Laugh
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
The Legacy
Turns out Mom was right. Again. Even from the corner of heaven where children don't talk back. C'mon over to Huffington Post and help me figure out what to do about this legacy. (I'm not going to attempt the Atkins diet, but a gold bar wouldn't hurt.)
Thursday, November 27, 2014
Add Children. Blend Carefully Into Family.
Talk
about blended families. Our family tree has more exes than a Tic Tac Toe
tournament. At 2:00 in the afternoon on holiday weekends all the children
automatically rotate parents from force of habit. This weekend I found myself
seated at dinner next to an entertaining young man who was engaged in a fork
joust in an effort to keep his creamed corn from touching his potato salad.
“Well, hello.” I’m nothing if not a sparkling conversationalist.
The fork executed a remarkable thrust and parry to save yet another food item from corn domination. “Yo.”
Limited verbal motivation. Uncombed hair. Aversion to cohabitation of vegetables. I hate that nagging feeling that you’ve seen someone before and can’t remember where.
“And who do you belong to?” I really should write this stuff down.
“You. I’m your first-born male child. I inherit your kingdom, such as it is.”
“What’s your name?”
“You told me not to tell anybody that doesn’t say the code word.”
“What’s the code word?”
“Nice trick. You warned me you might try that.”
I liked him better when he was poking holes in the entrée.
I squinted critically and turned his face side to side with my palm. “You don’t look like me.”
“Yet one more thing to be thankful for.”
I paused to consider. Wit coupled with a side order of sarcasm. A single sterling family trait does not make him an heir to my fortune in frozen Girl Scout cookies and unrecycled grocery bags.
“So what’s your name?”
“Nice try, Mom.”
“If I’m your Mom, tell me something personal that only I would know.”
“You hide leftover Easter candy in your underwear drawer, you can’t reach the Tupperware bowls on the second shelf, and you cry during the end of Secondhand Lions whether you see the first half of the movie or not.”
A few lucky guesses does not equal a DNA match.
“And what happened on Friday,” I queried, conjuring up memories of Family Scrabble Night.
He swallowed the last bite of uncontaminated potato salad and guzzled a half gallon of iced tea without stopping for breath. “Friday was allowance day. You owe me five dollars.”
Anybody with that kind of money memory has my blood in his veins.
Now how can I get him to tell me the family password?
Maybe I can buy a vowel.
“Well, hello.” I’m nothing if not a sparkling conversationalist.
The fork executed a remarkable thrust and parry to save yet another food item from corn domination. “Yo.”
Limited verbal motivation. Uncombed hair. Aversion to cohabitation of vegetables. I hate that nagging feeling that you’ve seen someone before and can’t remember where.
“And who do you belong to?” I really should write this stuff down.
“You. I’m your first-born male child. I inherit your kingdom, such as it is.”
“What’s your name?”
“You told me not to tell anybody that doesn’t say the code word.”
“What’s the code word?”
“Nice trick. You warned me you might try that.”
I liked him better when he was poking holes in the entrée.
I squinted critically and turned his face side to side with my palm. “You don’t look like me.”
“Yet one more thing to be thankful for.”
I paused to consider. Wit coupled with a side order of sarcasm. A single sterling family trait does not make him an heir to my fortune in frozen Girl Scout cookies and unrecycled grocery bags.
“So what’s your name?”
“Nice try, Mom.”
“If I’m your Mom, tell me something personal that only I would know.”
“You hide leftover Easter candy in your underwear drawer, you can’t reach the Tupperware bowls on the second shelf, and you cry during the end of Secondhand Lions whether you see the first half of the movie or not.”
A few lucky guesses does not equal a DNA match.
“And what happened on Friday,” I queried, conjuring up memories of Family Scrabble Night.
He swallowed the last bite of uncontaminated potato salad and guzzled a half gallon of iced tea without stopping for breath. “Friday was allowance day. You owe me five dollars.”
Anybody with that kind of money memory has my blood in his veins.
Now how can I get him to tell me the family password?
Maybe I can buy a vowel.
 |
| Son One? Who Knows? |
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Fun with Lawn Care
“If I don’t come back, remember me for who I was!”
Jeffrey is on his way outside to cut the grass. He is 20 years old and displays a significant tendency toward the dramatic. Cutting the grass rates almost as high on the enjoyment of life scale as going shopping for foundations with his mother, something he has steadfastly refused to be a part of since he was four years old and I asked him publicly whether to get the T Rex or the Superman briefs.
His grass cutting clothes are cleverly designed to protect him from his arch enemy, sunlight. He is sporting sweat pants, a black T-shirt with a dashing dragon motif, and a camouflage jacket. The sun will never recognize him.
However, the fire ants who dwell in communes throughout the neighborhood think he’s a walking hors d’oeuvre, and scramble to assemble relay teams designed to bring back tender flesh for a glorious repast. These are some of nature’s most bloodthirsty creatures and should be required to post Predator signs in front of their homes and turn off their porch lights on Halloween.
The fire ants did not reckon with the maze of clothing covering Jeffrey’s body, which has not been exposed to the air since he emerged from the birth canal. They reconnoiter and launch an attack on the Captain, who, as chief officer in charge of Virginia creeper, is supervising the ordeal. His sole defense is a pair of hiking boots and the ability to swear like a seaman in several different languages.
I’ve heard that grits are to fire ants what Kryptonite is to the Man of Steel, so as Bill dances past the back door, I spring into action, flinging packet after packet of stone ground goodness at his convulsive form.
You'd think a person would be more appreciative of the help. But if I’m ever in Germany, I’ll know what to say if someone cuts me off in traffic.
Meanwhile Jeffrey has mowed the front lawn in a fairly accurate representation of legendary crop circles, and is showering—probably still wearing the camo jacket—in the guest bathroom with the fancy soap.
By the time the Captain recovers from the fire ant fox trot, Jeffrey will have left the building, borrowed the car, and forgotten the trauma of having parents.
I peer out the front door. The circles cut into the lawn resemble a peaceful rippling pattern. In all the excitement, I’ve forgotten to remind Jeffrey to feed the dog, empty the dishwasher, or clean his room.
They say in the old days families had handfuls of children to help with the planting and harvesting of crops, taking care of the livestock, and seeing to the household chores.
I don’t see how they got anything done.
Jeffrey is on his way outside to cut the grass. He is 20 years old and displays a significant tendency toward the dramatic. Cutting the grass rates almost as high on the enjoyment of life scale as going shopping for foundations with his mother, something he has steadfastly refused to be a part of since he was four years old and I asked him publicly whether to get the T Rex or the Superman briefs.
His grass cutting clothes are cleverly designed to protect him from his arch enemy, sunlight. He is sporting sweat pants, a black T-shirt with a dashing dragon motif, and a camouflage jacket. The sun will never recognize him.
However, the fire ants who dwell in communes throughout the neighborhood think he’s a walking hors d’oeuvre, and scramble to assemble relay teams designed to bring back tender flesh for a glorious repast. These are some of nature’s most bloodthirsty creatures and should be required to post Predator signs in front of their homes and turn off their porch lights on Halloween.
The fire ants did not reckon with the maze of clothing covering Jeffrey’s body, which has not been exposed to the air since he emerged from the birth canal. They reconnoiter and launch an attack on the Captain, who, as chief officer in charge of Virginia creeper, is supervising the ordeal. His sole defense is a pair of hiking boots and the ability to swear like a seaman in several different languages.
I’ve heard that grits are to fire ants what Kryptonite is to the Man of Steel, so as Bill dances past the back door, I spring into action, flinging packet after packet of stone ground goodness at his convulsive form.
You'd think a person would be more appreciative of the help. But if I’m ever in Germany, I’ll know what to say if someone cuts me off in traffic.
Meanwhile Jeffrey has mowed the front lawn in a fairly accurate representation of legendary crop circles, and is showering—probably still wearing the camo jacket—in the guest bathroom with the fancy soap.
By the time the Captain recovers from the fire ant fox trot, Jeffrey will have left the building, borrowed the car, and forgotten the trauma of having parents.
I peer out the front door. The circles cut into the lawn resemble a peaceful rippling pattern. In all the excitement, I’ve forgotten to remind Jeffrey to feed the dog, empty the dishwasher, or clean his room.
They say in the old days families had handfuls of children to help with the planting and harvesting of crops, taking care of the livestock, and seeing to the household chores.
I don’t see how they got anything done.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Snowman's Land
In South Carolina this week the snow fell up to our shoetops. That’s counting our high-top sneakers and the weather-proof hiking boots we bought to wear wading in the puddles last spring.
Rare occurrences such as snow that doesn’t melt on impact or a decent bullpen for the Braves make the news in the South. We don’t interrupt Wheel of Fortune every time a tornado sucks up a trailer, but in a section of the country where people remember snowfalls by how many children they had at the time, that means only one thing.
Everybody stops to take part in the miracle.
The miracle of how to keep feet dry that skip out to play in the snow 72 times in one day with changes of gear in between. (Turns out kids’ tootsies need extra looking after as well as Captains and dogs.)
The miracle of the Replenishing Cup of Hot Chocolate. No matter how many sets of cold fingers come through the back door, there is always a steaming cup of hot chocolate for them to wrap around.
The miracle of the birds and the. . .other birds. At the Mullis birdfeeder buffet, the larger birds sling enough food off their plates that the smaller birds on the ground have plenty to eat. On Wednesdays chickadees eat free.
The miracle of how to keep the dogs from eating the snowman’s eyes. Although the snowman at our house boasts walnuts for eyes, rendering him slightly nearsighted and unable to react quickly to danger, this has not been an impossible miracle to experience. Dalmador Labmations like to lick walnuts, not eat them. This also results in an admirably smooth complexion for the snowman.
The miracle of finding the Dachshund in the snow drift before she becomes an ice statue. This miracle is documented on digital media, although the expression on the Dachshund’s face does not lend to flashing such evidence around as if it were clever baby pictures.
The miracle of an entire county buying enough bread to keep America’s Breadbasket in business. I am two peanut butter sandwiches away from financing secondary education for every person in Kansas.
And the miracle of how to make one roll of toilet paper last a week. (Even though I personally witnessed a Wal-Mart shopper hurrying toward the register with a 72 pack. I don’t know what other provisions he stocked, but I do NOT want to be snowed in at his house.)
In a few days, the snow will fade away and our lives will be filled once again with red mud and kudzu. Until then, we believe in miracles.
And even after. Because the Dachshund will never let us forget.
Rare occurrences such as snow that doesn’t melt on impact or a decent bullpen for the Braves make the news in the South. We don’t interrupt Wheel of Fortune every time a tornado sucks up a trailer, but in a section of the country where people remember snowfalls by how many children they had at the time, that means only one thing.
Everybody stops to take part in the miracle.
The miracle of how to keep feet dry that skip out to play in the snow 72 times in one day with changes of gear in between. (Turns out kids’ tootsies need extra looking after as well as Captains and dogs.)
The miracle of the Replenishing Cup of Hot Chocolate. No matter how many sets of cold fingers come through the back door, there is always a steaming cup of hot chocolate for them to wrap around.
The miracle of the birds and the. . .other birds. At the Mullis birdfeeder buffet, the larger birds sling enough food off their plates that the smaller birds on the ground have plenty to eat. On Wednesdays chickadees eat free.
The miracle of how to keep the dogs from eating the snowman’s eyes. Although the snowman at our house boasts walnuts for eyes, rendering him slightly nearsighted and unable to react quickly to danger, this has not been an impossible miracle to experience. Dalmador Labmations like to lick walnuts, not eat them. This also results in an admirably smooth complexion for the snowman.
The miracle of finding the Dachshund in the snow drift before she becomes an ice statue. This miracle is documented on digital media, although the expression on the Dachshund’s face does not lend to flashing such evidence around as if it were clever baby pictures.
The miracle of an entire county buying enough bread to keep America’s Breadbasket in business. I am two peanut butter sandwiches away from financing secondary education for every person in Kansas.
And the miracle of how to make one roll of toilet paper last a week. (Even though I personally witnessed a Wal-Mart shopper hurrying toward the register with a 72 pack. I don’t know what other provisions he stocked, but I do NOT want to be snowed in at his house.)
In a few days, the snow will fade away and our lives will be filled once again with red mud and kudzu. Until then, we believe in miracles.
And even after. Because the Dachshund will never let us forget.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Bowl Bound or Busted
If you thought exercising in front of the kids when they were little was a Stephen King movie waiting to happen, you'll find that working out in front of teenagers is like hanging your handwashables out to dry across the information superhighway. If there’s not a video of your behind crouched in a downward dog position on YouTube before you’re done with the stretches, these kids think they’re not doing their job.
At least when the children were six, they would make entertaining attempts to do the exercises with me. Today they take pictures with their cell phones and compose humorous captions before texting them to distant relatives and global news sites.
And they’re not afraid to broadcast interesting body fat tidbits. When the kids were little they said things like, “Who is that lady on the video?” (That’s Richard Simmons, Sweetie.) Where did your belly button go? (It disappeared about the time I sent out the birth announcements.)
These days they say things like, “Is that a hula hoop or a belt?” Since I’m wedged into the thing like preteens in the front row of a Taylor Swift concert, I don’t have a clever answer ready. I’m more concerned with getting the plastic wedgie out from under my lung so I can breathe. Having a playground toy jammed through my ribcage like a pierced earring is not a good look for me. I know. I saw the "After" shots on the FAIL blog.
The last time I let my band of ruffians, er teenage citizens, in the house while I was doing my bellydance workout, I checked my FaceBook page later only to find out I’d been sponsored by Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig had ignored my friend request, and an anonymous poster left ten tips to a bikini-ready body written in a sarcastic font.
Then one day a host of fleshy cherubs in workout gear appeared before me on my 48 inch plasma screen. I thought it was The Biggest Loser, Angel Edition. “We saw you on You Tube and decided you needed some help. Seek out the promised land!”
That’s the day I packed up my workout gear and headed to my own turf. These days it’s kind of hard to do squats without flushing the toilet, or perform proper lunges without knocking the shower massage into nail-driver position, but I can exercise without the benefit of back seat drivers.
Now if I could just get the Tidy Bowl man to stop heckling me from the cheap seats.
At least when the children were six, they would make entertaining attempts to do the exercises with me. Today they take pictures with their cell phones and compose humorous captions before texting them to distant relatives and global news sites.
And they’re not afraid to broadcast interesting body fat tidbits. When the kids were little they said things like, “Who is that lady on the video?” (That’s Richard Simmons, Sweetie.) Where did your belly button go? (It disappeared about the time I sent out the birth announcements.)
These days they say things like, “Is that a hula hoop or a belt?” Since I’m wedged into the thing like preteens in the front row of a Taylor Swift concert, I don’t have a clever answer ready. I’m more concerned with getting the plastic wedgie out from under my lung so I can breathe. Having a playground toy jammed through my ribcage like a pierced earring is not a good look for me. I know. I saw the "After" shots on the FAIL blog.
The last time I let my band of ruffians, er teenage citizens, in the house while I was doing my bellydance workout, I checked my FaceBook page later only to find out I’d been sponsored by Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig had ignored my friend request, and an anonymous poster left ten tips to a bikini-ready body written in a sarcastic font.
Then one day a host of fleshy cherubs in workout gear appeared before me on my 48 inch plasma screen. I thought it was The Biggest Loser, Angel Edition. “We saw you on You Tube and decided you needed some help. Seek out the promised land!”
That’s the day I packed up my workout gear and headed to my own turf. These days it’s kind of hard to do squats without flushing the toilet, or perform proper lunges without knocking the shower massage into nail-driver position, but I can exercise without the benefit of back seat drivers.
Now if I could just get the Tidy Bowl man to stop heckling me from the cheap seats.
Friday, October 22, 2010
The Fire Ant
Returning from the Store on a Summer Evening
Got some canned goods for the shelf
And some cookies for myself
Kosher dills stuffed in a jar
Packed the goodies in the car
Drove back home to roof and gable
Placed the groceries on the table.
Felt a bite where none should be
In self defense I turned to flee.
Suddenly I did a dance,
Screamed for help and dropped my pants.
Children paled and ran for cover.
I am NOT a fire ant lover.
Little ant, while climbing higher
Seeking targets for your fire
Found tender flesh left unattended
Took a bite; your life’s suspended.
Little ant, what made you think
A good idea would be to slink
Up past my knees and onward soar
Will you bite me? Nevermore.
Got some canned goods for the shelf
And some cookies for myself
Kosher dills stuffed in a jar
Packed the goodies in the car
Drove back home to roof and gable
Placed the groceries on the table.
Felt a bite where none should be
In self defense I turned to flee.
Suddenly I did a dance,
Screamed for help and dropped my pants.
Children paled and ran for cover.
I am NOT a fire ant lover.
Little ant, while climbing higher
Seeking targets for your fire
Found tender flesh left unattended
Took a bite; your life’s suspended.
Little ant, what made you think
A good idea would be to slink
Up past my knees and onward soar
Will you bite me? Nevermore.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Sushi Night
In an attempt at a successful catch and release program, the Captain and I went out for sushi last night. I don’t mind telling you that the release came quite soon after the catch and was, by itself, a splendid success.
We’d been whiling away the afternoon watching the local canines compete for obedience honors at the city dog show. It’s amazing what a human will do with a liver treat to coerce three pounds of fluff and drool to run after a glove they’d give mad chase for at home getting ready for an evening out.
Such a display of sterling cooperation between man and beastie is hungry work, so we stopped afterwards at the nearest restaurant, whose façade smacked of Japanese food of the non-slimy kind.
The menu came—I am not kidding—in a three ring binder. I didn’t know whether to order dinner or study for a test on rice. I made notes of several key items on the palm of my hand in soy sauce in case I was quizzed on condiments later in the evening.
I’d never come across any of the notebooks’s offerings at church potlucks, but I found an annotated item at the bottom of page three that mentioned ingredients I had heard of previously. I selected the annotated chicken teriyaki on the theory that at least chickens draw heat from global warming. All of the rest of the selections looked to be bottom dwellers.
The Captain of my heart and Master of the bill gestured boldly at an item that began with the letter N. N apparently stands for “Nothing I Would Let the Children Eat.” Or perhaps, “Never mind, just bring the check.”
In a land where we deep fry dessert items to make sure the shortbread is not capable of brandishing a butcher knife behind our back, a plate full of uncooked sea creatures the color of sunburn on parts that should never see daylight can be a bit unsettling. Each piece perched on a small hill of rice, resembling an anthill when the worker types are trying to fit a juicy earthworm down the chimney. One morsel looked alarmingly like a flesh wound.
Finding no weaponry but a damp napkin and a pair of wooden stakes, the Captain gave a fairly convincing impression of a man about to eat dinner. If I had the savoir faire he has, I could eat in a dozen languages.
“Are you going to eat that?”
“No, I’m going to hold it over the candle until it gives me its name, rank, and expected date of demise.”
I watched in shock and awe as he dipped a shrimp fillet in a lovely green dip known to sushi professionals as “Wasabi”.
A secret among sushi professionals is that “Wasabi” is a Japanese word meaning “the devil is dancing the hotfoot rumba in your underpants.”
“I guess it’s hot.”
“What makes you think so?”
You drained the wishing well in the lobby.
“You’re exaggerating,” he retorted, spitting out a quarter.
“If you sneeze, we’ll have enough for the tip.”
While the Captain fished for minnows, I consumed a lovely helping of teriyaki chicken. Teriyaki is a Japanese word that means “not eating bait.”
The waiter appeared at the table. “Would you care for dessert?”
“I guess not,” I said, surreptitiously checking my palm for data. “I passed the test. I'm afraid to try for extra credit.”
We’d been whiling away the afternoon watching the local canines compete for obedience honors at the city dog show. It’s amazing what a human will do with a liver treat to coerce three pounds of fluff and drool to run after a glove they’d give mad chase for at home getting ready for an evening out.
Such a display of sterling cooperation between man and beastie is hungry work, so we stopped afterwards at the nearest restaurant, whose façade smacked of Japanese food of the non-slimy kind.
The menu came—I am not kidding—in a three ring binder. I didn’t know whether to order dinner or study for a test on rice. I made notes of several key items on the palm of my hand in soy sauce in case I was quizzed on condiments later in the evening.
I’d never come across any of the notebooks’s offerings at church potlucks, but I found an annotated item at the bottom of page three that mentioned ingredients I had heard of previously. I selected the annotated chicken teriyaki on the theory that at least chickens draw heat from global warming. All of the rest of the selections looked to be bottom dwellers.
The Captain of my heart and Master of the bill gestured boldly at an item that began with the letter N. N apparently stands for “Nothing I Would Let the Children Eat.” Or perhaps, “Never mind, just bring the check.”
In a land where we deep fry dessert items to make sure the shortbread is not capable of brandishing a butcher knife behind our back, a plate full of uncooked sea creatures the color of sunburn on parts that should never see daylight can be a bit unsettling. Each piece perched on a small hill of rice, resembling an anthill when the worker types are trying to fit a juicy earthworm down the chimney. One morsel looked alarmingly like a flesh wound.
Finding no weaponry but a damp napkin and a pair of wooden stakes, the Captain gave a fairly convincing impression of a man about to eat dinner. If I had the savoir faire he has, I could eat in a dozen languages.
“Are you going to eat that?”
“No, I’m going to hold it over the candle until it gives me its name, rank, and expected date of demise.”
I watched in shock and awe as he dipped a shrimp fillet in a lovely green dip known to sushi professionals as “Wasabi”.
A secret among sushi professionals is that “Wasabi” is a Japanese word meaning “the devil is dancing the hotfoot rumba in your underpants.”
“I guess it’s hot.”
“What makes you think so?”
You drained the wishing well in the lobby.
“You’re exaggerating,” he retorted, spitting out a quarter.
“If you sneeze, we’ll have enough for the tip.”
While the Captain fished for minnows, I consumed a lovely helping of teriyaki chicken. Teriyaki is a Japanese word that means “not eating bait.”
The waiter appeared at the table. “Would you care for dessert?”
“I guess not,” I said, surreptitiously checking my palm for data. “I passed the test. I'm afraid to try for extra credit.”
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Feed a Fever, Starve a Wallet
According to my experience, the only things children share without being threatened are asparagus, blame for painting the refrigerator, and the chicken pox.
I think my kids plan their sick days at the beginning of the school year according to when major projects and compositions are due or when there is a day I’ll have a schedule that’s tight enough to be shrink wrapped. On awards day, they tally up their doctor visits and the one who has the most sick days gets to hang on the refrigerator door and ask what’s for supper every ten seconds until I get that thumpy vein in my neck and we all go out for pizza.
My kids are so adept at trips to the doctor, the Olympic committee is considering accepting flu-spreading as a winter sport. Their record is six office visits in a week, but that takes conditioning and discipline, so they can’t do it every time. Besides, my two boys aim for less conventional fare than mere strains of bacteria can provide. The Adventure of the Invisible Glass Sliver and the Mistaken X-Ray comes to mind. When that doctor finally fished the dainty dagger of glass out of the swollen, bloody foot (no I can’t make him wear shoes in the house, not for all the Frosted Flakes in Battle Creek), the best part was being able to say “I Told You So” to a man whose car costs more than the yearly junk food bill for my teenagers. Twelve months of Twinkies and Yoo Hoos can add up.
I know a mother with three young daughters who runs a regular route to the doctor every Friday at closing time. She figures if nobody’s sick at that particular moment, strep throat will set in just as the clock strikes five and the doctor loads his briefcase full of communicable diseases into the Lexus sports car for the trip home. This same Mom qualified for the Employee of the Month parking spot at the doctor’s office and is in line for a punch card that will give her a free visit after ten minor emergencies. With her record, she’ll be cashing in a full ticket before grocery day rolls around. She’s wondering if she will qualify for a retirement package once her kids are grown.
And why can’t a family of children all come down with the flu or a nice case of mumps at the same time? Instead, they carefully plan a timeline of late nights and weekends at least two days apart. It’s not that they’re not all sick at the same time. At any given point during the winter months at least 50% of the kids in my carpool (with an incidence rate that escalates to 85% the day before a science project is due) are suffering from various forms of diseases that gives them an intestinal discrepancy, runny nose, and makes them sneeze on the baby.
But they don’t start out that way. By prearranged plan, they space out the onset of their illnesses over two day increments, thereby increasing the trips to the doctor and the chance to see Mommy make the “co-payment” face. I’m convinced the children have a betting pool with all wagered candy bars going to the kid that gets the best noises out of Mommy when they wander into the kitchen, teddy bear in tow, and announce forlornly “My tummy hurts.” They probably get bonus points if Mommy’s face changes color, she makes audible strangled retching sounds, or Daddy has to administer cold packs and CPR.
Now that it’s fall and sinus infections are just around the speed dial, Saturday mornings will inevitably find me with a thermometer in someone’s ear, dialing the doctor’s office during weekend emergency hours while checking furtively for swollen lymph nodes. Faster than you can say “Refinance the mortgage” his neck swells up like a jumbo marshmallow over an open flame, and the lining of his throat boasts enough spots for a dice game.
But I’m not a new face in the fever fighting lineup. I know that with time, tender care, and terrific insurance we’ll all make it through the flu season.
Just in time to start treating spring allergies.
These cold & flu germs first found a home in the Sept./Oct. issue of The Wham Magazine.
I think my kids plan their sick days at the beginning of the school year according to when major projects and compositions are due or when there is a day I’ll have a schedule that’s tight enough to be shrink wrapped. On awards day, they tally up their doctor visits and the one who has the most sick days gets to hang on the refrigerator door and ask what’s for supper every ten seconds until I get that thumpy vein in my neck and we all go out for pizza.
My kids are so adept at trips to the doctor, the Olympic committee is considering accepting flu-spreading as a winter sport. Their record is six office visits in a week, but that takes conditioning and discipline, so they can’t do it every time. Besides, my two boys aim for less conventional fare than mere strains of bacteria can provide. The Adventure of the Invisible Glass Sliver and the Mistaken X-Ray comes to mind. When that doctor finally fished the dainty dagger of glass out of the swollen, bloody foot (no I can’t make him wear shoes in the house, not for all the Frosted Flakes in Battle Creek), the best part was being able to say “I Told You So” to a man whose car costs more than the yearly junk food bill for my teenagers. Twelve months of Twinkies and Yoo Hoos can add up.
I know a mother with three young daughters who runs a regular route to the doctor every Friday at closing time. She figures if nobody’s sick at that particular moment, strep throat will set in just as the clock strikes five and the doctor loads his briefcase full of communicable diseases into the Lexus sports car for the trip home. This same Mom qualified for the Employee of the Month parking spot at the doctor’s office and is in line for a punch card that will give her a free visit after ten minor emergencies. With her record, she’ll be cashing in a full ticket before grocery day rolls around. She’s wondering if she will qualify for a retirement package once her kids are grown.
And why can’t a family of children all come down with the flu or a nice case of mumps at the same time? Instead, they carefully plan a timeline of late nights and weekends at least two days apart. It’s not that they’re not all sick at the same time. At any given point during the winter months at least 50% of the kids in my carpool (with an incidence rate that escalates to 85% the day before a science project is due) are suffering from various forms of diseases that gives them an intestinal discrepancy, runny nose, and makes them sneeze on the baby.
But they don’t start out that way. By prearranged plan, they space out the onset of their illnesses over two day increments, thereby increasing the trips to the doctor and the chance to see Mommy make the “co-payment” face. I’m convinced the children have a betting pool with all wagered candy bars going to the kid that gets the best noises out of Mommy when they wander into the kitchen, teddy bear in tow, and announce forlornly “My tummy hurts.” They probably get bonus points if Mommy’s face changes color, she makes audible strangled retching sounds, or Daddy has to administer cold packs and CPR.
Now that it’s fall and sinus infections are just around the speed dial, Saturday mornings will inevitably find me with a thermometer in someone’s ear, dialing the doctor’s office during weekend emergency hours while checking furtively for swollen lymph nodes. Faster than you can say “Refinance the mortgage” his neck swells up like a jumbo marshmallow over an open flame, and the lining of his throat boasts enough spots for a dice game.
But I’m not a new face in the fever fighting lineup. I know that with time, tender care, and terrific insurance we’ll all make it through the flu season.
Just in time to start treating spring allergies.
These cold & flu germs first found a home in the Sept./Oct. issue of The Wham Magazine.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Lost and Found
I received a call from my son today. Early in the morning. On my cell phone. All indicators that a crisis has risen with the sun and was threatening to bring on gnashing of teeth and rending of garments before breakfast. He’s a wonderful guy, but stress transforms him from Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hulk. (Hulk smash toast for getting too brown!)
It’s too early in the day for him to be concerned about the dinner menu, so there must be some other need like, say, the funnies are missing from the newspaper or he’s supposed to have a complete physical before soccer practice that afternoon.
Mothers can’t ignore hysterical children. At least not until they find out if there’s broken bones or missing teeth and whether the crisis is covered by insurance. I thought briefly of hurling the phone into the jaws of an oncoming minivan, but instead pressed the button and faced the mutant.
“Hello.”
“Mom, I can’t find my name tag.”
“I can’t find our house on a city map, but I don’t use your minutes.” It’s not that I don’t love the kid, but everything’s a crisis.
“I have to have my name tag to go to work.”
“They can’t tell it’s you from the joyous way you bound through the door in the morning?”
“Mom, it’s not funny.”
“Look son, it’s not like you work in the Oval Office and you’ve accidentally misplaced launch code numbers for the first volley of thermonuclear missiles. You work in a sandwich shop.”
“It’s not a sandwich shop. It’s a sub shop. The best sub shop in town.”
“Well can’t the best sub shop in town afford a new name tag?”
“That’s not the point. I don’t want to look unorganized.”
This from the kid who refers to the pile of T-shirts in the corner of his room as his “spare clothes.” Several generations of dust bunnies have called that pile home and lived a very nice life indeed.
“Have you looked in the dryer? I heard something making that clickety-clunk sound in there this morning.”
“I’ll look. Hold on.”
I paused at a traffic light and studied a man tracking his vacation itenerary on a shiny GPS while I mentally computed the number of minutes my cell phone plan was losing to dryer lint.
A relieved voice in my ear said, “Got it. Thanks, Mom.”
“It’s nothing. I live for these moments. It’s even better than getting AARP rates for my room at the retirement home.
“Huh?”
“I said you’re welcome.”
“Oh. You’re the best.”
“Yeah, that’s what they say down at the Piggly Wiggly when I have enough teenage boys in my living room to qualify for gangland activity and I buy enough hamburger to feed them all.”
“Mom?”
“Yes, son?”
“That reminds me. What’s for dinner?”
It’s too early in the day for him to be concerned about the dinner menu, so there must be some other need like, say, the funnies are missing from the newspaper or he’s supposed to have a complete physical before soccer practice that afternoon.
Mothers can’t ignore hysterical children. At least not until they find out if there’s broken bones or missing teeth and whether the crisis is covered by insurance. I thought briefly of hurling the phone into the jaws of an oncoming minivan, but instead pressed the button and faced the mutant.
“Hello.”
“Mom, I can’t find my name tag.”
“I can’t find our house on a city map, but I don’t use your minutes.” It’s not that I don’t love the kid, but everything’s a crisis.
“I have to have my name tag to go to work.”
“They can’t tell it’s you from the joyous way you bound through the door in the morning?”
“Mom, it’s not funny.”
“Look son, it’s not like you work in the Oval Office and you’ve accidentally misplaced launch code numbers for the first volley of thermonuclear missiles. You work in a sandwich shop.”
“It’s not a sandwich shop. It’s a sub shop. The best sub shop in town.”
“Well can’t the best sub shop in town afford a new name tag?”
“That’s not the point. I don’t want to look unorganized.”
This from the kid who refers to the pile of T-shirts in the corner of his room as his “spare clothes.” Several generations of dust bunnies have called that pile home and lived a very nice life indeed.
“Have you looked in the dryer? I heard something making that clickety-clunk sound in there this morning.”
“I’ll look. Hold on.”
I paused at a traffic light and studied a man tracking his vacation itenerary on a shiny GPS while I mentally computed the number of minutes my cell phone plan was losing to dryer lint.
A relieved voice in my ear said, “Got it. Thanks, Mom.”
“It’s nothing. I live for these moments. It’s even better than getting AARP rates for my room at the retirement home.
“Huh?”
“I said you’re welcome.”
“Oh. You’re the best.”
“Yeah, that’s what they say down at the Piggly Wiggly when I have enough teenage boys in my living room to qualify for gangland activity and I buy enough hamburger to feed them all.”
“Mom?”
“Yes, son?”
“That reminds me. What’s for dinner?”
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Cat-astrophe
While I was waiting for Celebrity Gossip to load over my dial-up Internet connection, I whiled away the time by licking the crumbs off the breakfast plates and perusing the headlines in our local paper. It seems that our City Council, having exhausted their legislative efforts in a road maintenance fundraising extravaganza known locally as the Pothole Tax, recently decided to proceed with an innovative stroke of legislation involving leash laws for cats. This idea is known locally as Stupid.
Leashing a cat is nearly as effective as lassoing escaped methane from a pasture full of Texas Longhorns.
I know from experience how unproductive this sort of excursion can be. (The catwalking, not the methane lassoing. I have teenaged sons, but I find that a quick shot of Chanel Number Lysol takes care of them.) I attempted the leash walking feat before. They say experience is the best teacher, and I have a new respect for anti-bacterial cream, sterile bandages, and super glue.
At the time, a light bulb came on in my head, and I had one of those epiphanies you read about in the life stories of people who make a fortune selling their ex-wife’s wedding gown on e-Bay.
I would use Lucy’s puppy collar and leash to take our ten-year-old tabby for a stroll. Lucy’s a Dachshund. Her puppy collar was designed for comfort and was quite sporty. What objections could Justin have? Little did I know the wattage in my light bulb was way too low. Justin put out my little light with a power surge.
“Son, run in and get me a Band-Aid.”
“Just one?”
“Well, make it a big one.”
“Anything else?”
“Got any spare Type O?”
After all I’ve done for that kid, he wouldn’t part with a pint of the good stuff for his mother.
I also discovered that it violates the Feline Bill of Rights to give Kitty a bath or even, thoughtful as it may seem, to baptize him in the toilet. (Don’t ask. Remember I have kids.) I have so many scars, the doctor thought I had striped skin.
“Say, how many children do you have?” he asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“Two. Why do you ask?”
“Either you delivered 137 children by C-Section or your obstetrician starts drinking very early in the day.”
After my adventures, it’s not odd that I’m taking a stand against trying to tame cats. If the good Lord wanted them to be domesticated, catnip would grow wild in my yard instead of ragweed and sticks.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the efforts of the City Council to rain down order and justice on an unsuspecting population. But it occurred to me that if we’ve advanced as far as cat confinement, it’s time to move on to more important things, like extending high speed Internet capability out to my house.
I’ve checked with the authorities about that Internet thing. I talked with a smug young man who speaks English as a fourteenth language and probably greases his eyebrows with olive oil.
“When do you think DSL will make it out to my house?” I asked chummily.
He laughed cruelly. Guys like this weed out the stragglers in the herd like a cheetah in its prime.
“About the time they tame cats.”
“Well, put me on the list. They’re about to vote it into law.”
Leashing a cat is nearly as effective as lassoing escaped methane from a pasture full of Texas Longhorns.
I know from experience how unproductive this sort of excursion can be. (The catwalking, not the methane lassoing. I have teenaged sons, but I find that a quick shot of Chanel Number Lysol takes care of them.) I attempted the leash walking feat before. They say experience is the best teacher, and I have a new respect for anti-bacterial cream, sterile bandages, and super glue.
At the time, a light bulb came on in my head, and I had one of those epiphanies you read about in the life stories of people who make a fortune selling their ex-wife’s wedding gown on e-Bay.
I would use Lucy’s puppy collar and leash to take our ten-year-old tabby for a stroll. Lucy’s a Dachshund. Her puppy collar was designed for comfort and was quite sporty. What objections could Justin have? Little did I know the wattage in my light bulb was way too low. Justin put out my little light with a power surge.
“Son, run in and get me a Band-Aid.”
“Just one?”
“Well, make it a big one.”
“Anything else?”
“Got any spare Type O?”
After all I’ve done for that kid, he wouldn’t part with a pint of the good stuff for his mother.
I also discovered that it violates the Feline Bill of Rights to give Kitty a bath or even, thoughtful as it may seem, to baptize him in the toilet. (Don’t ask. Remember I have kids.) I have so many scars, the doctor thought I had striped skin.
“Say, how many children do you have?” he asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“Two. Why do you ask?”
“Either you delivered 137 children by C-Section or your obstetrician starts drinking very early in the day.”
After my adventures, it’s not odd that I’m taking a stand against trying to tame cats. If the good Lord wanted them to be domesticated, catnip would grow wild in my yard instead of ragweed and sticks.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the efforts of the City Council to rain down order and justice on an unsuspecting population. But it occurred to me that if we’ve advanced as far as cat confinement, it’s time to move on to more important things, like extending high speed Internet capability out to my house.
I’ve checked with the authorities about that Internet thing. I talked with a smug young man who speaks English as a fourteenth language and probably greases his eyebrows with olive oil.
“When do you think DSL will make it out to my house?” I asked chummily.
He laughed cruelly. Guys like this weed out the stragglers in the herd like a cheetah in its prime.
“About the time they tame cats.”
“Well, put me on the list. They’re about to vote it into law.”
Monday, March 3, 2008
Patchwork
Yesterday I spent a satisfying afternoon soaking up the sunshine and weeding my stick garden. Today, I spent an agonizing morning trying to move my legs and get out of bed.
My muscles were as stiff as the mummifed ragweed border by the walkway, my sinuses felt like they’d been roto-rootered without anesthesia, and my scalp held in heat like a solar panel. My joints sounded like a roll of bubble wrap in a blender.
The old saying is painfully true: after 40 it’s patch, patch, patch.
Looking around, I find that perhaps the old saying reveals itself differently these days. I have a friend who wears a patch on her shoulder to help her quit smoking, one who plants a patch on her hip for birth control, and one who pastes a patch on her thigh to help her avoid Weapons of Mass Chocolate Distribution.
I’d have to put that last one across my mouth for it to do any good. I borrowed one once and stuck it on the Haagen-Dazs label where they print the fat and calorie content, but it didn’t help much.
As it is, I’m holding out for an over 40 patch: one that can tell me where I parked my car, and why I went to the mall in the first place. A patch that can clue me in to why I went to the kitchen carrying a stack of folded underwear and two Dora the Explorer videos and where my glasses are hiding before my teenagers find them on my head.
I need a patch that warns me that not to bend down to pick up any denomination of money that can’t be folded, because loose change won’t pay the doctor bills to help me recover from the bending episode. A patch that reminds me sometime before supper that my morning coffee is warming in the microwave, and that helps me keep up with what destination I had in mind when I’m aimlessly circling the block with my head bowed, attempting to peer through the top of my trifocals for familiar landmarks.
I haven’t always been this way. When I was younger, my Mom always took me along to fill out forms because I could remember important information such as our current address and her birthday. I knew who she was supposed to buy birthday cards for during any given month, what kind of pizza to watch for when we went to the buffet, and to check the backs of her Scrabble tiles when she announced that she had six blanks and an “I.” I could thread her needles, stir the corn before it smelled like scorched corduroy, and read the fine print on the packet when she wanted to plant daisies. So how did I end up this way?
The answer came to me like the first sneezing fit of springtime. I was fine until I had children. So the next time the kids tease me about the patches I use to help me through the day I’ll put their priorities in order. “Just remember the cabbage patch. Without it you wouldn’t be here.”
Now if you’ll excuse me, I seem to remember putting on the kettle for tea this morning. Or was that yesterday?
My muscles were as stiff as the mummifed ragweed border by the walkway, my sinuses felt like they’d been roto-rootered without anesthesia, and my scalp held in heat like a solar panel. My joints sounded like a roll of bubble wrap in a blender.
The old saying is painfully true: after 40 it’s patch, patch, patch.
Looking around, I find that perhaps the old saying reveals itself differently these days. I have a friend who wears a patch on her shoulder to help her quit smoking, one who plants a patch on her hip for birth control, and one who pastes a patch on her thigh to help her avoid Weapons of Mass Chocolate Distribution.
I’d have to put that last one across my mouth for it to do any good. I borrowed one once and stuck it on the Haagen-Dazs label where they print the fat and calorie content, but it didn’t help much.
As it is, I’m holding out for an over 40 patch: one that can tell me where I parked my car, and why I went to the mall in the first place. A patch that can clue me in to why I went to the kitchen carrying a stack of folded underwear and two Dora the Explorer videos and where my glasses are hiding before my teenagers find them on my head.
I need a patch that warns me that not to bend down to pick up any denomination of money that can’t be folded, because loose change won’t pay the doctor bills to help me recover from the bending episode. A patch that reminds me sometime before supper that my morning coffee is warming in the microwave, and that helps me keep up with what destination I had in mind when I’m aimlessly circling the block with my head bowed, attempting to peer through the top of my trifocals for familiar landmarks.
I haven’t always been this way. When I was younger, my Mom always took me along to fill out forms because I could remember important information such as our current address and her birthday. I knew who she was supposed to buy birthday cards for during any given month, what kind of pizza to watch for when we went to the buffet, and to check the backs of her Scrabble tiles when she announced that she had six blanks and an “I.” I could thread her needles, stir the corn before it smelled like scorched corduroy, and read the fine print on the packet when she wanted to plant daisies. So how did I end up this way?
The answer came to me like the first sneezing fit of springtime. I was fine until I had children. So the next time the kids tease me about the patches I use to help me through the day I’ll put their priorities in order. “Just remember the cabbage patch. Without it you wouldn’t be here.”
Now if you’ll excuse me, I seem to remember putting on the kettle for tea this morning. Or was that yesterday?
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Yoga As A Second Language
Lately I can’t perform the Trying to Tie My Shoe Dance in the privacy of my own grocery store without a friend pointing out snippily that yoga would strengthen my core muscles and give me balance.
The only core I care about is at the center of my candy apple. At my age, self improvement is just another name for “Deductible” on the insurance forms.
For the Shoe Dance, I just stretch down toward my foot and simultaneously raise my Reebok while hopping on the other foot and trying to catch my shoestrings. I don’t need yoga, I need higher shoes.
However, in the spirit of avoiding the “I told you so” song performed by a choir of the sagest of my friends and family, I decided to learn some yoga lingo. I figured it wouldn’t take a bloomin’ Lotus to convince them to take their Downward Dog faces somewhere else.
“You need to work on your asanas,” my sister perked.
“Well yours isn’t getting any smaller, either,” I snapped.
“No, I mean your poses. Start with some Sun Salutations for warmup and work your way through.”
“Through what? Do I have to greet everything in the sky? There’s a bird up there that I am NOT speaking to until he cleans up my car."
I decided that as a modern woman who once engaged the delivery room nurse in hand-to-hand combat over the rights to the Demerol, I should create my own yoga positions. Poses that would fit in with my graceful and elegant, if slightly advanced, lifestyle. I’m including them here because my goal in life is to help other people. Also, I have a camcorder and a lifelong wish to win the big money on America’s Funniest Home Videos.
Here are my innovations. Be sure to notify your children before beginning any new exercise program as they will want to call in friends to help them make fun of you.
Down with the Dog Position: Stretch as far as possible across the bed until you can at least touch the dog, who is presently indulging in a flagrant violation of house rules by reclining dreamily and just out of reach on the bed as if he’d received an invitation from Lassie for Dogs Rule Day. Smack at his paws with the tips of your fingers until he rolls his eyes, sighs heavily, and jumps down in exasperation.
Tiny Print Eyeball Squint: This is an exercise for the muscles of the face. Try to read the answers to yesterday’s crossword puzzle in the newspaper without wearing your glasses. Squint eyes tightly, wrinkle your nose, and draw the upper lip toward the wild hairs sprouting from your eyebrows, furrowing your mustache attractively. Pull newspaper so close to your face that you could inhale the letters off the page, and repeat the exercise. Extend arms to full length, leaning to one side to allow more light onto paper. Repeat exercise. Give up and roll up paper to use later during Down With the Dog position.
Crossed Legs Sneezing Position: As a mother of two children, I am at the time of my life where a single sneeze can cause an embarrassing fashion disaster. (During cold and flu season I leave a change of clothes in every room, two in the trunk of my car, and an extra pair of stretchy pants in the glove compartment.) I find that the following exercise eradicates the dangers of a water hazard should respiratory systems erupt during a heated discussion at a PTA meeting. When a sneeze threatens to attack, quickly cross one foot carefully over the other and squeeze the thighs together like lemons at juicing time. This exercise may draw unfriendly comments from the crowd, but allows you to put off the purchase of Depends for a little while longer.
Late for Curfew Aerobics: What good is an exercise program that doesn’t elevate your heart rate? When your teenager is out past curfew, sprint to the window every five minutes to check for their car. Sprint to the telephone and snatch up the receiver to see if there’s still a dial tone. Sprint to your purse and dig for your cell phone to see if there’s a message from the Sheriff. When the errant teen finally wonders in, indulge in a rapid toe tap while crossing the arms over the chest. Breathe in and out quickly to stimulate blood flow from your face, which now resembles the surface of the sun, to the heart. Produce an atom-splitting tirade on House Rules to cleanse the body of impurities.
Corpse Pose: This is an actual yoga position designed for total relaxation at the end of a workout. The body is stretched out on the floor much like a murder victim on CSI. I recommend using this pose on that teenager that just came in late.
The only core I care about is at the center of my candy apple. At my age, self improvement is just another name for “Deductible” on the insurance forms.
For the Shoe Dance, I just stretch down toward my foot and simultaneously raise my Reebok while hopping on the other foot and trying to catch my shoestrings. I don’t need yoga, I need higher shoes.
However, in the spirit of avoiding the “I told you so” song performed by a choir of the sagest of my friends and family, I decided to learn some yoga lingo. I figured it wouldn’t take a bloomin’ Lotus to convince them to take their Downward Dog faces somewhere else.
“You need to work on your asanas,” my sister perked.
“Well yours isn’t getting any smaller, either,” I snapped.
“No, I mean your poses. Start with some Sun Salutations for warmup and work your way through.”
“Through what? Do I have to greet everything in the sky? There’s a bird up there that I am NOT speaking to until he cleans up my car."
I decided that as a modern woman who once engaged the delivery room nurse in hand-to-hand combat over the rights to the Demerol, I should create my own yoga positions. Poses that would fit in with my graceful and elegant, if slightly advanced, lifestyle. I’m including them here because my goal in life is to help other people. Also, I have a camcorder and a lifelong wish to win the big money on America’s Funniest Home Videos.
Here are my innovations. Be sure to notify your children before beginning any new exercise program as they will want to call in friends to help them make fun of you.
Down with the Dog Position: Stretch as far as possible across the bed until you can at least touch the dog, who is presently indulging in a flagrant violation of house rules by reclining dreamily and just out of reach on the bed as if he’d received an invitation from Lassie for Dogs Rule Day. Smack at his paws with the tips of your fingers until he rolls his eyes, sighs heavily, and jumps down in exasperation.
Tiny Print Eyeball Squint: This is an exercise for the muscles of the face. Try to read the answers to yesterday’s crossword puzzle in the newspaper without wearing your glasses. Squint eyes tightly, wrinkle your nose, and draw the upper lip toward the wild hairs sprouting from your eyebrows, furrowing your mustache attractively. Pull newspaper so close to your face that you could inhale the letters off the page, and repeat the exercise. Extend arms to full length, leaning to one side to allow more light onto paper. Repeat exercise. Give up and roll up paper to use later during Down With the Dog position.
Crossed Legs Sneezing Position: As a mother of two children, I am at the time of my life where a single sneeze can cause an embarrassing fashion disaster. (During cold and flu season I leave a change of clothes in every room, two in the trunk of my car, and an extra pair of stretchy pants in the glove compartment.) I find that the following exercise eradicates the dangers of a water hazard should respiratory systems erupt during a heated discussion at a PTA meeting. When a sneeze threatens to attack, quickly cross one foot carefully over the other and squeeze the thighs together like lemons at juicing time. This exercise may draw unfriendly comments from the crowd, but allows you to put off the purchase of Depends for a little while longer.
Late for Curfew Aerobics: What good is an exercise program that doesn’t elevate your heart rate? When your teenager is out past curfew, sprint to the window every five minutes to check for their car. Sprint to the telephone and snatch up the receiver to see if there’s still a dial tone. Sprint to your purse and dig for your cell phone to see if there’s a message from the Sheriff. When the errant teen finally wonders in, indulge in a rapid toe tap while crossing the arms over the chest. Breathe in and out quickly to stimulate blood flow from your face, which now resembles the surface of the sun, to the heart. Produce an atom-splitting tirade on House Rules to cleanse the body of impurities.
Corpse Pose: This is an actual yoga position designed for total relaxation at the end of a workout. The body is stretched out on the floor much like a murder victim on CSI. I recommend using this pose on that teenager that just came in late.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Food Fight
My previous husband, the Man Who Salts Everything, was basic in his tastes. He wouldn’t touch tuna with a ten-foot fishing pole and industrial strength test line. He liked beef, well-done, with a side order of sodium. His ideal woman was Lot’s wife.
This particular husband, The Defendant, didn’t believe in frills such as spaghetti sauce, salad dressing, or any vegetable that didn’t get stuck in your teeth. Through a careful catch and release program, I attempted to educate his palette. We eventually settled on two vegetables, corn and broccoli, two fruits, apples and bananas, and any red meat, provided the red was banished in flames hot enough to give the sun a smart case of prickly heat. This kind of selection makes it hard to get your money’s worth in a buffet restaurant. Unless they had sirloin on tap, we lost money. Over the course of our thirteen years, I managed to introduce a few delicacies. He has a finer appreciation of Oscar Meyer as a result of our years together.
By comparison I will eat anything that doesn’t require a greater output of energy to prepare than it takes to consume. Therefore, it never occurred to me that I would have children with food issues. That sort of thing happens to other people, loners or postal workers with a grudge. But it happened to me, so it could happen to anyone who is careless with entrees that come in boxes festooned with the words “Ready in Minutes!” or “Turn Your Meat Into a Meal!” I'm a sadder but wiser girl. Exclamation points should not constitute a major component of the food pyramid.
Son One will eat any food item that does not come into physical contact with another food item during growth, processing, or preparation. Except for beans. Beans are unacceptable for consumption at any time. If he were in a comatose state heading toward the light and I touched a bean to his lips, he would return to the Land of the Leftovers long enough to call emergency services and report me for abuse. Most other food is satisfactory, excepting, of course, the standard internal organs, as long as no other food compromises its integrity by intersecting its boundaries. Once the corn touches the potatoes, you may as well call the dog in to lick the plates, because supper is over. Son One’s favorite food group is any carbohydrate that is available in bulk quantities.
Son Two eats only attractive food. Grill marks and stray condiments are unacceptable. Any crust-bearing foods, cheese varieties that are unwelcome at the pizza buffet, or items swathed in juices recycled for extended durations in a crock pot are unacceptable at mealtime. Vegetables, while handy for use in slingshot weaponry, are not welcome offerings, except for the fluffy treetop parts of the broccoli which may be served in alternating months that contain an R. Son Two has grown to teenagerhood on sweetened cereal, cheese pizza, and filet mignon that drips blood like an open wound. Artificial flavoring is his favorite food group.
The latest Surgeon General reports stress that family bonds grow as a result of mealtimes spent together. Odds are the Surgeon General never had to cut the crust off the biscuits while making sure the gravy didn’t create an alternate route through the potatoes. Frankly, that’s more bondage than I can stand.
This particular husband, The Defendant, didn’t believe in frills such as spaghetti sauce, salad dressing, or any vegetable that didn’t get stuck in your teeth. Through a careful catch and release program, I attempted to educate his palette. We eventually settled on two vegetables, corn and broccoli, two fruits, apples and bananas, and any red meat, provided the red was banished in flames hot enough to give the sun a smart case of prickly heat. This kind of selection makes it hard to get your money’s worth in a buffet restaurant. Unless they had sirloin on tap, we lost money. Over the course of our thirteen years, I managed to introduce a few delicacies. He has a finer appreciation of Oscar Meyer as a result of our years together.
By comparison I will eat anything that doesn’t require a greater output of energy to prepare than it takes to consume. Therefore, it never occurred to me that I would have children with food issues. That sort of thing happens to other people, loners or postal workers with a grudge. But it happened to me, so it could happen to anyone who is careless with entrees that come in boxes festooned with the words “Ready in Minutes!” or “Turn Your Meat Into a Meal!” I'm a sadder but wiser girl. Exclamation points should not constitute a major component of the food pyramid.
Son One will eat any food item that does not come into physical contact with another food item during growth, processing, or preparation. Except for beans. Beans are unacceptable for consumption at any time. If he were in a comatose state heading toward the light and I touched a bean to his lips, he would return to the Land of the Leftovers long enough to call emergency services and report me for abuse. Most other food is satisfactory, excepting, of course, the standard internal organs, as long as no other food compromises its integrity by intersecting its boundaries. Once the corn touches the potatoes, you may as well call the dog in to lick the plates, because supper is over. Son One’s favorite food group is any carbohydrate that is available in bulk quantities.
Son Two eats only attractive food. Grill marks and stray condiments are unacceptable. Any crust-bearing foods, cheese varieties that are unwelcome at the pizza buffet, or items swathed in juices recycled for extended durations in a crock pot are unacceptable at mealtime. Vegetables, while handy for use in slingshot weaponry, are not welcome offerings, except for the fluffy treetop parts of the broccoli which may be served in alternating months that contain an R. Son Two has grown to teenagerhood on sweetened cereal, cheese pizza, and filet mignon that drips blood like an open wound. Artificial flavoring is his favorite food group.
The latest Surgeon General reports stress that family bonds grow as a result of mealtimes spent together. Odds are the Surgeon General never had to cut the crust off the biscuits while making sure the gravy didn’t create an alternate route through the potatoes. Frankly, that’s more bondage than I can stand.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Teachers R Us
I recently experienced an awesome and somewhat startling revelation. And it doesn’t even have anything to do with how to chop onions without crying or the best way to clean a soiled linen tablecloth if you’ve had the bright idea that it would be educational to let the children eat at the adult table, or even a new and economical way to cook Brussels sprouts so that everyone likes them.
This is an actual revelation from life experience. Not the kind of life experience that other people have and submit to women’s magazines for fifty dollars, although if I had a really great Brussels sprouts recipe that would actually cause people to eat them instead of hide them under the potatoes, I would certainly be willing to accept fifty dollars for it. My revelation is a great discovery that came about when I was talking with my niece who is an actual elementary school teacher. Upon the occasion when a child in her class had an unexpected and thunderous attack of gas in the classroom, she, the teacher, wanted to laugh. She did NOT laugh (out loud), but it took an episode of strict self-discipline and positive reinforcement to maintain her composure.
So it turns out that teachers are people just like you and me. Well, maybe not like me, because I’m still convinced that they can add numbers in their heads and figure out the answers to story problems without looking up the answers.
If one example isn’t proof enough, listen to this. I work at a church in a job which, unwise as it may seem, I am expected to do math. I am responsible for writing people’s paychecks and for paying taxes to the government, which is a pretty tricky procedure owing to the fact that the government is very particular in believing that you should pay them the right amount. Oh, they don’t really mind if you go overboard and send them buckets of gold, but short them by a doubloon or two and they’ll charge you interest.
Anyway, the first thing my employer did after he witnessed me thrashing my way through frightening things like bank reconciliations and trial balances; well the first thing he did after he regained consciousness, was to provide a helper, a mentor if you will, to guide my little ship through the deep and storm tossed waters of fund accounting. And this helper was, if you please, a teacher, and not just any old teacher, but the wisest owl of the lot—a college professor who instructs others in the art accounting! And can you imagine what this most venerable of all educators said the very first time he saw me perched on the edge of my chair at the computer, attacking the evil forces of fund accounting with a shredded bank statement in one hand and a computer mouse in the other? He sat right down and said, “Let’s make a back-up just in case we make a mistake.” A mistake! He allowed for a possibility that, even as a team (And this is a man who is smart enough to grow tomatoes and corn and other yummy things without having to give them all to overzealous crows or neighbors.), we could conceivably forget to carry an integer and get in trouble with the IRS (I Require Supervision) people. I expected the heavens to open up a send down a dove that very second. He sat with me patiently and kindly day after day and, even though he developed a disturbing habit of slamming his right foot to the floor like a driving instructor trying to stop a runaway car, he never gave me a failing grade on a day’s work. And he brought me tomatoes.
And if that kind of compassion isn’t proof that teachers are human, there’s not an equation in the world that would do the trick. But I can’t help but wonder if he has a good Brussels sprouts recipe.
This is an actual revelation from life experience. Not the kind of life experience that other people have and submit to women’s magazines for fifty dollars, although if I had a really great Brussels sprouts recipe that would actually cause people to eat them instead of hide them under the potatoes, I would certainly be willing to accept fifty dollars for it. My revelation is a great discovery that came about when I was talking with my niece who is an actual elementary school teacher. Upon the occasion when a child in her class had an unexpected and thunderous attack of gas in the classroom, she, the teacher, wanted to laugh. She did NOT laugh (out loud), but it took an episode of strict self-discipline and positive reinforcement to maintain her composure.
So it turns out that teachers are people just like you and me. Well, maybe not like me, because I’m still convinced that they can add numbers in their heads and figure out the answers to story problems without looking up the answers.
If one example isn’t proof enough, listen to this. I work at a church in a job which, unwise as it may seem, I am expected to do math. I am responsible for writing people’s paychecks and for paying taxes to the government, which is a pretty tricky procedure owing to the fact that the government is very particular in believing that you should pay them the right amount. Oh, they don’t really mind if you go overboard and send them buckets of gold, but short them by a doubloon or two and they’ll charge you interest.
Anyway, the first thing my employer did after he witnessed me thrashing my way through frightening things like bank reconciliations and trial balances; well the first thing he did after he regained consciousness, was to provide a helper, a mentor if you will, to guide my little ship through the deep and storm tossed waters of fund accounting. And this helper was, if you please, a teacher, and not just any old teacher, but the wisest owl of the lot—a college professor who instructs others in the art accounting! And can you imagine what this most venerable of all educators said the very first time he saw me perched on the edge of my chair at the computer, attacking the evil forces of fund accounting with a shredded bank statement in one hand and a computer mouse in the other? He sat right down and said, “Let’s make a back-up just in case we make a mistake.” A mistake! He allowed for a possibility that, even as a team (And this is a man who is smart enough to grow tomatoes and corn and other yummy things without having to give them all to overzealous crows or neighbors.), we could conceivably forget to carry an integer and get in trouble with the IRS (I Require Supervision) people. I expected the heavens to open up a send down a dove that very second. He sat with me patiently and kindly day after day and, even though he developed a disturbing habit of slamming his right foot to the floor like a driving instructor trying to stop a runaway car, he never gave me a failing grade on a day’s work. And he brought me tomatoes.
And if that kind of compassion isn’t proof that teachers are human, there’s not an equation in the world that would do the trick. But I can’t help but wonder if he has a good Brussels sprouts recipe.
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