snow.” (Oh God, please let them not push another kid in the sprinkler again. I didn’t WANT to sit there in the snow. It’s too COLD.)

Now came the reaction. Eyes went wide, mouths fell open, and a little girl said solemnly, “No one will be pushed again.”

So bottom line?

Want to scare kids?

Threaten to sit with them.

Every day.

(But don’t worry, I’m going to totally spy on them from the window.)

Hey, It's Okay Tuesday!

I got this idea from Glamour magazine. They have a section called Hey, It’s Okay and will list a bunch of things to be okay about. I think You're welcome to join in and do something like this on your diary. Doesn't have to be on a Tuesday either.

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To be curious about that new planet that has been found that might support life.


To be a fantastic person to trick on that show Scare Tactics. I’d seriously scream the place down. Oh, and probably cry.


To have FINALLY found the Pumpkin Pie Poptarts. And yes, they’re delicious! Get thee to a Target and pick up a box.


To be upset that My Generation is getting cancelled. It makes me cranky when good shows are cancelled yet shows like Jersey Shore are ultra popular. What is wrong with America?


To cringe when people use the word ‘preggers’ or ‘prego’ when someone is pregnant. Prego is a spaghetti sauce, preggers is just an irritating word.


To love the site lamebook.com.


To be affronted that someone is going to publish a book that Snooki wrote. Snooki. Seriously? I’m working my arse off trying to get published and someone like SNOOKI is going to have a book before me?


To be a big fan of beef jerky.


To still not like seafood despite the fact that people always make me try it to “make sure completely that I don’t like it.” Newsflash. I STILL don’t like it.

Six Dollar Magnets

I scribbled out a check for the amount of six dollars.

Again.

Why?

Well, because Tommy brought home another magnet with his drawing on it.

Again.

It started last year and at first I was thrilled to pay for a magnet with my son’s creation on it.

But then it happened again. (Happens TWICE in one year!)

And again.



How many magnets am I supposed to buy? And why are the kids given the magnets? So the parents can break their hearts and be all, “Actually sweets, I’m not going to buy it this year because my fridge is COVERED with your magnet drawings. Cool?”

And it WON’T be cool!

Well, at least it won’t be cool if you have an ultra sensitive kid like my son.

I pulled out his magnet and praised him on a job well done.

“You’re buying it?” Tommy wondered, sticking it on the fridge.

“Er...well, the thing is, I bought two others. I’ll gladly put the original drawing on the fridge and—”

“Don’t you like it?” (Picture sad blue eyes blinking up at you.)

“I love it. And as I said, I’ll put the original drawing on the—"(at this point, Tommy sniffed)—"you know what, sure, I’ll buy it.”

“Great!” Tommy said cheerfully.

(And I guess it’s a good thing that he only wants the magnet, because if you’re willing to shell out more money, you can get your kid’s art on a BLANKET! Thank goodness he’s never wanted an art blanket.)

I stared down at the latest magnet. Tommy said he drew himself smiling. The smile in the drawing looked forced and I let out a giggle.



Because it’s the same smile I wear when I’m surrounded by those mothers prattling on about how they feed their kids only Organic foods, limit the TV to one hour, and admit to passing out apples on Halloween.

So I guess it was six bucks well spent.

No Cavities and Leprechauns

“Am I going to get a shot in my mouth?” my son Tommy asked for the millionth time that morning.

“Tommy, it depends if you have a cavity or not,” I said as I drove along to the dentist office where he and his sister had an appointment that morning. Early in the morning, I might add. I am not a morning person so being asked the same question over and over was wearing on my nerves. Wasn’t he tired? Didn’t he just want to, I don’t know, BE?

“I don’t want a cavity!” Tommy said, slapping a hand over his mouth.

“So long as you brush you teeth good, you have nothing to worry about,” I assured him.

I parked in front of the dentist office and took a deep breath. Dentists, it should be known, scare the crap out of me. It’s probably because I have a gag reflex so when they’re messing around my mouth, they have to constantly stop so I can, well, gag. Then they’ll sigh and stare at me like I’m doing it on purpose and I’m NOT. Really. I can’t help it. I just need to be knocked out through the whole exam, even simple ones, but most dentist offices say they won’t do that.

My kids, thankfully, don’t seem to have my bad gag reflex.

“I don’t know if I like this,” Tommy said, slowly emerging from the car.

“I wouldn’t like it,” I wanted to say but I have to pretend like the dentist and I are best buds, that they aren’t scary at all, that their office doesn’t smell.

“It’ll go great,” I said and thought that Tommy would call me out on having a fake enthused voice. But he didn’t, he was too nervous.

And Natalie, well, Natalie kept saying, “He’s going to look in my mouth?” as we entered the building.

Natalie hasn’t always done so great with the dentist. For one, she usually cries. Two, she bit the dentist before. On purpose.

The plus about having an early appointment is that we were called back pretty quickly. Both kids had to lie back on the oversized chairs and Natalie did not want to do this at first.

“No thanks,” Natalie said when the dental hygienist asked her to lay back.

“Natalie,” I said, trying to force her down. “You have to lie back so they can look at your teeth. Won’t that be fun?”

“No thanks,” Natalie said and tried to walk away.

“Is Natalie being good?” Tommy asked. “Is she going to cry?”

“I hope not,” I said and managed to get Natalie to lie down. Thankfully she was distracted by the movie playing overhead.

I was tired as we sat there and slightly freaked out that I was in the dentist office. I tried not to pass out when I saw all the dentist equipment lying around. My gag reflex nearly flared when I saw it all. Oh man. The dentist needed to hurry and show up, otherwise I was going to have a panic attack and would probably start racing around the room begging for a paper bag to blow into.

The dental hygienist did the initial cleaning and started making conversation. She asked if we lived on the military base, I said yes, she said she used to live there until she got divorced. She asked what my husband did, I said he was in Korea for a year and then she went, “Oh. My ex-husband went to Iraq for a year and got another woman pregnant.”

Um.

It was like she was talking about the weather. “It’s sunny outside, lalala.”

“Oh,” was all I could muster. And then I started to think, holy crap, what if TOM got someone pregnant in Korea?

Not that he’d do such a thing.

“I never knew he could do such a thing,” the hygienist continued.

Oh my God. I was in a dentist office, which is one of the worst places in the world to be in my eyes, second to Hell, obviously, and now I was starting to panic that my husband was boinking another woman.

“I—” I started. I didn’t even know what I was going to say. But then the dentist sat down and asked how things were going.

“Great,” I said lightly, trying to pretend that I was on the beach. And oh my God, I just saw the spit sucker go into Tommy’s mouth. I hate the spit sucker thing. It makes me gag.

“Any concerns?” the dentist wondered jovially.

“I’m concerned that Natalie keeps calling little people leprechauns. I keep telling her that they aren’t, that they are regular people like us but I don’t think she gets it...and...oh, you meant with her teeth?” I immediately felt stupid. But, see, I was tired, I didn’t like being near a dentist, and I was petrified that Tom was sharing his bed with another woman.

“I did mean her teeth,” the dentist said, but he laughed at my comment.

“Right. No concerns with those.”

Natalie didn’t cry or bite the dentist, I’m proud to report.

Neither kid had any cavities.

“Yes! No shots!” Tommy said when he found out.

When I spoke to Tom later that night I blurted, “You aren’t going to get another woman pregnant because this hygienist said her husband did and I’m just not cool with it, okay?”

“Um. Hello to you too?” Tom answered.

“I’m sorry, it’s been a long day, dentists, accidental pregnancies, an irritating fly that I can’t seem to kill....”

Tom chuckled. “I’d never do anything to jeopardize our relationship. I’d miss all your random comments.”

“Natalie thinks little people are leprechauns. Don’t worry, I’m teaching her that it’s not the case but when we watch that Little People, Big World show she points to Matt Roloff and goes, “Leprechaun!” I blabbered.

“Excuse me?”

“You said you liked random comments. I just gave you one so you’d remember what we have,” I said sweetly.

“Weirdo.”