Intermission, please

For the past 18 months, I've awakened each morning in the same way -- to the sight of a sleep-rumpled little boy standing by my bed, clutching his beloved blankie.

He waits silently until I open my eyes, then raises both arms for a boost into our bed. We drowse, his fingers entangled in my hair.

Lately, these early-morning visits have become sporadic. Some mornings he appears; on others, I find him sitting quietly on the couch, patiently waiting for the household to rouse.

I used to bemoan being awakened at 6:30 a.m. Now I dread the day these bedside visits stop.

My baby's burgeoning independence unfortunately coincides with his sister's impending entrance into kindergarten.

One no longer wants to snuggle in the morning; the other is about to don her brown Mary Janes and stride into a new phase of life.

My role is changing -- no, being changed for me -- and I find I no longer know my lines.

My tiny beholders

In the hours before my 20th high school reunion, I scrutinized the sag, bemoaned the pooch, and struck various poses in front of the mirror, alternately adjusting bra straps (must. get. boobs. back. to. original. spot.) and sucking in my stomach.

Sighing, I turned from the mirror and picked up my tiny purse.

"Mommy?"

Two little people blocked the door.

The girl child touched my dress. Boy child eyed the sparkley necklace.

"You look beautiful."

And when I looked again, I saw what they saw. And I was.

*************

Fireflies have vanished. Kindergarten starts in two weeks. Hiatus is officially ended.

On hiatus

I'm working on two long-term projects and ...

... equally exciting ...

... I'm about to start another regular writing gig with a mama/reporter friend of mine.

I'm immersed at work. I have more to write at night. And, just before the kids go to bed, we chase fireflies across the lawn.

I am reveling in this quickened pace, but there is little time to blog. I will be dropping in on yours, and I may post here periodically as time allows.

But right now, I have to focus on what's right in front of me, here IRL.

Be well.

In 45 minutes, I'll be out on the front porch swing, bare feet dangling, drinking a glass of wine and pointing the kids toward tiny, blinking lights.

This summer, I head west

This summer, I'll be heading to Odessa, Texas, for a friend's baby shower.

I spent two years in Odessa, a rough-and-tumble town in West Texas, and home to the best damn bloody Mary I've ever had. Mel, my expecting friend, is the one who introduced me to these spicy perfections at a joint called Riley's Roadhouse.

I met Mel at the newspaper. Her desk was next to mine. On my first day, Mel spent hours on the phone, ranting about the boyfriend who had cheated on her with a stripper. His name was Seven. His parents were aiming for Sven, but someone screwed up the birth certificate. Anyway, at one point Mel picked up this stuffed animal from her desk, and, using a pair of scissors, decapitated it.

"I (whack) can't (snip) believe (swish) I trusted him!"

I knew we were destined to be friends.

After hitting a few clubs with Mel, she took me to Riley's.

"Do NOT put down your purse," she hissed as we walked through the door.

And then she introduced me to Queen Mary. Yum.

Mel and I specialized in dating inappropriate men. I settled on the TV reporter who essentially read my big investigative story on air -- without crediting me.

"OK, aside from that, what is wrong with him?" I asked Mel.

"He has no soul," she replied.

One night, I met Mel at a club so she could introduce me to her latest. He said hello, then promptly slumped over the table and passed out.

I jabbed her.

"What's wrong with him?" I shout-whispered over the pulsing music.

"Oh, I don't know," Mel said, airily waving a cigarette. "He smoked some pot, popped a couple of Valium and chased them with a couple of margaritas."

"Do you think he's OK?" I asked.

"He's fine," Mel said. "He does this all the time. Let's go dance."

Still, this guy was an improvement over the hapless Seven.

One night, after getting off work, Mel and I met Seven at a bar in nearby Midland.

Once there, we had time to down only one beer before closing. We piled into Mel's car -- Mel, Seven, me, another girlfriend, and two of Seven's friends. Seven said he would drive.

"I've only had one beer," he assured us.

Fifteen minutes later, cop lights flashed behind us.

We all watched as Seven attempted to pass a sobriety test.

Sandwiched between Seven's two lunkhead buddies in the backseat, I watched him flunk it.

"Dude," said one of the guys. "I forgot about the bong. Should I stuff it under the seat?"

"You have a bong?" I squeaked. Drugs were not my thing. I was, I admit, a bit of a goody-goody in that department.Oh, great.

"Yeah, dude. What should I do with it?"

I slouched down in my seat.

"Mel, it is high time you broke things off with Seven. If you want to make it easier, just tell him you can't be with someone whose parents can't spell."

I dumped my story-stealing boyfriend and she left Seven puzzling over the true pronunciation of his name.

And here we are all these years later.

I haven't seen Mel since my own baby shower in 2002. And now I'm headed to hers.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but Odessa, here I come. Just slide that bloody Mary down the bar.

And don't touch my purse.

The avenging toddler

The teacher was baffled.

"He's always so sweet," she said.

The note she handed over read: The E-man was aggressive today. He kept hitting and scratching two of his friends.

After a little questioning (along with a peek at the names on the other parents' injury notes) I figured out who the victims were — two little boys who had hit and scratched the E-man.

The previous week. Apparently, the E-man had been brooding, biding his time.

A few days ago, we got another note. The E-man had whacked a kid in the head with a Lego — the same kid who had bitten the E-man's big toe.

The previous week.

It appears my little man knows how to nurture a grudge. It's gotten to the point that I can anticipate a spurt of aggression. Someone will do something to him. He'll talk about his injury for several days.

And then he engineers a surprise attack on his attacker.

We've have a few talks about this, but remain at an impasse with our vengeful tot.

And quite frankly, I feel a bit hypocritical. I am, after all, the woman who painstakingly listed all of the Hub's out-of-town trips vs. mine in an effort to prove that I am more often the one carrying the domestic load.

My list was typed. With columns. Including one for number of days gone.

ahem

I can whip out an old offense and wield it within seconds of Hubs recommitting said offense.

Perhaps the E-man's issue is merely his timing?

I kid. Kind of.

Really, all I can say about this matter is that it's a darn good thing for Hubs that he's never bitten my big toe.

On a lighter note...

... and in anticipation of Father's Day, here's an essay Hubs wrote shortly after the birth of our second child.


By Hubs

“Can you pick up the kids? I’ve got to work late.”

In response, a vision instantly pops into my head: a 2-year-old screaming because she just went potty, but not in her little toilet, and our little master, all of 3 months, out-yelling her because he discovered his dad is insufficient in the anatomy department.

“Sure, I’ll get them — but how late will you be?” I ask.

No matter what her response, I will ask, “Why so late?” and “Do you have to do it tonight?”

There is no escape.

What could be better, you might ask, than a night alone with my two adorable children? The daycare teachers joke that they want to borrow them, maybe take them home one night, because they are so cute, cuddly and well-behaved. I joke back that I almost called them at about 3 a.m. this morning when we were changing our sheets and comforter after our little guy anointed the bed during a diaper change.

I would have happily lent him out the night he was wailing inconsolably because I gently put him in his crib after 30 minutes of rocking. How dare I mistreat him so?

How could I know that he wanted to stay up and socialize? This is the scariest sight I know — a wide-eyed baby smiling at you in the way-too-early hours of the morning. The smile, it sucks me in; I cave like a dieting chocoholic who just found a lonely Hershey’s Kiss. If it weren’t for that toothless grin, which he musters even when I’m suctioning his nose, I would suspect he just doesn’t like me and is out to do me in.

The thought of being alone without the Milk Bar — aka “Mama” — sends me searching for a way out, any way, any direction. I want to be with them. I just want the option of passing the little guy off to the one with the right equipment. It’s so easy. He cries, she puts him on, and voila: peace. In her absence, he starts to fuss, the 2-year-old chimes in and the blissful evening of watching my beloved Astros with my little adorables turns into something on Elm Street.

I often point out to my wife how different it is when she is away. But she waves it off, saying it can’t be that bad.

She doesn’t know. Upon her arrival, usually later than she said, our oldest is asleep and the younger one is napping in my arms, oh so innocent-looking. How sweet it all appears. The quiet, the calm — both belie the scene an hour earlier.

The little one went off when his standard comfort-apparatus wasn’t to be found and the other joined in because she was having trouble pooping.

Panties down, on the little throne, panties up, more cries of “I need to poop!” Panties down, “I need a book,” panties up. Panties down, no poop. No poop to be found. I want her to poop. I pray for poop. How my priorities seem so simple, yet out of my control. A little poop in the potty and all will be well.

Later, I’m rinsing out panties. I have poop.

When, I wonder, will my wife get home?

I phone, but her cell goes to voice mail. How could she abandon me? My hope rises with every glimpse of headlights through the blinds. It’s not her. It’s still not her.

Finally, one child is asleep and the other is quiet for the moment. More lights, the sound of her car in the drive. The car door shuts, keys rattle, the front door opens and she enters, smiling.

“Sorry I’m late.” She pauses to croon at the now-sleeping little guy. “How was it?”

I shake my head. “I hope you brought beer.”

Circle time

I arrive at Group each morning, notebook in hand, pen at the ready.

At first, the women were overly conscious of me.

When the therapist asked a question, they looked at me, not her, when they answered. Several glanced frequently at my notebook, trying to decipher its abbreviated scribblings.

Now they don't notice me so much. I am the silent figure on a chair outside the circle. Only the occasional flip of my notebook paper gives me away.

I listen to the secrets that dribble out each morning, secrets that involve absent mothers, abusive mothers, unknown mothers.

And I am struck -- again and again -- by the realization that no matter what these women suffered at the hands of their mothers, they still love and miss them all these years later. They've looked everywhere for that soft maternal touch -- in pain pill bottles, liquor cabinets and crack houses.

Still, it eludes them.

What I see and hear each morning further convinces me that there is no love more resilient than that of a child for her mother. Some days, it breaks my heart. Other days, I am overwhelmed and frightened by their desperate need...

... because it reminds me of the revered place I've been allotted in each of my own children's hearts.

And I pray that I never disappoint them.

Next stop, kindergarten

Heading to the stage...



Oops.

Mother vs. mothering

I've never met Michelle Duggar, although I've certainly heard and seen enough of her during the eight years I've lived in Arkansas.

She wants to have 18 children and keep right on getting pregnant? Fine. That's her decision.

What annoys me is the insistence that she be repeatedly honored on Mother's Day. This year, the Today show took the brood shopping for mom. And the Peabody Hotel put together a lavish luncheon and gave the group a lesson in duck-marching.

In 2004, the state of Arkansas named her Young Mother of the Year, with the then-governor posing with her for a photo.

My issue is this:

Michelle is honored because of the number of children she's borne. Yes, she's most definitely a successful breeder. But is a high number of children truly a testament to one's mothering abilities?

What about the single mom who's raising three kids on her own? What about the mothers who adopt children caught up in the foster care system? Are they not worthy of recognition?

Lastly, what about the women who long for a child, the women who must, each year, watch the Michelle being honored for her ability to get pregnant over and over again?

It's been said many times that "mother" is a verb, not a noun.

So shouldn't the honors be bestowed on those who are mothering — whether its one child or 10 — rather than on a woman who is known for being 18 times a mother?

She was tiny, but big of heart

My paternal grandmother's real name was Louise, but everyone called her Tiny.

She lived in East Tennessee, surrounded by mountains and lore. From the time I was old enough to speak, she instructed me to call her Grandmother — quite a mouthful for a little kid. Perhaps it was her height, or lack thereof, along with the permanent nickname, that made formal titles so important to her. Perhaps it was her mountain upbringing. Perhaps it was the fact that she never made it past 8th grade.

It was the only thing she ever asked of us, however, so we didn't mind.

Grandmother's sentences always ended with an endearment, usually "hon" or "darlin'" She doted on us, and spent much of her time in her tiny kitchen, ensuring that our favorite foods made it to the table.

My grandmother lived in a doublewide trailer that overflowed with newspapers and magazines. She may not have graduated from high school, but she was a voracious reader who spent hours writing letters to the editor and clipping stories that captured her fancy. Although she lived in an area known for its number of Republicans, my grandmother was a devout Democrat until her death.

My grandfather, Delbert, had only a third-grade education, but he was an enterprising soul. He ran a limo service to and from the Johnson City airport. He owned a rambling mail route that took him through the Smokies and into North Carolina. Grandfather was known for giving rides to the mountain folk who needed to go to town. They waited for him at the post offices along his route.

My grandfather died when I was only 8, so I have few memories of him. A childhood bout with polio left him with a distinct limp. He smoked heavily and loved to tease us. Though poor, he was a generous man, even helping out his in-laws, who had objected mightily to his marriage to their daughter.

After his death, my grandmother lived in that trailer for years. My grandfather's mail route, now run by a neighbor, still provided some income. And my dad sent her monthly checks.

She raised two of my cousins after my uncle and his first wife divorced. Sometimes, over the years, they slipped and called her Mother.

Grandmother was a putterer. Even when her beloved soaps were on, she remained in motion. This drove my mother batty.

"I always feel like I should be up doing something too," she would say to my dad. "Doesn't your mother ever sit down?"

My grandmother was terrified of flying. Even so, she made numerous trips to our Texas home over the years. When I was 17, she came to stay with us while my mom and dad took a trip to Japan. She sat up all night, watching the news, petrified their plane would crash and she wouldn't know it.

When I was in college, Grandmother moved into an assisted living complex in Erwin. She liked her independence and even as she approached 80, remained active. The setting was perfect — she still lived alone, but help was nearby if she needed it.

The cancer diagnosis caught us off-guard. How could this be? She still was a little thinner, but still puttering.

The cancer proved aggressive. Within months, she required live-in care. My cousin, who also lived in Erwin, stayed with her. My dad went up for several weeks at a time. Then my uncle.

Shortly after my uncle left, my cousin had to take Grandmother to the hospital. Grandmother made it clear that she didn't want a feeding tube. If it was time, it was time. She rallied, however, after a few days on an IV. Even so, the doctor said hospice care would be necessary.

Among her many instructions, Grandmother insisted that she didn't want to be a burden on her family, that she would go into a nursing home first. After some arguing, my dad, cousin and uncle reluctantly complied.

We were all there the day Grandmother entered the hospice wing of the home. My sisters and I spent the afternoon with her, helping her to and from the bathroom. Always tiny, Grandmother was now a bundle of bones. I probably could have carried her in and out.

We decorated the room, trying to make the sterile space more homelike by bringing in lamps and pictures. I remember looking at Grandmother, so small and lost in that narrow hospital bed, and then darting from the room to cry in the bathroom.

After returning home, I asked Hubs to print the pictures taken at her 80th birthday. One was a shot of all the family, taken outside my cousin's home. I wanted her to remember that happy weekend, one of the last times we would see her healthy.

The doctor predicted a swift death. For the next several weeks, my dad went back and forth between Texas and Tennessee. Meanwhile, Grandmother became incoherent. She thought was living in a beauty parlor. She was angry with her hairdresser. Couldn't they find her a better salon?

Her doctor said the cancer had spread to her brain.

Dad told us not to call anymore, that Grandmother wouldn't want us to remember her this way. One week later, in the spring of 2001, my phone rang in the early-morning hours.

I knew, before I answered, that she was gone.

I've seen my dad cry twice in my lifetime — once when he found out his dad had passed away suddenly and again at my grandmother's visitation. After the funeral, I took home the boxes of her newspaper clippings. Some of them were mine.

My grandmother knew only one of her great-grandchildren, my cousin's son. The rest arrived after her death, a fact that tears at me still.

Just two more years, and she would have held my first-born.

I tell myself she knows, somehow, of my children's existence, and I imagine her her cradling each of them, saying what she said to each of us so many times:

You take care now. I love you, Hon.

Oh, the shame

So on my way home from Mommy's Day Out, I was blowing through radio stations in my usual fashion when I heard this catchy, totally danceable song.

Wow. I need to put this on my Shuffle. What a great workout song. Wait a minute. Am I on the freaking Disney station? That voice ... sounds familiar.

Yes, my friends, I was rocking out to ... I can hardly bear to admit this, but really, I didn't know ...

... that it was Miley.

shhhhh

Even worse, Hubs caught me adding it to my playlist. My humiliation is complete.

Mother's Day Out

The restaurant was bustling. Active toddlers fleeing from harried parents in pursuit. Moms and Dads sopping up spills. Shrieks of indignation from the unlucky few unable to escape from a high chair or booster seat.

A waiter appeared at my table in the bar.

"Left the family at home?" he asked.

I grinned. "All of them."

He surveyed the chaos and laughed. "Now this is the way to celebrate Mother's Day," he said.

I turned another page of my book.

"I totally agree."

*****************************

The kids made construction-paper gifts for me all weekend. I got two lovely cards from my stepkids. And then I spent the ENTIRE afternoon ALONE.

Bliss.

Who would attend a HS reunion that required a swimsuit?

Anyone?

I'm not seeing any raised hands.

My 20-year high school reunion is this summer. I'm one of the idiots who responded to email inquiries and now find myself accidentally on the planning committee.

*sigh*

When discussions first began, my high school BFFs, Nicole and Mary, and I exchanged a flurry of emails. Finally, Nicole got to the heart of the matter.

She sent this email.

SUBJECT: Time for the truth

Are y'all fat?

And we all agreed that years, babies, etc... have helped us pack on a few too many pounds.

Enter K. She's always been skinny, to the point of looking emaciated (snark, snark, snark, yeah, I know) and snotty. She was a popular girl. An unfriendly one.

Nicole, Mary and I fell into the alternative cool group. We were brainy, but cute. Nerdy but funny. We were nice to people, all people.

K. -- she was smart. Thin. But ever so snooty.

She is also on the reunion planning committee.

We are having three events -- a casual drinks night on a Friday; the main event on a Saturday; and a family day on Sunday.

After having discussed the importance of not making this cost-prohibitive, K. promptly suggested the VERY pricey waterpark.

As my friend Mary, who doesn't have children, put it: I'm curious about other people's kids, but not curious enough to pay $40 for the experience.

I responded: Yeah, I agree. I'm also not inclined to throw down $100-plus dollars so that my former classmates can see me STUFFED INTO A SWIMSUIT!

Egads. Seriously, who would want to subject themselves to that? And quite honestly, I don't want to see these people from my past in various stages of undress either.

Our newspaper once decided to have the company picnic at a waterpark.

Attendance was much lower that year.

Duh.

Why I took my kids to the site of a tornado's destruction

On Friday, Arkansas suffered another round of tornadoes. Seven people, including three children, died.

Hubs, as usual, was out in the midst of it. Shortly after the storms, he found a family who had lost their house. They already were struggling -- the dad lost his job when the Feb. 5 tornadoes destroyed a boat factory, where he was a welder. His best friend died in that one.

This family, like many others in that part of the state, had taken a double whammy.

Hubs told me about the family. "It's a story," he assured me. I absolutely agreed.

So on Sunday, we loaded our kids into the car and headed up to that part of the state.

"Are we bad parents for taking them along?" I asked Hubs. "You know how Tootie has fixated on tornadoes this spring."

"I think they'll be OK," he said. But his tone indicated his own uncertainty.

We drove down a long rutted driveway, up to a pile of splintered rubble.

The family told me all about how the two tornadoes had taken everything they'd worked so hard for. The most harrowing part of their story, however, was the mother's description of how she nearly lost her 17-month-old girl. The second tornado very nearly sucked the toddler from her arms. This woman had already suffered two miscarriages -- one of the lost babies was her little girl's twin.

As the pair tumbled through the air, debris battered the mother. When I interviewed her, she had two black eyes. Bruises and scratches covered her arms and legs. She told me how she would be damned before she let anything take her baby.

My daughter heard much of this interview. And now she's old enough to understand such
things.

As the mother and I talked, Hubs shot photos while the E-man toddled along after him.

"Where's the house?" my boy kept asking, unable to accept that the wreckage in front of him could possibly be the remains of someone's home.

"That WAS the house," his sister said. "The tornado got it."

"Oh," the E-man said, clearly unconvinced.





That baby you see in her daddy's arms had only two scrapes on her. Clearly, she was buffered by a mommy's love.

My daughter saw that, heard how this mother had saved her baby. And while Tootie remains scared of tornadoes, she was reassured to meet people who had lived through one.

I monitor my kids' television-watching closely. They watch Noggin or their DVDs, and that's about it.

But this -- this was real. Bad things happen. But good people step in to help. I wanted so much for her to understand this.

And today. Was. Wonderful.

I took phone calls and emails all morning from readers who wanted to help this family. When people respond that way to your story -- well, yes, it was worth it.

The family is getting donations. And my children, I hope, realized that one day they might be in a position to do the same for someone in need. I want to nurture empathy in them. I want them to understand that while we can't give them everything their friends have, they already have way more than others.

Was it wrong to take our kids to the site? Maybe some parents would think so. But I am so glad we did it. They saw the devastation, yes. But they also witnessed a family's strength. They realized that it is our obligation to help in whatever way we can.

How I met the man who inflicts antiques on me

OK, the hookup story --

I moved to Arkansas with a boyfriend in tow. We had broken up, due to his ... hmmm... commitment issues (fear and loathing of marriage and children), but reunited shortly before I took the job here.

So he came too, although I refused to live with him again.

That relationship was limping along when I first went on assignment with Hubs, a divorced photographer 14 years older than me. I thought he was hilarious. And, even better, he didn't find my story ideas odd or complain about some of the weird things I made him do. (like spending an entire day looking for a crime scene that the cops didn't want us to find ((we did).)

Most of our assignments involved daylong roadtrips, so we spent quite a bit of time together.

Soon, he started hanging out with my little group of friends. (Yes, the boyfriend was part of that group.)

One night, after my friend Amy and I indulged in one too many of a restaurant's local version of a hurricane, I began running my foot up and down Hubs' leg. My boyfriend was at the table. At first, Hubs thought perhaps I had the wrong leg. But when I leered drunkenly at him, he realized I did indeed have the right target. He would say later, "I thought it might be best to take this up another time."

And he fled.

A week later, our little group -- minus my anti-social boyfriend -- went dancing at a bar called -- I kid you not -- The Electric Cowboy. (When I first moved to Arkansas, The Electric Cowboy was still BJ's Starstudded Honkytonk, a favorite hangout of Paula Jones. Yes, that Paula.)

Anyway, Hubs and I took on a waltz. He is a fabulous dancer. And thus I was smitten.

I was wearing this.




Yes, it's vinyl. Don't laugh. I thought it was incredibly cute at the time. Eek. Everyone is grateful that I am no longer single as my taste has somewhat improved. OK, well, it has -- a little.

Three or four hours later, we were parked in front of my friend Traci's apartment after dropping off Amy, who was unable to drive all the way to her own place. Amy went inside and Hubs and I resumed making out. All was lovely until I accidentally sat on the horn, which blared loud and long. We laughed, then Hubs drove me home.

The next morning, Amy called. "So how was it? Is he a good kisser? He looks like the type who would be a good kisser. And don't lie to me because Traci and I looked outside when we heard the horn. We. Saw. You."

I confessed and swore her to secrecy. Remember, (even though I clearly didn't) I still had a boyfriend.

Who also worked in the newsroom.

Slightly awkward for all involved, no?

There was much sneaking around for several weeks, including a trip to Eureka Springs to see Willie Nelson in concert. Let it be noted here that I never could have pulled that off if I hadn't been dating a totally indifferent boyfriend. I'm not trying to justify what I did, but ... OK, well, yes I am.

Anyway.

I finally broke up with the boyfriend. By this time, the entire newsroom knew that Hubs and I were involved. You just try to be sneaky in a place filled with nosy reporters. It cannot be done.

Six months later, Hubs and I were planning a trip to Big Bend National Park, when suddenly, somehow, we found ourselves also planning a wedding there.

I called my parents the next day. "Mom, Hubs and I are getting married in four weeks at Big Bend. If you want to come, you're more than welcome. But we're doing this alone, out on a trail, with no other guests."

My parents, two sisters and brother-in-law showed up. As they were ALL taking pictures, no one actually watched the ceremony, but no biggie.

Only a few people in the newsroom knew what we were doing, so when we got back, there was much gasping and laughing. Ex-boyfriend had long since moved away. Last I heard, he was backkpacking through Thailand.

So there it is, the story of our whirlwind courtship and marriage.

It's been seven years, and we've made it back to Big Bend six times since then. We hope to head there again next fall.

***************************

Karma got me again. Remember when I recently wrote about how I wanted to dump all of Hubs' useless clutter on his ex-wife's doorstep?

Well, tonight my stepkids came over for dinner. With a hideous antique chair that the ex claims once belonged to Hubs. She sent it over "because she thought Hubs might want it back."

Beaten at my own game before it started.

The gods of bad timing...

... smiled down upon our household last night, gleefully striking me with a nasty case of PMS with a side of migraine — on our 7th wedding anniversary.

(Note to Hubs: Yes, I know exactly when I've crossed the line into irrationality, but I never can seem to find a graceful exit from the insanity that follows. Besides, do you know how annoying it is to be told I'm being ridiculous when I already know I'm being ridiculous? Just let the moment pass and I will slink away on my own accord.)

Anyway.

We aren't celebrating until tomorrow night, when our friend Amy has graciously volunteered (read: been duped into) babysitting for us.

Still, my deluded spouse somehow thought there might be anniversary-related marital relations last night when he slid into bed seductively and rested a hand on my thigh.

"I have cramps," I said, not bothering to look up from my book.

"I know what will make them better."

I put the book down.

"Why do men always think that sex is the cure for any ailment? If a stray softball hit you in a vulnerable area during a game, how would you react if I sidled up and whispered, "I know what will make that better."

He grinned.

"OK," I said. "Scratch that. Clearly, you would take me up on that offer, which shows how pitifully eager men are."

He moved closer.

I held up a hand.

"Scoot right back over to your side, buster. It's not happening tonight. When my ibuprofen kicks in, I am turning out this light and we are going to sleep. Correction — you are going to sleep. I, on the other hand, will lie here listening to you snore, wondering how long you will live after I apply duct tape to your nostrils."

He sighed.

"Happy anniversary!" I sang.

So — no sweet, loving tribute to my suffering spouse today. Perhaps tomorrow, after our evening out, when the PMS has vanished.

Tomorrow, perhaps, I'll regale you with the story of how we hooked up. It involves humiliation (mine) and cheating (mine).

Meanwhile, here are a few photos of the happy couple during non-pre-menstrual times.

The neat shall inherit Grandma Hattie's linens

I'm a few days late on this (busy week), but ...

... bless you, Mrs. C. for this.

I hate clutter. I am constantly picking things up and returning them to their rightful spots. (Or, if an item belongs to Hubs, quite possibly donating it. shhh...)

I do my best, but alas -- I am outnumbered. Two tots plus a packrat husband.

Which is why, on Saturday mornings, our living room looks like this:



Look past that cute little boy trying to ride his toy firetruck. See the nightgown on the table? The coffee cups? All that *shudder* clutter?

Now imagine that, over the years, you have been forced repeatedly to enter your husband's ex-wife's pristine home. Some women complain about ex-wives who are prettier or thinner.

Me, I'm jealous of whatever enables her to ward off dust mites.

In the past, we would visit and I would wonder, "How, how does she manage it?"

And then I would remember -- oh, yeah ... she divorced the packrat.

I wouldn't go to such extremes, don't get me wrong. However, if the Hubs should ever again leave town for any duration, Goodwill will be getting quite the haul.

Anybody want Grandma Hattie's faded, yellowing, mothball-scented pillowcases?

Oops! Forgot. Gave those away last year. Sorry.

My biggest fantasy? Packaging up all Hubs' clutter and depositing it on the ex's doorstep with a little note that reads:

Didn't you forget something?

A how-to guide for driving Daddy crazy...

... during his attempts to photograph you & your siblings.

(written by the E-man, age 3)

Step One: Complain upon waking from nap that something is in your eye. Refuse to open eye. Do NOT smirk as Mommy Googles "toddler eye pain" and "scratched cornea." Keep eye closed for the next hour. Maintain squint even when Daddy insists on herding you and siblings out the door for the planned photo shoot. Just remember, you will show him who's boss very, very soon.

Step Two: Make sure your eye pain is evident in photos. This has the added benefit of ensuring you maintain a proper, non-photogenic grimace.



Step 3: Look to your right...



Step 4: Look to your left...



Step 5: Recapture grimace and ignore Daddy's pleas to look at the camera. (Note that brother and one sister are beginning to show the strain. Heh.)



Step 6: Ignore Mommy's stupid antics. She is not funny. Note that oldest sister also appears to be losing patience. She is no match for the E-man.



Step 7: Intensify scowl. Keep ignoring Mommy, who is now pretending to be a monkey. THEY CANNOT BREAK YOU!!



Step 8: Don't let them catch you off-guard with a change of scene. You aren't so easily fooled. Why does my mother persist in acting like such an idiot? Clearly, she is suffering from some sort of crazed belief that she is Carol Burnett reinvented.)



Step 9: Realize that parents are annoyingly persistent creatures. When they make you stand behind the stupid tree, pucker your face to show contempt for this blindingly obvious maneuver.



Step 10: Wait until after the group has disbanded before flashing a look of triumph toward the camera.

The trying times of toddlerhood

My toddler is terrified of flies.

Houseflies.

So this evening, when I heard the Scream of Terror, I knew -- a fly must have gotten in.

The only other thing that elicits that kind of scream is a cat. The E-man had a few bad experiences with kitties in earlier years and hasn't ever recovered. I'm not really a cat person, either, however, so I totally get this particular fear. I compare cats to premenstrual women -- one minute they're adoring and slathering in their affection and the next minute they're swiping you with newly unsheathed claws. I have no patience for that. Only one PMSing creature per household, and that is ME, thankyouverymuch.

So -- back to the flies.

The scream traveled from the living room to the kitchen, where I was cooking dinner. And then the E-man hurtled toward me. "Mommmmmmeeeeeee! A flyyyyyyyyy!"

Thus followed 30 minutes of sobbing. Each time he subsided, the fly would buzz by and the screaming started all over again. Finally, out of desperation -- the kid wouldn't touch his dinner -- I pretended to kill the fly and dispose of its freaking carcass.

I am so diabolically clever.

Five minutes later, as a forkful of noodles was headed toward the E-man's mouth, the fly rose from behind the couch with a loud buzz.

"WAAAAHHHHHHH!! MOMMEEEEEEE! THE FLY!!!!!"

Again, I chased it around the living room, thwacking my library book against walls and windows. I smashed the damn thing umpteen times. But. It. Would. Not. Die. At last, after much cussing and flailing, I killed it.

"Look, E.," I said, holding out the paper towel. "It's dead. No more fly."

"Let me see," his sister said, pushing forward.

After she peered into the folded paper towel, I headed toward the trash. Just as I approached -- I kid you not -- that freaking fly miraculously came back to life and buzzed upward.

I flew at it again, book still in hand, and this time, I flattened the little f*cker into nothingness.

By this point, however, the E-man was so distraught, he wouldn't eat his dinner. So my efforts were in vain.

.......................................

OK, psst...

Since I know how this works -- brag about your kid and the vengeful gods fling karma bolts at your house -- I'm just saying...

My son is NOT peeing or pooping in the potty after we sent him to daycare without pullups, hoping the sensation of cold, wet pee would convince him to head for the potty.

He is NOT telling us when he has to go. He is NOT running into the living room to proudly declare, "I POOPED in the potty!"

And I am not cartwheeling through my house, shrieking "YIPPEEEEE!!!" or toasting Hubs with an overly full glass of wine or calculating how much we're going to save by not buying those useless pullups.

No, indeed. None of that is going on here. I always wear a party hat and perform cheerleading jumps in the bathroom.

Really.

*wink*

A dose of Dolly

My dad's from east Tennessee, so I grew up listening to Dolly. To say that I heart her -- well, that would be an understatement.

When I found out this season's American Idol contenders would be singing Dolly songs, well, Hubs and I tussled over the television that night. (He likes her too. He's not so fond, however, of AI.)

And then tonight, I stumbled across her on the Biography Channel. And Hubs lost the TV again.

There's a Dolly song for each phase of my life. But this one -- the original version, not the one from Straight Talk -- is one that I played over and over ... in my 20s, my 30s ... from South Texas to West Texas to, well, here.

I adore that woman.

*sigh*