Murdering Fred

I discovered something rather depressing about myself tonight: I am a PANSY Momma!  This realization dawned on me during my special night out at the park with the kids while I was attempting to get a worm on the hook of the boy’s fishing pole.  

For the last few weeks, the boys have overturned every rock this side of the Mississippi in search of the biggest and juiciest worms to take fishing with them.  Taking them fishing is really something my husband, Bob, does with such joy and expertise and I’ve always been happy to chill with my little ladies and shop or…change their diapers (we haven’t quite graduated to Ladies’ Night Out yet!).

But the last few weeks my Hard Workin’ Marlboro Man (just calling him that because he wears cowboy boots to EVERY function imaginable, not because he likes to smoke ‘em…just to clarify) has been making hay while the sun shines (I.e., the real estate biz is hopping so he’s working 24/7).  Meanwhile, the boy’s worm collection in their buckets is reaching Guinness Book of World Records status so I decided if I didn’t want the worms in our backyard to out populate our town’s population, I better take those little Huck Finns fishin’.

I mean, really, they’re only 3 and 4 years old…how hard can it be?  

They were bursting at their overall seams when I announced this afternoon we were heading to a nearby river to go fishing!  The worms were transferred with lots of T.L.C. to a travel-worthy tote, one WITH a lid as we have enough wiggly-worms in carseats that I didn't want REAL wiggly-worms all over the floor too! The poles were then loaded into the van with a couple seriously excited fisherman tumbling in after them.

The river looked smooth and golden in the light of dusk and the floating dock echoed the sound of the boy’s shoes as they pounded to the end of it, thrusting their lines into the waters within no time.  Their little sister was right on their heels holding the tote with the sacred collection of worms.  Oh, right…the worms!  They pulled up their lines and hurried over to me, time was a-wasting!  

“Mommy, can you get a worm on my hook, I gotta get back to fishing so I can catch a big one!”

No problem, I assured them, reaching into the tote and pulling out a worm.  I had never actually done this but it couldn’t be that difficult.  I felt a little squeamish right away just squeezing the slimy little guy between my fingers but when I attempted to poke him with the little hook, I was shocked to see him flinch.

Did the worm just FLINCH in pain?!  My heart began to race.  Was this going to hurt the little dude?  I tried again, same reaction, the worm jerked away from the needle.  I took a jagged breath as my son’s sneakers shuffled back and forth in the corner of my eye.  I could feel him watching me, waiting for me to do IT.

Great, now I have a witness to this murder.  My heart was pounding harder…faster.  Maybe if I closed my eyes…

I tried again but, with my eyes closed but that made my imagination to run wild: this worm was alive!  I mean, his mom is probably pulling dinner (a piece of dirt?) out of the oven right now and wondering if he (George?  Billy?  Fred?  He did kinda look like a Fred…) would be home soon.  Maybe Fred had been voted “Best Blue Eyes” in his high school yearbook (do worms even have eyes?!).  Fred could be engaged for Pete’s sake!  His wedding could be tomorrow for all I know and here I am, trying to turn him into a Fish Sandwich the eve of the most important day of his worm-life!  The least I could do would be to give him a little something for the pain before I stab him with a HOOK!  

I threw Fred to the ground, my hands still shaking.

What kind of person am I?!  What kind of example am I being to the boys?!  What kind of Mother would murder a nice guy like Fred!?  I’m a PANSY and never even knew it!
“Momma…aren’t you gonna put that worm on my hook?”

I took a deep breath, gotta hold it together for the kids.  I had no idea that fishing was such a violent-contact sport.  Think of all the little Freds out there who die so that we can eat fish!
“Um…you know, buddy, I think we’ll just use the rubber baits today and you can use Fred, I mean--the worms, next time when Daddy takes you.”

It was a fish-less fishing trip but we did catch some good memories and a beautiful orange sun was sinking beyond the hills as we drove home.  I smiled to myself, I had caught a Big One and I wasn’t going to let it get away…a Big Realization about raising a family with my better half.  Their strength may be my weakness and my weakness (or pansy-ness!) may be their strength.  I can’t do it ALL.  I need my man and he needs me (I may not be able to take down Fred but once they bring home the fish, I can fry up a mean walleye!).  

I think there will be one Hard Workin’ Marlboro Man waiting at home that is due a big kiss of gratitude for little things (like taking the boys fishing for REAL) that I never before appreciated.

Now, Fred may have a different point of view…

Who's Laughing at YOU?

Don’t you love “lol” moments, when you really LAUGH OUT LOUD!?  I just had one of those today during a conversation with my three-year-old son.  Here it is:

Judah: Hey!  (while looking out the dining room patio doors)  I just saw a LIGHT black squirrel!

Me: Also known as GRAY, Judah!  (laughing)

Judah: (grinning ear to ear)  Yeah…I always make people laugh ON me!!

Me: Oh, really?  Why do they laugh?

Judah: Behuzz I BONK my head, like this! (does a “Three Stooges” self face punch)

Me: (MORE laughing) I wish that was the only reason we laugh “ON” you, kid!!

The reasons we’ve laughed “ON” Judah include (but are NOT limited to); discovering him giving himself a swirly in our toilet (Eau de Toilet Boy), finding him naked and slimed from head-to-toe in hand soap (Super SOAPer!), and walking into his dump truck dirt-landscape that used to be our living room (Extreme Dirty Jobs: Home Make-over Edition).

I’ll be the first to admit, in each of these situations, laughter wasn’t always the number one idea that sprang to mind.  Sometimes, I had other ideas that usually had me turning into Charlie Brown’s mother…but, I’m learning I’m going to laugh about it eventually, so why not NOW?  

We LOVE to laugh in this family.  Laughter is like slamming down a shot of hope and peace in the midst of a storm (not that I know anything about shots…just saying).  It warms you to the core and makes everything a bit easier to handle.  These are just a few of my favorite quotes about laughter,

Laughter is the shortest distance between two people.  ~Victor Borge

What soap is to the body, laughter is to the soul.  ~Yiddish Proverb

When people are laughing, they're generally not killing each other.  ~Alan Alda

Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion.  I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.  ~Kurt Vonnegut

The most wasted of all days is one without laughter.  ~E.E. Cummings

Laughter is an instant vacation.  ~Milton Berle

I think one of the greatest challenges when it comes to laughter is growing in our ability to laugh ON (i.e., AT) ourselves.  Sometimes I plan our lives so carefully, it takes all the fun out of it…what’s wrong with a “flying by the seat of our pants” option every now and again?!  Lately, when I realize I’m in my Mrs. Control-freak mode, I stop and LAUGH…at ME! I’m such a dork sometimes!  

When I’m in full huffing-and-puffing, ready-to-blow-my-husband’s-argument-down mode, I let out all the hot air in my head and LAUGH at ME!
I ask my man, “I’m making a big deal out of nothing, right?”  (of course, he looks like a deer in headlights as this question sounds strangely like, “Does my butt look big?” to the male brain) and I realize I just need to take a CHILL pill now and then.  It’s OKAY to LAUGH at ourselves! Laughter is a God-given can of WD40 in our lives to make things run a bit smoother.  Let’s use it!   

Who’s laughing at YOU?  Hopefully, it’s YOU! So whether you catch your kid with his head in the toilet or catch yourself being a straight up dork…just LAUGH.  That could make the world (especially your children and spouse’s world) a better place to be!

Just for fun video: I LOVE To Laugh!

We DID Start the FIRE!

I wasn’t going for The Mother Teresa Award when I had the *brilliant* idea (a.k.a, INSANE!) a few days ago to trek my fab four through an assisted living facility laden with hand-made May Day baskets of treats to “bless” the elderly people living there.  While I didn’t think I was being outstanding, I certainly didn’t think I would end up having an Evil Knievel affect on the elderly that day rather than a loving Mother Teresa one.  Our visit involved us starting a FIRE and scaring the daylights out of the residents…like I said, my idea was so brilliant!


I’ve been on this “let’s do it with PURPOSE” kick lately.  Whether I’m whipping up some mashed potatoes or making an art project with the kids, I have been pausing to ask, “How could this meal/project/time make a difference for eternity?”  With four pre-school children underfoot every moment of my day, this question may seem a bit far-fetched at times (I should probably be thinking instead, “How can I SURVIVE until bedtime?”) and my husband does sometimes call me unrealistic.  Of course, I much prefer the term “optimistic”!

May Day was just around the corner (thought the actually presence of Spring is still M.I.A!) and my crew and I worked as long as their attention spans would last (about five minutes) to create some fun little May Day baskets and cards.  After this crafting tornado died down, I was left in a wake of glitter, uncapped markers and sheer joy: I love doing life with my children…messes and all!  

As I stared at the May Day Museum spread out to dry on my kitchen counter, I thought: we should take these to some elderly people because older people are sometimes lonely and they usually love children!  Not to mention, my kids would be enriched by interacting with the older generation as well.  Hey, I thought excitedly, this is a WIN-WIN.

May Day dawned gloomy and cold but that didn’t matter because we were bringing our own sunshine!  I loaded up the kids in the van to make the appointment we had at a local assisted living facility and the kids were all smiles as they held hands and entered the living room of  the group home, everything was going according to plan.

Then, once again, LIFE happened…or, as some may say (aka, my husband whose fateful laugh at the proposal of my idea was ringing in my head at that moment): REALITY.  My Little Rays of Sunshine were too busy stuffing their faces with all the candy from the May Baskets to notice any of the sweet little grandmas that came out to say hello.  I tried to give them discreet nudges and little whisper-warnings of being grounded until their 18th birthday if they shoved another piece of candy in their mouths, all while attempting to converse politely with the aforementioned grandmas.  

Since I was holding on to my baby, Gabby, the only one that didn’t look like a chipmunk, I couldn’t actually stop the May Day Mutiny.  Fortunately, none of the residents seemed to notice the May Day Baskets being handed to them by my children were all empty.  The residents did seem to enjoy interacting with the little ones, and my kids also seemed to enjoy the new faces of the elderly.


In fact, I was just breathing a sigh of relief when my nose caught wind of a strange smell…the smell of something burning…the smell of FIRE!  I turned around and saw my four-year-old son standing next to a candle at the kitchen table with a flaming candy wrapper about to burn the tips of his fingers.  I did one of those “Mommy-Air-Jordan” moves (that I’m still hurting from days later) and pretty much flew across the room without my feet ever hitting the floor.  I grabbed the wrapper to save my son’s finger and then realized, Oh, snap.  What do I do with this?  

The only thing that came to mind at that HOT moment was my fifth grade assembly class when the fire department came and taught us the fire safety basics: Stop, Drop and Roll.  So I stopped holding the burning wrapper, dropped it onto the lovely linoleum floor and rolled my tennis shoe on top, burning a little hole into the floor and wishing the hole were big enough for me to crawl into and die of embarrassment!


Meanwhile, the residents looked on in shock and I wondered who we should call first; the fire station to put out the fire, the ambulance to care for the residents we nearly gave heart attacks to, or the police station to arrest me for being so unrealistic in my expectations that it is probably considered illegal!  


After my son also recovered from his shock (“Mom, I didn’t know it would do that!!  I didn’t think…I was just seeing what it would do…”) and joined me in cleaning the floor while apologizing profusely, I felt like the new Evil Knievel of assisted living homes, “Able to start dangerous fires, can leap across walkers in a single bound and (with the assistance of curious little helpers) cause crazy chaos wherever she goes!”  I wondered if there were a secret "Blackball List" that Assisted Living Homes swapped and if I would make tomorrow’s front page.  

After a bit more small talk and head pattings (the elderly to the children), we made our escape…the taste of humble pie still lingering in my mouth.  Ah, LIFE…REALITY is so…unpredictable sometimes!


Well, at least we gave them something to talk about!

Sunday Morning Disaster

Rain + mud + worms + boys = Sunday Morning Disaster.

Relaxing is no longer an adjective that floats to the surface of my mind when I envision Sunday mornings.

Pre-children years included favorite music filling the house as we emptied our coffee cups and played footsie under the kitchen table.

Post-children years include the music of wailing as we squeeze our crew into uncomfortable church clothes intermingled with the sound of laughter as they streak through the house after their baths decked out in their “nuder-man” outfits (yes, that means naked!).  Meanwhile, the coffee maker sits collecting dust on the counter and the only thing being emptied at breakfast now are my cups of patience and joy as bowls of cereal topple off the table and lakes of milk form on my freshly cleaned hardwood floor.

All of this really gets me in the mood to go to church and be spiritual.  That’s why I’m relieved that real church isn’t a showcase for saints (oops, I missed that anointing for sainthood!) but rather a hospital for sinners.

After what happened this last Sunday, I was more than ready to raise my white hankie in surrender and admit that I sin with the best of them.  Glory hallelujah!

The children were lassoed and decked out in their outfits that included (for the boys) white long sleeved shirts and khakis (with strict instructions to not touch or even THINK about anything dirty), the mountain of Cheerios were swept up and the lake of milk was sopped up as my little soldiers were marched to the door to begin our "Exodus".  I typically begin the “Exodus” from our house about half an hour before we actually need to LEAVE for any given event as history has evidenced Murphy’s Law is a FACT with four children under age five.  

One baby loaded in the car seat and placed in the van, check.

One little girl buckled into her car seat with a handful of fruit snacks to keep her momentarily happy, check.

One three year old boy buckled into his seat with a book to read, check.

One four year old boy buckled into his seat with a book to read as well, check.

One Momma still wearing slippers…oh, snap…check.

“Okay, guys--Momma has to grab some shoes, I’ll be right back so just relax and STAY IN THE VAN, okay?”

They all nodded and I was foolishly deceived into thinking this is what things would look like when I reappeared.  I raced back outside…where I ran smack dab into my four year old son whose hand was submerged up to his elbow in a bucket of DIRT.

I did a double-take, what’s this?!  I immediately noticed His white polo shirt was now a lovely shade of brown and then he noticed a moment later that I had smoke coming out of my ears.

“Oh, Momma…" Gideon said, "I had to check to make sure the worms we caught yesterday are all alive.  Oh, wow--yup, they are.  Okay, I’ll get into the van now…oh, wait--I guess I have a little dirt on me…”

I would like to say I was very spiritual at that moment and reflected on the joys of boys and laughed about it all.  I would like to say that…but, I’ll shoot straight with ya’ll: I didn’t.  I did one of those First/Middle/Last-Name-of-Your-Child-Hollers that probably woke up the neighbors that were hoping to sleep in on a Sunday morning.  I have (quite infrequently) my saint moments, then, the rest of the time, I’m a sinner.

When Gideon and I climbed back into the van a few minutes later (with a clean shirt and dirt still under his fingernails), a little smile was starting to replace my crabby-Momma-face (thank God, that is such a bad look on me!).  When Gideon caught my eye in the mirror as he buckled back into his seat, I winked at him and his face lit up in a smile of his own, all was forgiven.  If God can forgive me for being a SPAZ about LITTLE things, for freaking out when I should take a moment to think before I speak, then how much MORE should I be quick to forgive my children who sometimes mess up in little ways.

I backed out of our driveway and headed towards the hospital for sinners…that was just the kind of place I needed to be on a Sunday morning like this.  I had some dirt of my own that needed to be cleaned up.

My Once Upon a Time in Mexico, Part II

Previously on Part I of “My Once Upon a Time in Mexico”

Well, God, I thought you led me here...I promise I’ll never forget to pack someones phone number again…especially in a foreign land where I don’t speak the language...

My Once Upon a Time in Mexico, Part II

Speaking of phone numbers…I suddenly remembered something!  This could be my salvation.

Maybe it was the iron bars of the jail cell and the thought of being stuck on the wrong side of them forever that kicked my creative-problem-solving skills into high gear.  My mind then stumbled upon another memory from high school (unfortunately, not from my Spanish class, which, any knowledge I acquired there other than “pinata fiesta” seems to have been eternally erased from my brain).  I remembered a conversation I had with one of my friends, Dan, just a few days before I boarded my plane to Mexico.  When I had mentioned to him that my destination was just about an hour from the city of Monterrey, his face had lit up in surprise.

“Really!?  My older brother just got married to the daughter of a Mayor in Monterrey.  I’m sure you won’t ever need it, but I’ll give you the Mayor’s contact information in case you ever get in a bind and need help.  He’s family now!”

Before, I had thought to myself, “Trust me buddy, I’ll never get in a bind requiring help from a mayor”, but now I was thinking that eating my own words never tasted so good!

I didn’t waste another minute and dumped my entire purse out on the floor, rifling through the contents until I found the slip of paper with the Mayor’s phone number on it.  Salvation is here!

Of course, another embarrassing game of charades was required to communicate my idea to the Police Chief, but four hours later (7 a.m.), an officer came and shook me awake (my suitcase made for an interesting pillow) jabbering excitedly in Spanish.  I rubbed my sleepy eyes and followed him to the front desk where an older Hispanic couple was waiting.  The man was dressed in a three piece suit and his wife was decked out to the nines, they seemed out of place in the humble settings of my new home.  The man in the suit grinned from ear to ear as he held up a newspaper for my appraisal.  It was the front page of the social section where a stunning black and white photo of Dan’s brother and a lovely Mexican bride were walking down an aisle.  I excitedly nodded yes and smiled in relief, in spite of the language barrier, the connection had been made!

That morning, my knight in shining armor was the Mayor of Monterrey(and his wife) and they quickly assured me that any “amiga” of their new son-in-law was an “amigo por SIEMPRE!”  Translation: friend for LIFE!

Their well-dressed chauffeur loaded my baggage and I settled into the backseat next to the lovely mayor’s wife.  It only took me a few minutes to realize that, once again, “Houston: we have a PROBLEMO!”  As she fluffed her dyed-blonde hair (unless Hispanics can be natural blondes?), she chatted non-stop.  Amidst a torrent of words I couldn’t understand, she reached over, grabbed my hand and said in broken English, “You okay now.  You stay with us one year, that is no problem.”

The problem was I had someplace I was actually supposed to be.  In fact, at that moment (which was then 8:00 am), my first day of classes were starting up at the school in El Carmen.  This wasn’t going to impress the principle: the new teacher being late for the first day of school!  Of course, I was hoping my excuse was a little bit better than, “My dog ate my homework.”

Over the course of the next few hours (and amidst a day of shopping, sight-seeing and eating at a five star hotel), I made numerous attempts to explain to the Mrs. Mayor my predicament.  Each attempt ended with the same result: interested and concerned eyes watching, an understanding nod and a little pat on the hand as she would say, “Yes, understand.  You stay with me.”

Meanwhile, across the mountainous city and down a dirt road in the village of El Carmen, a little miracle was taking place.  

A Hispanic lady named Mrs. Beto flipped on her radio in her kitchen as she readied her daughters and herself for the first day of school.  She cleaned and cooked at the small school and was mentally running through what she needed for the day when an A.P.B. (All Points Bulletin) caught her attention.  It was a description of a girl that had not been picked up at the Monterrey airport (white, 5’ 2”, red hair…which I didn’t have red hair so not sure what that was about!), and that any persons with any information should call the police station.  Mrs. Beto had a sudden and strange thought, “I wonder if that is the girl that is supposed to teach at our school?”  On a whim, she jotted down the number and put it in her pocket in case she would need it later.

Mrs. Beto (who has never owned a car) walked to the school of El Carmen and heard the news: the new teacher never showed up.  Fiddling with the phone number on the piece of paper in her pocket, she debated, God is this you speaking?  

Back in Monterrey, the smells of the street vendors cooking authentic Mexican foods and home-made tortillas were tantalizing.  While riding in the back seat, the honking of taxi-cabs, people shouting in crowded open-air markets and stray dog barking was all an amazing and overwhelming sensation as we sped through downtown.  I glanced at my watch; it read 3:14 p.m., then glanced over at my new (apparently life-long!) friend, Mrs. Mayor.  It seemed a new plan was in order…but what?

We pulled up in front of the Mayor’s offices and waited while he checked on something.  When he came back out, he had a funny look on his face.  He looked at me, patted his wife’s hand, said something in Spanish and then directed his driver to do something with numerous gestures and animated instructions.

I watched as the skyscrapers gave way to dilapidated housing units packed together like stacks of dirty dishes and then fade into nothing but a long stretch of highway exiting the city.  Well, this means one of two things, I thought to myself as I leaned my head against the seat (going on two hours of sleep in two days will catch up to you eventually!), I hope they somehow figured out where I’m supposed to be...

To be continued on Monday...