Nate Earns a Dollar: Part 2

When last we left our hero, he had accumulated $13 and was preparing to earn his final dollar so that he could buy his coveted Raphael doll (“Action figure!” – Tighe).

 

It doesn’t sound like much, but yet that little bank account balance stood still at $13 for over a week.

 

Until one morning when he demanded that he wear his “bright green all four turtles shirt.” The same shirt he had worn the day before. The same shirt that was sitting dirty in his laundry basket. Because, like most boys, when Nate wears a shirt, Nate WEARS a shirt. As in: ate a chocolate chip granola bar from Trader Joe’s in it, had a dirt fight with some cousins in it, and got all sweaty and gross in it. You know, by being Nate in it.

 

So, while arguing with him and trying to wrestle the grimy shirt out of his hands, I saw opportunity. “Why don’t you do a load of laundry? That way, you can wear your shirt and earn that last dollar!”

 

And since he had spent a lot of time the last seven days moping around and passive-aggressively mentioning how much better his life would be if he had that Raphael with the head in the shell, he agreed with enthusiasm. It was like telling a prisoner with a life sentence that he could get out on good behavior – still would require some work, but totally worth it.

 

We keep four dirty laundry baskets in our house: one in Nate’s room, one in Sam’s room, and two in our room – one for whites and one for colors. I previously had a joke on race relations here, but my in-house legal counsel (husband with an undergraduate degree in philosophy and a masters in BS) advised me to remove it.

 

Anyway, back to laundry – much more captivating, I know – the laundry room is on the first floor. I suggested that he collect the dirty clothes from each basket – and there wasn’t much, I had done three loads the day before – and carry it all down the steps in only one basket. But since my logic is always ignored or doesn’t seem to make sense to Nate, he made four individual trips up and down the stairs with a minimally filled laundry basket each time. He took a lot longer than I would have, especially since he had to pause for a snack break after the third trip, but I have to admit I’m jealous of the calories he burned.

 

Then he had to – and for some reason, this was the tougher part – take the clothes from the laundry baskets and put them into the washer. And he did this one item at a time. And commented on each piece as he did so.

 

“Hey, this is my dad’s underwear! It’s red! He probably bought it because red is my favorite color.” Yeah, probably.

 

“Mom, why do you wear a bra?” Good question.

 

Meanwhile, Sam, who gets immense joy out of rifling through the kitchen trash and putting sticks in his nose, stood close by and watched with mild curiosity. “All this for a toy?” his facial expressions seemed to say.

 

So, after about an hour of agonizing (for me) hard labor, I put in the laundry detergent and showed him which buttons to push. He peered into the washer as it filled with sudsy water and the clothes began their swaying, cleansing motion. Then, triumphantly, he stuck out his chest, marched into the family room, and said, “Wellllll, I do laundry now, Sam,” as if he had finally graduated into manhood. “Where’s my dollar?”

 

Oh, no. I explained to him that he wasn’t finished: he had to wait for the wash cycle to complete, still had to put it all into the dryer, and perhaps most importantly, sort and fold it all. At the rate he was going, he’d have his dollar just in time for the Jewish High Holidays a few weeks later. Typically, we don’t observe these holidays, but this year, we might need to. #atonement

 

I’ll fast-forward through the rest of this tedious task: fifty-two minutes later, I reminded him that he was still in the process of earning a dollar and needed to transfer the clean, wet clothes from washer to dryer, throw in a dryer sheet, and press “Start.” Then forty-two minutes after that, when I asked him to remove the dry clothes and put them into the laundry basket. I had already decided that I’d fold them. I don’t really want his grubby little fingers on my underwear, and I like my sons to have a nice crease down the center of their otherwise slovenly t-shirts. With each task, it was like I had asked him to summit Mount Everest in his underwear with no oxygen, food, water, or toys.

 

Eventually, though – against all odds – the laundry got finished and Nate earned his dollar. I have never been so happy, and so relieved, to part with money. We celebrated that afternoon by “ordering” Raphael from Amazon.com, and since I wouldn’t spring for overnight shipping, we had to endure three whole mornings of asking whether today was the day his toy would arrive. First world problems…

 

Find out what happens to Raphael in the third and final installment of this thrilling page-turner to be published in just a few days. Spoiler alert: we all have a bit of hardship to survive.

Nate Earns a Dollar: Part I

It all started one Saturday morning a few weeks ago when we had taken a family outing to Target. I can’t remember why at the moment – probably to shop for a child’s birthday gift or something. When Nate and Sam are with me, I try to avoid Target at all costs – the toy section is too powerful, like a giant magnet with claws that reach out to pull in children and their parents, only to let go once your pre-tax total is at least fifty dollars. But perhaps Tighe and I felt emboldened this particular morning by having the other as back-up. Is there a force stronger than a married couple? Answer: yes, there is. It’s the force of brothers. Don’t ever mess with brothers. Feel free to quote me on that.

 

Anyway, we were there for way too long – as usual – and after a bit of time, I realized that they had divided us. They had somehow managed to isolate Tighe from me. Well done, Nate and Sam. Good move. For when it comes to spending money, I am definitely the parent with more restraint and a greater resolve to say “no.”

 

So, I wandered the aisles for a few more minutes, browsing for merchandise that we didn’t need, but I was worried about Tighe. He was outnumbered somewhere in the store, probably alone and scared, trying to out-logic Nate, which is just impossible. The best, most obvious facts in the world can’t ever convince that stubborn little brain.

 

I sent Tighe a quick text: “Where are you guys?”

 

I only send texts with proper grammar – even when I’m rushing.

 

Within seconds, I got a reply: “We’re in the car. Take your time.”

 

I strolled through the parking lot and arrived at the car, finding exactly what I expected to find: both boys strapped into their car seats, Nate red-faced and sobbing and Sam requesting a snack.

 

Tighe must have already recovered from the initial shock and embarrassment of a public tantrum because he was seated in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other on his chin as he turned back to make a deal with Nate. “Nate, you can earn the money to buy that Raphael. We’ll pay you money if you do some jobs around the house.”

 

Apparently, once they successfully separated Tighe and me, Nate and Sam cornered him in the TMNT section, where Nate, sensing Tighe’s weakness, discovered a Raphael toy that he had to have. Tighe, God love him, refused to make the purchase and the tears commenced.

 

Once he composed himself a bit more, he was able to tell me more details about the awesomeness of this particular eleven-inch toy. Apparently, his turtle head ducks into his turtle shell and he has his own set of sais. Wow. Awesome.

 

So, we made a deal with Nate: he could do chores around the house to earn money and then we could order the Raphael online. It became the longest three weeks ever.

 

He needed fourteen dollars and already had seven in his bank at home, so he was already half way there. And thank God.

 

Cleaning up his own messes: no money earned. He’s supposed to be doing that anyway. But cleaning up messes that Sam made: $1. Helping unload the groceries: $1. Dusting: $1. Leaving me alone for one whole hour: $1. And no, that last one never happened.

 

And he was thrilled with each dollar he earned. He ran upstairs to his room where he put it high on his bookshelf, out of Sam’s reach. We all know how quickly Sam can destroy a dream. [Cue memories of spilled coffee…wiping tears from my eyes…]

 

Then came the sunny Sunday afternoon when Tighe asked him to wash the car after church. It’s a Suburban. Nate’s three. It’s like asking Tom Thumb to deliver mail to all of Mexico City. Or asking Rick Moranis’s kids to cross the backyard. So we offered him $4 for this monumental task.

 

He put on his bathing suit, filled some buckets with soapy water and grabbed some rags from inside the house. We helped him get set up and turned on the hose for him. About halfway through, he wiped out on the wet, slippery garage floor. Minimal blood, but lots of tears, and the trauma was probably exacerbated by the fact that he hadn’t eaten lunch yet. Low blood sugar.

 

Once he composed himself, he asked Tighe to finish the job for him. Tighe refused. “You don’t earn your money if you don’t finish the job!”

 

So, Nate negotiated: “Dad, I’ll pay you two dollars if you finish washing the car.” Deal.

 

Once Tighe made sure the car shiny and sparkling, they came inside for lunch and for compensation. Tighe, now soaking wet and a little sweaty, paid $4 to Nate, and Nate handed $2 back to Tighe. Being the primary driver of that car, I had assumed the interior was also included in the contract, but serves me right for not reading the fine print.

 

A few more odd jobs here and there – and no, dumping out all the Lego’s so that he can then clean them up doesn’t count, though he did try that – and he had $13. Only one more dollar.

 

Tune in next week to find out whether or not he does in fact earn that dollar! And really, tune in later this week because I’ve already written Part 2, and I get antsy.

Dinner Time!

Here’s a transcript of a typical dinner at our house. Read it as you would read a script. Or a Shakespearean play. If you’d really like to feel like you’re actually here with us, spill a glass of milk and smear some ketchup on your sleeves. Maybe chuck a crouton at someone sitting nearby.

 

[Grace]

Sam [single, emphatic hand clap]: AMEN!

 

Tighe: Nate, where are your clothes?

Nate: Um, on the floor.

Erin: He took them off so he could put his turtle shell on.

Tighe: Why is your underwear on backwards? 

Erin: He wanted the Ninja Turtles [pictured on underwear] to touch his penis.

 

Nate: Mom! Why is that on my plate?

Erin: It’s asparagus. Try it.

Nate [gentle sobbing]: But it’s touching my cheese cubes!

Erin: So, move it.

Nate [more violent sobbing]: Get it away, Mom! Get it away!

Erin: Just eat your dinner.

 

Sam: Milk!

 

Tighe: Where’d Sam get that bruise on his face?

Me: Uh…which one?

Tighe: The one by his eye.

Me: Yeah, I’m not sure. It was sometime after lunch. I was trying to be productive in the kitchen and he was in the bathroom watching Nate poop. And according to Nate, he “fell out of the dryer.”

 

Nate: More ketchup, please!

Sam: Hi Dad.

Tighe: Hi Sam.

Sam: Hi Dad.

Tighe: Hi Sam.

Sam: Hi Dad. Hi Dad. Hi Dad. Hi Daaaaaad! [Goes in for a hug]

Tighe: Ew! Get your ketchup-y hands off my shirt! Gross, Sam!

 

[Tighe mops ketchup off of shirt]

 

Tighe: What’d you guys do today?

Me: Story time and the grocery store.

Tighe: How’d that go?

Me: Well, we finally got kicked out of the library and — 

Tighe: Wait, really?

Me: Kind of…we were asked not to come more than one hour per week. I think the librarian was mostly kidding, but he was definitely getting annoyed at Nate and Sam’s wrestling match during one of the books.

Nate: Uh, uh, uh…excuse me, Dad! Excuse me, Dad! Excuse me, Dad! Excuse me, Dad! Dad! Dad! Dad! Dad!

Tighe: What, Nate?

Nate: Uh, yesterday, when I was two, me and Sam…[trails off into long tangent about some kid that he met on the playground months ago]

Erin: I have to interject. First, you were not two “yesterday.” You’ve been three for more than six months now. Second, we didn’t go to the playground yesterday. You had camp yesterday. I’m sorry, just needed to get the facts straight. Carry on.

 

Sam [arms reaching into the air as he prepares to fall into Tighe’s arms]: Catch!

Tighe: Not now, man! I’m eat – ok! [catches Sam with one hand to prevent him from face-planting onto the floor]

 

Nate: More ketchup please!

Sam: Rockabye![1]

 

After about 7 or 8 minutes of eating and not eating and moving food around on their respective plates, Nate and Sam climb down from their chairs and plant themselves at the small “art” table several feet away while Tighe and I try to have boring grown-up talk. From there, they crush crayons, beat the crap out of each other, and race – on foot and on their Little Tikes cars – around and around and around.  And Nate eavesdrops. We have to whisper. And spell things. It results in many misunderstandings because it’s hard to hear whispers over the screeching, and apparently neither of us is a good speller. “Wait, slow down. Spell it again.” “…N…I…N…J…A…” “What? I don’t think you’re allowed to use that word.”

 

Soon, we’ve lost our appetites and our patience and Tighe declares it to be bath time.

 

Tighe: Ok, who’s ready for baths? Let’s go upstairs. Nate! Go upstairs and poop first.

Nate: Uh. Mom said I already pooped today.

Tighe: Did he poop today?

Erin: Nope.

Nate [dragging himself up the steps, followed closely by Tighe]: Fine.

 

Sam usually hangs back for a few minutes and eats anything left on Nate’s plate and drinks the rest of Nate’s milk while I begin the clean up process, which mostly involves power washing the ketchup off the ceiling and trying to figure what to do with the leftovers. If they didn’t touch the carrot sticks or the green beans, can I toss them in the fridge and serve them again, probably for the seventh time this week?

 

So, while Tighe scrubs them into a fresh and clean state – in other words, he prevents a drowning and might manage to squirt some No More Tears shampoo onto their upper bodies – I have some recovery time in the kitchen. I have a few minutes to myself, some mental quiet, while I gear myself up for the most treacherous and final round of the day: B…E...D…T…I…M…E.

 

[1] We don’t know where Sam picked up this word, but he uses it a lot. Sometimes he chants it like a mantra, readying himself for the day. Or shouts it out just before he takes a swing at Nate, jumps off something high at the playground, or otherwise endangers his life. And still other times, he mutters it with pride or astonishment – like whatever he’s witnessing is the Catalina Wine Mixer.

Quarter Life Crisis

It’s come to my attention recently that Nate and I have very…meticulous… personalities – if such a thing exists. We like our things the way we want them, please don’t touch them. Don’t disturb the peace. Don’t mess with our schedules, nor our routines – for fear of resulting tantrums. From either one of us.

 

For example, there’s a reason that I keep the dryer sheets to the left of the laundry detergent, but to the right of the small stack of hand towels on the shelf above the washer and dryer. There’s a reason I maintain a system when I organize condiments in the refrigerator, or the cereal boxes in the cupboard – nutrition labels always facing out. And if I observe offending chaos in your pantry, I’ll probably fix it for you. You’re welcome.

 

And Nate’s very similar. He keeps his Ninja Turtles on an end table in the living room, next to the “brown sofa,” and from that perch, he eats his breakfast and watches his PBS Kids shows every morning. When I tie his red Raphael mask around his head, it has to be just the right tightness for his Highness, or we have to start all over. And don’t even get me started on his fondness for red – he’s almost ritualistic about his “bright red” Flintstones vitamin that he demands each morning. He and I have gone many rounds about the shade of red that’s acceptable. Crimson, no thanks. Maroon, forget it. Has to be fire truck engine red. And if it’s not, here come the tears. Soul-crushing.

 

He even has an arrangement for the throw pillows that surround him. It conflicts with my envisioned pillow arrangement, of course. It’s actually an unspoken battle we have, and we each “fix” one another’s design several times throughout the day. I have the last laugh, though, because when goes to bed at 7:30, I do what I want: smaller, red pillows in the back, burgundy in the front.

 

And of course, Nate and I don’t actually have OCD. I know the DSM requirements for such a diagnosis and what the implications are. We’re just meticulous. And habitual.

 

You’d never know it by the state of our house, of course. As I sit at the dining room table and type this, I can see Crayola markers under the baker’s rack, just out of reach…puzzle pieces and Legos scattered across the carpet in the next room…and yogurt smudges on the chair next to me. Gross.

 

Yes, you’d never know of our OCD tendencies because Sam was born. Sam.

 

He’s a disruptor. And he has more energy than Nate and I combined – even after my morning coffee. In fact, he often demands a sip of my coffee. “No way, Sam. No freaking way. And stop digging around in the trash can for the discarded coffee grounds!” Because, yes, he does that.

 

I cringe when he nears the open refrigerator. “Don’t touch the BBQ sauce! That’s where it goes!”

 

So, when we get home from the grocery store, I like to unload our merchandise by myself. I usually let them hang out in the driveway and the garage while I get myself situated. And if allowing them to climb around in the car for a few minutes lets me do what I need to do inside the house, then climb around in the car they shall! Don’t worry – I take the keys with me, and I leave the kitchen door ajar so I can hear their shenanigans. It’s usually pretty harmless. They crack up at each other while they take turns sitting in the driver’s seat, pretending to drive. Or they play some version of “tag” – racing back and forth from the very back of the SUV to the very front, giggling and squealing the whole time.

 

So, the other day, when I heard Nate screaming bloody murder from inside the car: “No! No, Sam, no! Mom – oh, no! Mom, help!” I was immediately alarmed! I rushed down the steps, preparing to tie a tourniquet, sew a limb back on, or commence CPR. In just a few instants, every ER horror story I’d ever heard blurred through my head as I recalled what it’s like to pound on the chest of a Red Cross dummy.

 

“Sam took your money, Mom!”

 

What? Really?! Who cares? I sprinted across the garage for that? Because Sam was pocketing the quarters that I keep in the cup holder of the car? I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I slowed my pace and started to turn back to my kitchen tasks. I shook my head, wishing Nate had some of Sam’s financial sensibility. Then maybe I could stop buying future living room debris at Target.

 

“Mom! Look what’s he’s doing! He’s sticking them in the DVD player!”

 

STOP. That’s a problem. I pivoted again and sprinted back to the car. Peering into the narrow slot, I saw the tiny ridges of three quarters glaring back at me as Sam casually lifted another one to join its friends.

 

“No!” As I knocked his hand away, my brain foresaw the potential invoice from the dealership to fix that mishap. We cannot live without a DVD player in the car! We don’t use it on a regular basis, but we definitely need it for those long car trips to Baltimore and (coming soon!) to Charlotte!

 

Nate also realized the severity of this calamity as he was on the verge of tears. Imagine! – having to sit still in a car for 16 hours without Ninja Turtle entertainment! We might have to converse! Or sing songs! Or, dare I say it, look out at the scenery!

 

So, Nate and I evicted Sam from the car, composed ourselves, and with steady surgical hands, removed the quarters with a pair of tweezers. A spirit of détente returned to our house, and we ate lunch. Thank you for letting me write about this – it is my therapy. Road trips without a DVD player are no joke.

 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go rearrange the throw pillows on the sofa.

Every Child is An Artist

“Every child is an artist….” – Pablo Picasso

 

I’m going to go ahead and disagree with that statement. Sorry Pablo, but Nate and Sam are not artists. And especially not Nate.

 

I’ve tried to encourage art projects. Oh, I’ve tried so hard. I always make sure paper, crayons, markers, and colored pencils are accessible. We have Play-Doh, water colors, finger paints, coloring books, scissors, glitter, and construction paper. We steal coloring pages from the library. We’ve collected raw materials from outside to make collages. We’ve used magazines, sidewalk chalk, and stickers.

 

But nothing seems to interest them. Instead, they peel the paper off the crayons, discarding it onto the floor of the dining room while I color in a picture of Buzz Lightyear by myself. They take the naked crayons and shove them down into a crack in Sam’s yellow booster seat so that it’s very heavy and makes a peculiar rattling sound every time Sam slides out of it. Here are a few examples of our other failures.

 

Story Time. We always stay for the art project at the library’s Story Time. There’s usually some clever little artistic activity that references one of the books that was read aloud that day. Like painting with cooked spaghetti when the world-famous Mr. Ron read a book about worms. Or making a skeleton with Q-tips when he read a book about bones in the human body. How does he come up with this stuff? Thank you, Internet.

 

And Nate and Sam usually tinker with the materials set out on the table. Nate seems to favor glue above all other media. There’s nothing better than picking dried glue from your fingertips!

 

“Do you have a plan for that glue?” I asked him once as he flooded his paper with it one morning.

 

“What glue?” he replied. Never mind.

 

Anyway, last week the books were all about dogs, so the art project was simply to color print-outs of dogs. All they had to do was put their fat crayons to the mostly white pieces of paper and make some marks. Simple! But they refused.

 

Sam decided to climb up onto his stool and swan dive off onto the concrete floor again and again. Meanwhile Nate munched on pretzels and made faces at the kid across the table from him. Okay, performance art.

 

“Nate! Are you just going to sit there and eat pretzels or are you going to color?!” Mr. Ron’s voice challenged him.

 

Nate turned his head in that very slow, I-don’t-give-a-fuck way and shrugged. Mr. Ron slinked away in that I-can’t-believe-I-spend-my-days-arguing-with-three-year-olds way. After a few minutes, Sam got bored with the suicide thing and turned Nate’s pretzels into projectiles. When this got old, he charged around the room and used the heel of his shoe to grind the scattered pretzels into tiny morsels.

 

This is when I miss fruit snacks the most. They’re not messy, and Nate/Sam love them too much to sacrifice them to the floor gods – no matter how many silly laughs they may get from the kids around them. I think we might skip Story Time this week. We left behind too many crumbs, too much evidence. We should probably lay low and not be seen there for a little while.

 

Playing with shaving cream. In my head, I thought we could have fun while tracing letters and shapes in the foamy mess. But instead, we dirtied the dining room and walked away smelling like clean-shaven men, power brokers. Actually, it smells like the lobby of a Vegas hotel – you know, where all the hookers hang out. Or a foam party, but the really sketchy, questionably hygienic kind, like where you might acquire an STD just by entering. So, like a foam party.

 

Finger paint dance party. This was my mistake. It seemed like a good idea one rainy morning. I laid down some sheets of cardboard, set out some finger paints, and allowed them to stomp around on the cardboard and the paint while we rocked out to silly pre-school songs. Can we do the stanky leg to The Wheels on the Bus? Maybe.

 

Suddenly, though, the situation started to get a little out of hand. Red paint drips on the Oriental rug. Hmm… Then, before I knew it, we were out of control! Their little toes started to wander off of the cardboard dance floor. Oops. “These are refurbished original hardwoods! Why is there yellow paint up the banister? No! No, we’re not playing basketball! Stop rubbing your face – and your stomach! Put that down! In fact, get out of my house! Get out!”

 

So, I sent them out – dressed down to Nate’s minion underwear and Sam’s diaper – out the front door as quickly as possible with two bottles of bubbles while I tried to clean up. Did I mention it was raining? Bubbles are soapy. Rain is wet. Plan B: outdoor shower.

 

Race car kit. I like to keep some new puzzles and other activities on hand for such rainy days, so a few weeks ago, while Sam napped and Nate sulked around the house, I pulled out a race car kit I had gotten at the dollar store. It came with a track and stickers and markers and glitter to decorate it. I thought I could make it last all afternoon: after we decorate it, we can race it! Instead, three and a half minutes later, Nate told me he was finished and asked to do something else.

 

“Mom…I want…I’m gonna go practice my ninja moves with my sais.”

 

Nate’s teachers at school have told me similar stories. They “invite” him to do art, but he often declines, content to work on a puzzle or race matchbox cars instead. And when he does bring his masterpieces home, they’re pretty minimalist: a couple dollops of paint here and there, maybe a scrap of paper glued to another piece. He explains it to me and I pretend to care, but it’s just so crappy.

 

And what am I supposed to do with all these gems anyway? Our refrigerator is only so big, and they fall off anyway when Sam, desperate for some chocolate milk or apple slices, swings the door open with too much force. Then, they slide underneath the fridge or we ice skate around on them, too busy to pick them up.

 

Once, just before guests were to arrive, I swept up a large stack of them, collected from school and from Story Time, and shoved them in the kitchen cabinet behind a crudité platter and the blender where they remain to this day. And I think that officially classifies me as a hoarder.  

 

“Art and works of art do not make an artist; sense and enthusiasm and intuition do.” – Karl Wilhelm Friedrich Schlegel

 

Well, if that quote is true, than Nate and Sam are definitely not artists. And it seems that neither am I.

Is There Anything Better Than Caffeine?

Those of you who know me know that I’m inherently lazy. If it were up to me, being a stay-at-home mom (or SAHM to you industry enthusiasts) would mean lying around all day watching CNN and eating dark chocolate. But instead, we have a ninja training regimen to adhere to. And PBS cartoons to watch. And groceries to buy. And toilet bowls to clean. And meals to prepare – you know, meals that won’t be eaten by my apparently anorexic sons.

 

So, I drink coffee to keep up with this grueling agenda.

 

And there are some incidents and scenarios I find funnier after I’ve had my morning coffee. In fact, I’m a “morning person” anyway, with lots of energy and an accompanying good mood, so throw in some endorphins after a workout and a shot or two of caffeine, and these incidents become hysterical.

 

But in the afternoon…oh, the afternoon…when my energy fades, my buzz evaporates, and I’m running on fumes, these same things are no longer funny. No, not funny at all. And by evening, I’m tanking so low that I could be sitting next to Amy Schumer herself at an improv festival and not crack a smile.

 

Fortunately for Nate and Sam, they’re usually in bed at this point and don’t have to endure my sinking mood. They get me in the morning, when I’m my freshest, my happiest, and this is when they get to experiment with humor.

 

Here are things that crack me up in the morning yet irritate me later in the day…

 

The amount of money I spend in the dollar section at Target. I’ll glance at my receipt as we stroll outta that place and smirk, proud of the new minion water bottle we found or The Cat in The Hat tote bag. Finally! Nate can lug all his “guys” up and down the stairs in one trip with such a bag! This will solve all our problems and we’ll all die happy. But later…later, when I’m tripping over the toy detritus, no longer shiny and bright, but faded with chipped or missing parts… I’m annoyed, frustrated with my impulsive spending and careless, destructive sons.

 

Sam, sitting in a pile of dirt in the driveway, slowly scooping up dirt and dumping it onto his head. This happened just before lunch the other day, so not only was the last drop of coffee leaking into my urine stream, but I also had low blood sugar – mood: rock bottom! But somehow, through the grace of God, I found a way not to think about it through my own point of view. Instead, I put it into the context of his life. Was this task on his to-do list that day? “Let’s see…eat breakfast, poop in diaper, play at playground, accompany Mom to grocery store, excavate driveway, dump dirt on head, have lunch, finish NY Times crossword…”

 

Winning arguments against Nate. Well, ok, this is subjective. My rationale is usually fool-proof. I’m literate, he’s not. I have a larger realm of experience to his three and a half years and I’ve been formally educated well beyond a two-day-a-week preschool program. I have a more sophisticated sense of humor and an awareness of most pop culture references, despite my advanced age. Plus, I eat almonds, salmon, and blueberries – brain food. Sorry, Nate, you’re just outmatched. So, in the morning, I get a kick – and maybe even a little rush – out of laying the smack down on his silly, illogical, and false arguments: “No, Nate, you actually do have to wear a shirt when we go to Barnes and Noble. And no, you can’t bring your ninja weapons. In fact, Missouri law stipulates that…” But in the afternoon, “Fine, Nate, whatever, you’re right. Kansas City is not on planet Earth. You win. Again.”

 

Sam calls Thomas the Tank Engine “Tommy.” Suddenly, this proper blue, British make-believe train designed to teach children to be “really useful,” punctual, and compassionate, becomes an old-time mobster in a pin-stripe suit. Or a jovial half-pint with a baseball cap sitting askew on his head and dirt staining his sweaty cheeks. Sam’s pal, Tommy.

 

Actually, it doesn’t matter what time of day it is – this never gets old to me.

 

Being “in character.” I groan as I just think about this one. It happens every day and there seems to be no end in sight. When the coffee is still fresh in my system, I say, “Sure, Nate! I’d love to play Turtles with you! And yes, I’ll do the voices of Michelangelo, Donatello, Leonardo, April, and Splinter.” Or “Ok! I’ll be the Joker and you be Batman. Please chase me around the house all morning and feel free to smack me in the face and tie me up, just as the real Batman would surely do to Joker.” But if I inflect my voice incorrectly or use a word that my designated character would never use, I should be prepared for some griping. “No, Mom! Mikey doesn’t say it like that!” Forgive me, oh holy lord of the fictional, animated, ninja reptiles.

 

And just when I really do think that I’m going to crash and won’t survive the evening, something gets me back. Something re-energizes me, and I power through. Sometimes it’s a handful of dark chocolate – thank you, God, for such a creation.

 

But usually, it’s a hug from Sam. Or doing jumping jacks with Nate – I have better form than he does, obviously. And the past few days, it’s been watching them both on the video monitor in Sam’s room.

 

When we hear Sam wake from his nap, Nate gets excited! A brother reunion! Someone to play with! And even though thirty minutes later, one will be making the other cry, Nate scrambles up the steps to Sam’s room a little bit faster than usual, and from the kitchen, I can hear Sam cry out with a smile, “Nate!” Nate then climbs into the crib, they hug, and Nate proceeds to show Sam how to climb out. There are some precious moments there, great sources of energy for me – energy to help me endure the bickering, the hungry, whiny demands for dinner, and the overtired battle for more bedtime stories. Sibling love: better than caffeine.

Ninja Training

It occurred to me recently that Nate will return to school in a few short weeks, and in that time we must make great strides in our ninja training. And I do mean “we,” because one thing we agreed upon when I found out I was pregnant with Sam and would thus mutate into a stay-at-home mom, is that I would be responsible for martial arts education. Our house is becoming a dojo, and I am the sensei.

 

So, one recent morning, when Nate came down for breakfast dressed only in his underwear and his ninja headband, I decided we really need to get serious about this training. I can’t in good conscious send him back to school without decent sword-fighting skills! What kind of mother would I be? His plastic ninja sais were tucked into his underwear and poked out into his thighs. He instructed me to address him as Raphael and asked me “why there’s nothing to eat up in this joint.”

 

After refusing to serve him pizza for breakfast like the ninja turtles – and really, only because we didn’t have any pizza – it was time to begin. So, instead of digging out the sight word flashcards, I gathered up our foam sword, homemade toilet-paper-roll nunchucks. plastic sais from Target, and the vacuum cleaner extension tool, which we typically use as a bow. But no wooden spoons! Do you know how many wooden spoons I’ve already lost to ninja training? Nate sleeps with a set of wooden salad tongs we got as a wedding gift, but I’ll get to that later.

 

Now in reality, I don’t know much about ninjas, but I have seen The Karate Kid and Beverly Hills Ninja – two highly acclaimed movies – so I feel adequately prepared to serve as a sensei, though I will have no trouble handing over both boys to a more experienced master when they surpass my knowledge base. So, that should take about a week. Here is a summary of our training regimen:

 

Picking up sticks in the backyard – I owe some credit to recent, violent summer storms for this one. Since we can’t mow the grass when the yard is littered with sticks, I convinced Nate that he would become a better, stronger ninja if he dragged these to a pile on the patio while Sam sat and ate rocks. Oral rock consumption is a different approach to training that I’m not totally familiar with, more of a Chuck Norris style, I believe. I’d think it would yield a rougher, tougher, more rugged ninja, but keep in mind that this is the kid who literally shakes in his boots when anyone utters the word ‘chipmunk.’

 

Face painting – Because when a ninja grinds a piece of sidewalk chalk into dust in the garage, the natural inclination is to smear it all over his or her face. And legs. And arms. And the inside and outside of a freshly washed car. And the kitchen cabinets. And his brother. It’s an intimidation tactic. You should have seen the way the cashier at Old Navy that morning trembled as we approached the counter! I mean, sure, she was also definitely judging the lack of supervision that had to occur for their little bodies to be that red, but she was too frightened to say anything. As other mothers at Trader Joe’s shielded their little ones from Nate and Sam as they sprinted around the store, lusting after free lollipops, the employees did double-takes, clearly wanting no part of the sticky, sweaty red messes that they almost tripped over. And I stood proud as I debated whether to buy soy-based ice cream sandwiches for my ninjas or the regular dairy kind. Nate and Sam know how to cause panic! Our training is working.

 

Staring down chipmunks – Chipmunks are our common enemy. We respect them, but we fear them. From the safety of inside our home, we watch the little varmints scurry across the driveway and play in the bushes out front. Occasionally, they pause to stare back, taunting us with their superior agility and quickness. But if they so much as flinch in our direction, we all screech and close the curtains.

 

Nate told Sam this morning, “Sorry, Sam – this is no time to be brave,” and he turned their attentions from the window back to their PBS cartoons. Learning to face our fears is a gradual process. Maybe we’ll start with spiders and houseflies.

 

Agility jumps over weapons – At least I think this is what they were aiming for. It actually resulted in a lot of tripping and stumbling, especially on Sam’s part. Which resulted in bruises. And tears. Ninja training is not for the weak.

 

Jumping back and forth between sofas – Usually, with breakfast in one hand, the other hand out for balance, and this activity can last all morning if I let it – or until Sam gets distracted with racing some matchbox cars on the floor.  Or dragging his lacrosse stick around in search of a ball. Or riding his little Batman car.

 

Sam has extrapolated this jumping practice to the pews at church, too. It doesn’t seem to matter whether or not people are sitting in front of us, nor how solemn or sacred the moment is. He’s fully committed to standing at the very edge of the bench, reaching forward to the back of the pew in front of him with one hand, while using the other hand for balance, and trying to hurl his lead leg ahead. “Are you serious?!” my husband or I whisper each time he does this, trying to peel his surprisingly strong little fingers off the wooden seatback and hoping that we’re simply imagining the glares from the older ladies seated around us. But, as embarrassed and irritated as we are at those moments, we’ll undoubtedly be thanking him some day, when he grows into an accomplished ninja and saves us all from an evil world domination-seeking martial artist. Or a giant English-speaking snake. Or an oversized can opener. Because these nimble, limber moves he’s showcasing in the presence of the Lord are just the skills he’ll need to protect the world.

 

And then, when he army-crawls underneath the kneelers to peer up menacingly at the churchgoers in front of us, we’re not even mad. You can color us impressed. And what a valuable skill! Who knows what type of future ninja mission will require such elasticity.

 

Fighting someone diligently typing on her laptop – This one doesn’t seem fair to me. I’m busy, stop swatting at my head. It seems to go against ninja virtues to fight two against one, right? Please tell me I’m right on this.

 

Searching for missing toys – In particular, toys that I have gotten rid of without their knowledge or consent. This is a win-win for me. First, I’m downsizing, preparing to be an empty nester in sixteen and a half years. And second, what a great way to keep them occupied for an indefinite length of time! “Keep looking…here’s a shovel, try the backyard…of our house in Baltimore”. And they think it’s a puzzle-like mission – a ninja brain exercise – to which they manage to devote all their focus. For about seven minutes.

 

Literature and puzzles – Ok, I don’t think flipping through a Sesame Street book will help them with their training. I can’t think of a single ninja-like character on that show. Maybe this is a different type of of mental gymnastics?

 

I overheard Nate tell Sam while they were in Ninja Turtle character, “Leonardo, we need your brain!” Clearly, they understand the value of scholarly pursuits and an adept, versatile intelligence: problem solving, planning a tactical assault, inventing new weapons, and identifying colors, shapes, letters, and numbers.

 

Preparing for worst-case scenario – “I have to go fight Sam. He’s mutated” is what Nate told me casually in the kitchen one morning. This is a test. This is only a test. As far as I could tell, Sam had not mutated. I didn’t find green scales on his extremities or a hard shell on his back. No webbed feet, and I didn’t detect any special powers. His hair was still blond and his eyes still a very pretty shade of light blue. But it’s good to be prepared for such a rare, mystical phenomena. So now, Nate and Wally and I are all prepared for how to handle Sam in case he mutates. In case it ever happens and you’re nearby, call us to help!

 

Sprinting – Lots of sprinting. Sprinting everywhere. Back and forth between the dining room table and the bay window in the office. Back and forth between the edge of Nate’s bed and the doorway to Sam’s bedroom. All throughout the grocery store, while weaving in and out of browsing shoppers and shopping carts and employees loaded down with boxes of produce and non-perishables, innocently preparing to stock the shelves. I often lose them for a moment – or two, three, four, or five hundred – and then I’ll turn the corner into the cereal aisle and find them, together, talking to a well-meaning employee who must have inquired about the whereabouts of a parent or guardian. At those times, Nate’s usually speaking for the both of them, introducing themselves to the stranger while Sam squeals and giggles and does quick feet in front of a moving shopping cart, determined not to let this social moment disturb his conditioning.

 

Sleeping with weapons – This is why my salad tongs have spent several months tucked inside Nate’s Thomas the Tank Engine bed sheets. Meanwhile, Sam sleeps with a foam sword next to his crib. Nate told me that he always needs to be ready. Besides the chipmunk, current bad guys we keep a lookout for include….well, they’re mostly imaginary, actually. But! Nate’s told me before that he’s a little wary of older girls – around the ages of five or six. They make him shy, a truly rare occurrence. Yeah, weapons will make it less awkward.

 

We also make a point to hide weapons throughout the house. I’ve mentioned the vacuum cleaner extension tool and the toilet-paper-roll nunchucks, but let’s not forget about the lacrosse sticks, golf clubs, baseball bats, tennis rackets, and hockey sticks – Casey Jones, anyone? – that litter the house. And throwing stars, which are what we call any toy smaller than a baseball, are everywhere! Hardcover books, The Hungry Little Caterpillar, Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?, and Walter, the Farting Dog, just to name a few, make great shields during battle and can currently be found in every room of the house. Never be caught off guard.

 

And Tighe helps with the training, too. The other night while I was cleaning up dinner – a momentary, if grease-stained moment of clarity for myself – I overheard him getting them ready for bed upstairs. “Get your PJ’s on and then we can fight.” Then, a few minutes later, “Ok, who’s ready to fight me?” Never waste a moment – while you’re resting, your nemesis might be getting bigger, faster, stronger.

 

I could go on and on and on about ninja training. I’m slowly becoming an expert. We’ve still got a ways to go – I’d love to refine their Ritz Cracker loving diets, for example. Or send them out on independent (of me) practice missions – to the grocery store, perhaps. But, my self-imposed word count limit nears. As does the limit of my readers’ – both of you (hi, Mom!) – attention spans. Plus, laundry awaits. But if you need some advice on how to start your own pre-school dojo, please contact me. Step one: reproduce. 

Our Trip in Review

Well, we’re finally back in the middle of the country – where we belong apparently. At least that’s what the general populace back on the East Coast seemed to tell us. It was a fun trip. It was an arduous trip. And now, it’s over. Everyone survived. Everyone is safe and healthy and as sane as we’ve ever been. The car trip, as long and harrowing as it was at certain times, did not kill us. In fact, I like to believe that we’re all stronger for the experience. Ok, that’s not true. And it’s a little too cheesy for my liking, but I wanted to throw a positive spin on things. Here’s the reality of it:

 

To begin our long journey home, we left my parent’s house outside of Baltimore on Saturday morning at 8 AM. I poured some coffee into a travel mug and told myself that I wouldn’t take a sip until the first person started crying. Not including myself, of course – my tears began the moment I buckled my seatbelt as I knowingly succumbed to sixteen hours of automobile confinement, spread across two days, in a car with Nate and Sam. And the dog, but we’d barely notice he was there.

 

My first sip of joe came at 9:07 AM. Almost simultaneously, Sam seemed to have realized, “Hey, I’m trapped in the car again! I can squeeze my shoulders out of the car seat straps, but the adults up front seem to have employed the ‘child safety feature’ on the car door handle and I can’t quite force it open” just as Nate decided he needed fruit snacks – immediately. Cue dual meltdowns.

 

Personally, I was ready to let Sam open the car door, convinced that the pavement speeding by under his feet on I-70 would surely scare him back into the car. And I was definitely ready to toss a pack of fruit snacks back to Nate. What’s a little sugar high at 9 in the morning? He had eaten a hearty breakfast, it wouldn’t kill him.

 

But that’s why parenting is best done in teams – not just so that you always have a partner to blame failures on, but also so that one of you can make rational and wise decisions when the other is at wit’s end.

 

Eight years into marriage, and I’m still learning things from Tighe: (1) don’t let the baby kill himself, and (2) don’t accelerate Nate’s path to diabetes. Fine.

 

Instead, at Tighe’s urging, I re-secured Sam in his Graco-made stockade, while Tighe told Nate that he could have fruit snacks at 11 AM, an arbitrary and far distant time as far as I was concerned, but whatever. He reasoned that this would help Nate learn to count down and instill the concept of time. Well, he can use all the help he can get on that front. At this point, any event in the past is “yesterday,” “last night,” or “when I was two,” while anything planned for the future is “when I grow into a dad.”

 

So, for two whole hours, we sat in the car awaiting the much anticipated doling out of the fruit snacks. Nate distracted himself by watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and asking if it was 11 yet at two to three minute intervals. Sam distracted himself by glaring at the back of my head. Tighe distracted himself by barreling a large SUV down the highway at 80 miles an hour. Wally distracted himself by…wait! Is Wally even with us? Oh yes, there he is, being absolutely perfect in the way back and probably wishing he had been adopted by any other family in the world.

 

And me? I distracted myself by finishing my coffee, ignoring Sam’s death stares, and recording the “that’s what she saids” from the dialogue of TMNT.

 

What’s that you say? You’d like to read some of them? Ok! Happy to share! Here are some of my favorites…well, ok, I think these are my favorites. During the final stretch, about an hour from Kansas City, I hurled my notebook at Sam in yet another desperate attempt to make him stop screeching. Fortunately for everyone in the car, it worked, and he sat happily and quietly for almost twenty minutes. Unfortunately for me, his happiness was because he was methodically tearing up the pages on which I had been scribbling notes for the last 1,083 miles. What follows is what I managed to recover from his sweaty, crumb-filled car seat and tape back together.

 

“Enter the action zone!”

“I’m ready to get down with this machine of yours!”

“Somebody’s gotta take the middle.”

“The dimensional portal is open! Now, to get those rockheads in there!”

“Good morning, Turtles! Observe what I have in my hands!”

“I don’t know how we’re gonna get it up there!”

“Hold the stick up, Michelangelo!”

“A little wax, and it’ll shine like new.”

“There’s a barrel of silicon lubricant over there. Use it to give him a slip!”

“I can’t hold this thing open forever!”

“Hey, stop it! You’re ruining my finish!”

 

Ok, admittedly, some are better than others, but let’s remember that I was confined in a car and high on caffeine with very little stimulus.

 

Here are some stats and awards from our trip:

 

Miles traveled…2,484

Days away from home…18

Car Accidents…0!

Speeding Tickets…0!

Hours of TMNT watched…30+

Family and friends visited…A lot! And yet, not enough. It seems that every time we visit, more and more people move from the “people we got to see” list to the “people we wish we could have seen” list.

Gifts received…Too many! Thank you, friends and family! For meals, drinks, toys, books, baked goods, hand-me-downs, Austrian lederhosen, and most importantly, for your time and company! We are very grateful.

Happy hours celebrated…Many! Every. single. one.

Crabs consumed…Lots! And yet, not enough. But I did manage to transport some Old Bay back across the Mississippi River. 

Great-grandparents visited…4

Nursing homes kicked out of…Surprisingly, none! But we did make lots of noise, attract lots of attention, and manage to smuggle out some Reese’s Peanut Butter cups. Nate finished his before we even made it to the car.

Family secrets revealed…1 ½.

Most Improved Car Rider…Sam. He really had nowhere to go but up.

Most Avid Fruit Snack Consumer…Nate.

Quietest Passenger, aka Most Valuable Passenger…Wally. Definitely Wally. That poor canine withstood being yelled at by a bored Sam, being squirted with water bottles, having melted pizza cheese being pressed into his fur, and the flatulence of other passengers.

Most Reliable Driver…Tighe. Did I mention zero accidents, zero speeding tickets, and his lead foot?

Best White-Knuckled Passenger…me.

Best Foot-on-Dashboard Imaginary Braker…me.

Most Valuable Dispenser of Snacks…me.

Prettiest Passenger…me.

The Tale of the Sixteen Hour Road Trip

We did it! We all survived sixteen hours in the car with Nate and Sam! No speeding tickets! No car accidents! No mechanical breakdowns! I mean, Sam resents us a bit more than usual, but he can get over that with the right therapists and some time away at boarding school, right?

 

There were some hairy moments, sure, but we’re all alive and here to tell the tale. Even Wally. But because his paws are so massive and his typing skills are limited, I’ll be the one to tell the tale.  

 

We left at 4AM. Four. A. M. Several road trip veterans we know who have traveled with small children before, all agreed that this was the way to go. Get up early while it’s still dark, the wisdom advised. The kids will fall right back asleep and by the time they start stirring again, you’ll be ready to stop for breakfast, it will be light out, and you’ll have completed 150 miles or so without traffic.

 

So we tried that. No such luck on returning to sleep. They stayed awake. Sam was amused at our Von Trapp Family-style departure in the wee morning hours. Nate was really excited to be traveling with Sam on an adventure. And Wally was super stoked not to be left behind. So no one slept. They giggled and chatted and inquired about the moon and the stars.

 

Eventually, at 5:09 AM, the novelty of waking up and slipping into the car in our pajamas had worn off, and they started to get restless. So we watched “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” for four hours straight. Four. Hours. Straight. Nate was having the time of his life, watching reptiles practice martial arts and eat pizza, and he narrated enthusiastically to us from the backseat. Meanwhile, next to him, Sam scowled angrily at us. He dropped his chin to his chest, jutted out his jaw, furrowed his brows downward, and glared upward, as if to say, “You interrupted my REM cycle, denied me breakfast, and strapped me in the car for this?”

 

We stopped for a bit to use the bathroom and stretch our legs at Wal-Mart, deliberately leaving our wallets in the car so as to not buy anything that Nate or Sam requested. We recognized our weakened, weary states were no match for their wills, which somehow had only been strengthened by being tethered in the car. They sprinted in a zig-zag pattern up and down the aisles, enlivened by the sight of the five dollar DVD bin, the rows of pool toys, and the candy displays. Sam tried putting his mouth on every single Minion water bottle and tumbler while Nate hovered around the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toys, telling us how he hoped to get one for his birthday – which is eight months away.

 

Every turn we took in that massive store was another trap, a chance to spend money and to hear Nate talk about his need for another item. Or better, Sam, unable to verbally express his need for toys, would throw the toy at us, and when denied, thrusted his head back in fury and let out an angry grunt.

 

We were too tired to care. And too tired to surrender and drag our bodies to the car to fetch our wallets. I think we even would have been too tired to stop them if they had had the audacity to shoplift. I also don’t think they recognized that as an option. But soon. Soon they will. Those little assholes will soon be tainted with mischievous ideas by their peers. Or by TV. Nate already believes that cops are the bad guys. We’re from Baltimore.

 

After an incredibly filling lunch – who could know if we’d ever eat again? – both Nate and Sam fell asleep, and we were careful to keep the music at a reasonably low volume, talk in hushed whispers, and exhale quietly, fearful of disturbing them. When Nate sleeps, he is OUT, and even an exploding bomb can’t stir him. But Sam – oh, Sam – wakes when the dog wags his tail too loudly.

 

Finally, after over an hour of sitting in the car like Anne Frank hiding in the attic, we broke the noiselessness, though not intentionally. Tighe finished his last sip of water and crushed the empty bottle against his thigh, the crinkling plastic shattering the silence.

 

Sam let out a squawk, and the peace was over. He spent the remainder of that day manipulating me, conning me into doing whatever he wanted for his entertainment. “Sure, Sam, your wish is my command, Your Highness. Just please, no shrieking!”

 

I fed him every treat imaginable – well, within the realm of snacks that I had packed in the car, of course – Goldfish, pretzels, peanut butter crackers, letter cookies from Trader Joe’s, granola bars, bananas, and even fruit snacks. When he’d grow full or bored with the snack, he’d deposit it methodically, one crumb at a time, on the other side of his car seat, out of my reach. Then, he’d wink at me and smirk, flashing his big buck teeth.

 

With other snacks, he’d yell, “catch!” and throw it in my direction, but it would usually just drop to the floor in between us. And sometimes he’d try to force-feed it to Wally – yes, remember Wally? He’s the well-behaved seven year-old Golden Doodle in the way back of the car. You know, the one with more energy than seven Sam’s combined, but who has the grace and maturity to contain it for ten hours. The poor dog who gets so anxious about being in the car that he declines food – so out of character for him, by the way. Yes, Wally – the best behaved creature in the car – including Tighe and me.

 

Ok, back to the drive: towards the end of our first leg that evening, snacks – failing. Movies? Also failing. Even TMNT. And Monsters, Inc. And the soothing voice of the late George Carlin, the narrator from Thomas the Tank Engine, couldn’t calm Sam. Even Elmo, usually his favorite, was making Sam angrier by the minute.

 

And so, with less than an hour to go, Sam had unbuckled his car seat and was screeching and squirming and kicking his legs and trying his very best to weasel his way out. What he had planned after that I have no idea. Was he going to avenge his confinement and attack us? Was he going to take ten hours of outrage out on Wally? Or Nate? Was he going to be helpful and pick up all the pretzels he had dropped next to the door? Did he have a list of grievances to submit to the front seat? Or a list of suggestions for Day 2? Perhaps he was ready to wrestle the steering wheel from Tighe – determined to steer the car somewhere more exotic than Columbus, Ohio.

 

I was truly starting to doubt that we’d make it to that Residence Inn by Marriott that night. Would I get my free apple at the check-in desk? What about that famed continental breakfast with a waffle bar? And yogurt sitting in piles of ice? And the Fruit Loops I promised to Nate? And black bottom muffins?! [sobbing now] They have chocolate chips in them!

 

We needed to do anything within our power to get to that damn hotel! Even Nate was getting tired of the second showing of thirteen episodes of the “smiley faced turtles.” Finally, we found a way to appease Sam. In one last desperate move, Tighe, with one hand still on the wheel, reached back with his other arm, and tickled the writhing toddler. Suddenly, his red, tear-stained face was showcasing a smile, and he was wiggling and giggling with delight instead of indignation. Yes, Tighe! Keep tickling that monster! Only forty-five minutes to go!

 

Just a brief note – this technique, though equally effective in consoling Sam, was a lot less welcome the next day, through the sharp curves and steep descents in West Virginia and Western Maryland. It was a little disconcerting to be racing trucks down a mountain while the driver of the car is lunging backward to tickle a passenger. Thank you, God, for keeping us safe there!

 

Finally, we arrived at the hotel! It wasn’t even four in the afternoon yet, but it felt like midnight. Nate and Sam were thrilled! Thrilled to jump up and down on the sport court. Thrilled to dip their toes in the pool. Thrilled to have three TV’s in our suite. Thrilled to gnaw on some fresh red apples. And thrilled to order some cheese pizza.  

 

In fact, they were so thrilled, they sprinted back and forth throughout the room, Nate spinning around like the hills were alive, saying “I can’t believe we live here now!” He couldn’t get over having three TV’s in such a small space. Sam, meanwhile, collected all three remotes and taunted us from the corner of the couch with his new toys, refreshed and enthused with his new power.

 

“I never want to go back to Kansas City!” Nate shouted, running back and forth between the rooms to see what shows Sam had inadvertently switched on in each room.

 

Getting Sam to sleep in the hotel later was another matter altogether. We hadn’t reserved a port-a-crib for him, hopeful that he’d fall asleep in the double bed he’d share with Nate that night. Instead, he was all over the place, climbing from one nightstand, across the bed, to the other nightstand, trying to figure out the lamps and pressing all the buttons on the alarm clock and the phone. Eventually, we had to call the front desk and plead for them to send a crib, which they didn’t even charge us for. After a few minutes of sobbing, probably apologizing for his restlessness and begging to be allowed to sleep in the bed, Sam fell asleep. A few hours later we discovered that he had set the alarm clock in our room for 1AM that night, long after we had fallen into a deep sleep. Revenge, I guess. What a clever kid.

The Chipmunk That Never Was

God sure does find strange ways to test me. I have friends who are confronted with the hardship of cancer-ridden parents, lost jobs, addiction, miscarriages, and the deaths of loved ones. They’re tortured by grief, heartbreak, hopelessness, and despair. And me, I’m haunted by chipmunks.

 

A lot less grievous and deadly, sure, unless we’re talking about a giant theme park mascot that’s armed with a weapon – I’m pretty sure I could take an unarmed one. They must have very limited peripheral vision, and I can’t imagine they’re that agile. I’m quick and spry and have a surprisingly strong left jab. Just ask Tighe – it’s a dance move I’m working on, I haven’t actually hit him. Recently.  

 

Anyway, the hubbub started Wednesday morning when I was standing in our kitchen, sipping coffee and making lists – what to pack, what to pick up at the grocery store, places to go when I’m an empty nester, boarding schools, lists to include in my blog, etc. Nate and Sam were in the other room, taking turns reading Bible verses aloud to one another. I’m kidding, they were watching TV, but it was PBS, so they were learning. Plus, at least they weren’t fighting. Tighe had already left for work and Wally was at the groomer for the day – because we absolutely refuse to sit in a car for sixteen hours with that stinky bag of bones breathing his hot, moist breath onto our shoulders – so it was pretty quiet in the house, when I suddenly heard scuffling…in the cupboards…above the microwave…something was definitely up there.

 

Great. Not again. Another chipmunk?

 

Seasoned exterminator that I am, I opened the kitchen door leading to the garage and grabbed the Swiffer from the closet. After taking a courage-building sip of java, I reached for the cupboard door and pried it open with the Swiffer handle, bracing myself for a lunging rodent – we all know they can fly.

 

Nothing.

 

Then suddenly, more clamoring, clawing, scratching. But I could see nothing. Nothing was moving inside the cabinets – not the bags of confectioners sugar or the brown sugar, nor the canister of salt or the box of baking powder…but still, lots of…ruckus. 

 

Something about trapped rodents makes Nate have to poop. Next thing I knew, he was sitting on the toilet in the next room grunting and straining and talking about the mess he planned on making that day. His juvenile chatter about paper towel rolls and sofa cushions barely registered. Awesome, I think to myself. I have to do laundry, clean the house, cram most of our belongings into the back of our SUV, run some errands, eradicate the house of a living creature that inhabits our kitchen, and wipe Nate’s butt? So, yes, feel free to mess up the house. Just be creative about it! Use your imagination!

 

“Uh-huh… Sure, Nate.” I wished he would stop calling to me so that I could listen for my new cupboard friend.

 

“Mom!”

 

“What?”

 

“I love you.”

 

“I love you, too.”

 

“Aww.” Sam is moved by the moment.

 

“I am sweating, Mom. I am sweating so much.”

 

Meanwhile, Sam had wandered in, probably to tell me that his show had turned off or that he needed more cereal.

 

Then, we heard it. We both heard it – commotion from the cupboard. Sam shifted his eyes back to meet mine and he knew. “Yes, Sam,” I said. “Another one.”

 

“Eehhhh!” He cried as he waddled over to me, standing on my feet, thrusting his head back, extending his arms, and begging to be lifted up to safety.

 

“No, Sam. It’s ok.” I was determined not to let my overreaction color his reaction. I was also determined not to lift him up – my back’s been bothering me, and he’s been so whiny lately. He scowled up at me from the floor, sticking out his lower jaw.

 

We communicate a lot with facial expressions. It’s like a mother-son ESP, and I don’t know whether it’s something that evolved so that we can keep secrets from Nate or whether it’s simply because his verbal skills are still developing, and smiles, head nods and scowls are just the best we can do.

 

“Ok, I’m finished,” Nate called out from the toilet.

 

“Coming!” Sam clutched my leg tighter and together, we shimmied over to the bathroom to find Nate in his downward-facing dog “wipe me” pose, his head drenched in sweat.

 

Nate hopped into the living room and proceeded to make the exact mess that he had plotted while sitting on the throne. Paper towel roll towers were stacked up and knocked down, and sofa cushions were soon scattered across the floor. At least someone’s day was going according to plan.

 

My sidekick, Sam, and I returned to the kitchen. To listen. To hypothesize. Maybe it’s a bird. I had noticed a small flock of birds, clustered in the driveway earlier. Perhaps they were plotting a hostile takeover of the house. The noise in the kitchen was their Navy Seal-like operation. First in to infiltrate the premises – mission failed. Or did it? I glanced outside to see if there were more birds perched menacingly on the fence. Or on the telephone wire. Nothing. Phew. It could be a rat. Or a mouse. A squirrel?

 

“Hey, did I just see a lion in my house?” Nate’s voice interrupted my silent brainstorm with Sam.

 

“What?”

 

Nate: “Never mind, it’s just this baseball bat.”

 

After several more minutes of this useless stakeout in the kitchen, I decided the varmint must be trapped. Trapped in the vent from the microwave that runs up through the cupboard above it. It sounded like claws scratching at metal. Poor guy. Or girl. How terrifying.

 

We continued to go about our day, running to the grocery store, hanging out at the playground for a bit, and periodically loading up the washer and dryer with a new batch of dirty clothes. But my mind kept wandering back to the ruckus in the kitchen. This guy was going to die in the vent. His carcass would stink up the house while we’re away, and there wasn’t much I could do about it from my bench at the playground. His blood would be on my hands, but I didn’t feel too guilty. We had a trip to get ready for!

 

When we returned from our outing, the clawing and scuffling in the cupboard was the first thing I noticed. Only this time, the clawing sounded more like it was against wood, no longer metal. Was he making progress, getting closer to freeing himself? I wondered. Sam and I exchanged a look, and I could tell he was wondering the same thing.

 

Nate, on the other hand, was oblivious as always. He inquired, instead, about the mess in the living room. “Who put all these cushions on the floor? And where did these paper towels come from? [Sigh.] Mom, you really should take better care of this house.”

 

I assembled lunch and as we sat around the table and ate, Sam and I continued to listen to the scuffling nervously, anxiously awaiting the moment when the chipmunk, or whatever, would finally bust through the side of the cabinet, and pounce from his advantageous position above the microwave.

 

“Why did you not try and help me?” I imagined him saying, trying to avenge his accidental capture.

 

Even Nate was quiet, and I knew he was moments away from discovering that we were not alone in the house.

 

“Mom!” Here we go. He knows.

 

“Mom! I’m gonna see what’s wrong with my penis….oh, it’s stuck to my leg.” Okaaaay. One problem solved, but the Chipmunk Crisis remains, status unchanged.

 

Then finally: “Hey, does anybody hear that?” Sam rolled his eyes in my direction, as if to say, “Is this kid serious? My chipmunk-induced PTSD kicked in five hours ago, and he’s just now inquiring about some strange noises?!”

 

“Yes, Nate. There’s a chipmunk trapped in the vent about the microwave. Again, another chipmunk.”

 

“A chipmunk? Hmm…” He peered into the area of concern curiously, trying to assess the situation. We had a brief discussion about how the chipmunk got in there, how he must be scared, and how worried we are about him.

 

Nate stared at the cupboard pensively for a few minutes and then returned to his cheese and crackers at the table.

 

After a moment or two, I broke the silence. “I think he’s trying to claw his way out.”

 

“Who?”

 

“The chipmunk!”

 

“What chipmunk?”

 

Seriously? Sam groaned and asked for more peanut butter.  The chipmunk scuffled from the cabinets. His panicked scratches were fast, forceful, getting desperate.

 

“I think you need to cheer it on,” I suggested.

 

“Go, Chipmunk! Go! Escape! [Pause while he listened] It’s not hearing me.”

 

“Maybe it doesn’t speak English. Do you know any other languages?”

 

Nate hung his head dejectedly, “No.”

 

“Bummer. I guess we need a different plan.”

 

“I know! I open the door and you catch him!”

 

“No, I don’t want to catch him!” And it’s true, I really didn’t want to catch him. I just wanted him to go away, humanely.

 

“Ok. You open the door and you catch him.” Nate could stand to learn a thing or two about division of labor.

 

Eventually, we finished and cleaned up lunch, put on our bathing suits and got ready for swim lessons. I could probably write another 2,000 words just about swim lessons, but let’s focus on the chipmunk. Or bird. Or rat. Or fairy. Or gnome. Or whatever.

 

As I ran back inside the house to grab the keys that I had forgotten – because it’s tradition, I called out, “Ok, Chipmunk! We’re headed to swim lessons now – please show yourself out!”

 

And he did! When we arrived home an hour and a half later, I listened for the scuffling as soon as we walked in through the kitchen door. Nothing. I put a fresh diaper on Sam, lugged him upstairs for a nap and listened. Still nothing. I put Curious George on for Nate and listened. Silence! I sat down at the table with my laptop to check my email. Still quiet.

 

We never heard from him again. He must have escaped! Saved himself! Score one for Mother Nature. Survival of the fittest, Darwinism at its finest. That smart little chipmunk. Or mouse. Or squirrel. Or leprechaun.

 

From the other room, Nate called out, “Mom, there’s a fly in our house!” Stay tuned for more adventures from our petting zoo…

 

 

 

Eleven Hopes for Our Trek East This Week

I love flying on planes. I love people watching in the airport. I love acting cool and casual on the plane even though I’m really jazzed to be UP. IN. THE. AIR — whaaaa? How does that happen? I love the adrenaline rush of the take-off. I love the semi-terrifying turbulence — though nothing compares to the terror of that damn chipmunk in our house last week. I love toying with the flight attendants — “Oh, yes I will stand here near the bathroom because I seriously need to pee.” “That’s right I did take my seatbelt off while we’re still taxiing to the gate!” I’m a badass. I love making small talk with the strangers around me, making up stories about where I’m going and why: a walkabout across the tundra of Northern Canada, meeting my mail-order husband in LaGuardia, or a search for the world’s actual best cup of coffee. I love the giddy relief of a bumpy landing. And let’s not forget the complimentary snack and beverage service — 2.5 ounces of peanuts? Yes, please! Thirty-five calories worth of pretzels? And don’t forget my one-fourth of a can of soda!

 

But alas, now we have Nate and Sam. Flying on planes has become…difficult. So we’ll drive eastward for our visit this summer. New, different challenges. New, different delights and wonders. But at least it’s all contained — inside the car, that is. We won’t force an emergency landing or suffer the humiliation of dirty looks from fellow passengers or be asked to “de-plane” before even pulling away from the gate. 

 

Nate’s actually a good flyer. He could stare at a tablet screen for hours, glancing up only to ask me to remove the wrapper from his lollipop. But Sam. Sam is a different story. Let’s just say that describing him as “antsy” is an understatement. He’s a maniac. And he likes to fight. Ninja-style. Usually he just fights Nate — thrusting his foam sword into his older brother’s face — but I recently witnessed him trying to challenge a six year-old girl to a balloon duel as we waited in line at Old Navy. No one is safe.

 

And so, we’ll drive.  

 

This is a sixteen hour trip. In a car. With Nate. And Sam. And Wally, the dog. And books and luggage and toys and snacks and movies. Kid’s movies. Which are cute until you watch them 12,793 times. There’s a lot to think about in preparation for this trip. A lot to worry about. And since Tighe doesn’t worry, I have to do the worrying for the both of us. Worry can be distracting and counterproductive, so to ease some anxiety, I’ve organized all my inner-monologue into one list for your reading pleasure. A spreadsheet would have been fun, too — complete with percentages to indicate the likelihood of each event occurring — but I ran out of coffee. 

 

So, without further ado, my 11 hopes for our trek East this week:

 

  1. That nothing epically bad happens. Like a car accident. Or a tornado. Or an automotive breakdown. Or a divorce. What a buzzkill that would be.
  2. That Sam’s hyperactivity can be contained. This hyperactivity is most noticeable at church. Here’s a typical whispered conversation between Nate at me while sitting in the pew: “Mom, why did Sam throw his frosted mini-wheats from Trader Joe’s at the lady in front of us?” “Because he’s crazy.” “Mom, why is my dad taking Sam out of the church?” “Because we’re being silently shunned by our forgiving Christian community thanks to your brother’s transgressions, underdeveloped sense of self-awareness, and comprehension of what’s socially appropriate.” “Oh. [pause] I very like self-awareness. Does that mean Sam doesn’t get a cookie at lunch?” But still, for every dirty look we get at church, there’s at least one kind soul who approaches us and says some variation of, “It’s ok, my kids were assholes, too. It gets better.” I think it’s divine intervention, God’s way of telling us: don’t kill them, you’ll really like them someday.
  3. That we make it, safely and sanely and according to our laid-back schedule, to the midway point. A continental breakfast! A swimming area! A business center! Comfy beds! Big pillows! And some decent, uninterrupted sleep would be a real treat, too. Nobody falls out of bed…nobody wakes up thirteen times to pee, or to tell us about a dream, or to ask where we are, or to pace around the room because his canine instincts are telling him that a thunderstorm is imminent. 
  4. That we don’t get robbed at gunpoint. I’m not sure how well developed those ninja skills really are, but I’m not quite confident they’d be able to protect us. And let’s not forget he’s learned most of his skills from a giant, animated rat. Also, Nate has a Band-Aid on his knee this week, which apparently means that he “can’t fight.” 
  5. That our credit cards don’t get declined as a result of out-of-state charges. That’s how we pay for shit. Like food. And gas. And hotel suites large enough to provide walled barriers between us and Nate/Sam.
  6. That we don’t get any speeding tickets. Yikes. And it’s usually the Missouri state troopers that get us. Those guys love to perch themselves in the center median, itching to catch you easing your foot from the accelerator but declining to tap the brakes as you descend one of those rolling hills.
  7. That Wally, finally at his wit’s end, doesn’t turn on us all.
  8. That we don’t forget anything imperative. Obviously, we have to bring both boys’ favorite water bottles, Nate’s monkeys and blanket which he sleeps with every night, Sam’s monogrammed blue lovies, and other toys du jour — probably Nate’s ninja costume, which he’ll suddenly want to don before getting out of the car at a rest stop. But inevitably, there will be something we “forget.” Something that I can’t even foresee because, cranky and tired of being imprisoned in a car, Nate and/or Sam will invent this forgotten item. It will be food. A food that he had not even realized he liked, like pork tenderloin. Or bruschetta. Or a bundt cake. Or something random he sees on a billboard, Cracker Barrel or Subway, staples of all interstate exits. And if it’s not food, it’ll be a toy. A toy that’s been crammed on the back of a shelf in the basement, untouched for months, until Hour #11, when he’ll suddenly declare that he needs to have it. Immediately. Will we turn back? No. We’ll just drive to the nearest Target and purchase one. 
  9. That at no point do the keys get locked in the car. For Tighe’s take on that, click here.
  10. That the car can sustain the inevitable damage of dog hair, cracker crumbs, melted fruits snacks, boogers, poop, pee, tears, and other miscellaneous stickiness.
  11. That a constant sixteen hour rotation of Elmo, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Despicable Me, Finding Nemo, Cars, Monsters University, etc. can keep Nate/Sam entertained. And that Tighe and I, in our exhausted and iron-deficient states, can tolerate it. Sam is entertained by two things: food and golf highlights on Sports Center. And when the ESPN anchors inevitably switch over to baseball or the NBA or the women’s World Cup, Sam loses it. I don’t care how cute Alex Morgan is, if it’s not Jordan Spieth or Dustin Johnson or Jason Day, Sam is not interested. 

And so, we’ll venture off on our annual trek. We’ll see America. Griswold-style. It’ll take longer. It’ll cost more. And it’ll drain us, emotionally, physically, maritally, and hygienically. But at least we’ll be spared strange, unwanted airplane encounters such as the one we experienced recently when we flew East for a wedding — sans Nate and Sam — with a group of AP test graders instead. Nerd alert! Fanny packs and all! Who am I kidding, I was captivated by their explanations of the necessity of a solid foundation in statistics before one graduates from high school and delineating the various math requirements of universities around the country. Wow. But when one of them, the loudest of them all, began critiquing the latest earth-shattering upgrades in the Texas Instruments calculator world — as though the woman seated next to her cared — I put on headphones and zonked out. 

 

I can’t do that in the car, though. Nope, I have to stay awake so I can tell Tighe how to drive — without my eyes, he’ll surely steer into a coach bus or a semi. I also have to dish out snacks, fetch dropped toys, determine the origin of nose-tingling stenches, and accurately assess how badly Nate really has to pee. No upper level math discussions for sure, but maybe we can at least listen to a little Elvis, for old time’s sake.

Thirty-Six Hours As an Exterminator

Chipmunks are good at flying. Or at least, they’re good at leaping. From high heights. I guess I would be, too, if I was confident in my landing. Anyway, Sam and I learned this fact a few days ago while we were both covered in peanut butter. Peanut butter is a recurring theme in our lives. I can actually smell it right now as I sit at the dining room table and type. Yep, there’s a light film of it smeared all over the chair next to me. I love peanut butter, but I’m really starting to despise it’s residue. Actually, peanut butter is also crammed into the rodent traps scattered all over our first floor, but more on that in a minute.

 

Back to the chipmunk — he’d been our unwelcome houseguest for about thirty-six hours or so. The precise amount of time he was in our house is unknown because we don’t know how, when, or why he came in. We’re also not sure that he was the only chipmunk involved — there could have been more. Tighe believes he saw as many as four, but I’m skeptical. I think they’re just good at darting and scurrying, appearing and re-appearing, climbing and, as I’ve already mentioned, jumping. 

 

We discovered his Sinbad-like state in our house at around 3AM, when my husband and I were both awakened by a noise. Nate often wakes in the middle of the night and comes into our room — to have us fix his toys, to pee, to tell us about his dream, to bemoan the state of affairs in the Ukraine, or to complain that I put ketchup in the wrong place on his plate three days ago — so at first we weren’t alarmed at waking. But then we realized the noise was already in our room. And it had a much smaller, quicker stride than Nate has. Then something heavy landed on my leg. Instinctively, I kicked my leg in the air and something thudded against the wall next to the bed. More scurrying. More “What the hell — ?!” from us.

 

My husband turned on the light and we both jumped up into the middle of the bed, though half asleep, I almost fell off — twice. If this were an actual Sinbad movie, we would have been dressed in matching flannel pajamas and night caps and clutching onto one another for dear life, probably me holding Tighe up, away from the dangerous scurrying madly around the hardwood floor. 

 

After several minutes of incoherent surmising and clumsy hunting — one of us may have been holding a baseball bat…or a golf club…I can’t remember, it was late…maybe that was the movie version — we saw and heard nothing, so we slowly and cautiously lay back down and turned off the light. Suddenly we heard more noise! The light went back on, and from the safety of our bed, we hunted again…listening…waiting…nothing. Back to bed. We cycled through that pattern two or three more times, until we decided we needed to sleep. Like small children after a nightmare, we clutched our blankets and pillows, closed the door to our room and crept downstairs to try and salvage some rest. But really, neither one of us slept again that night. We laid on the sofas, blankets to our chins, eyes open, listening to the panicked scurrying above us, still unsure of whether we were dealing with rodents, bats, tiny escaped convicts — gnomes, maybe? — or those pesky monsters Nate’s been trying to convince us live in his room. 

 

Several hours later, I returned from the gym and my husband recounted a captivating and valiant tale of his pursuit of the chipmunk(s), with the dog at his side. It was enthralling, with lots of jumping and yelling and barking and sprinting up and down the stairs. Somehow Nate and Sam slept through the commotion, but the frenzied investigation did yield one result: we were dealing with chipmunks. And, according to my husband, they might be on steroids. And there might be dozens of them. And they may or may not have been mutated by a mysterious green ooze. And they’ve been trained as ninjas. I don’t know, we were sleep deprived, maybe it was just one teeny, tiny, innocent little chipmunk, scared for his life and trying desperately to escape from our house. 

 

But maybe not.

 

And so, my husband returned from work that afternoon, more exhausted than usual, and armed with several hundred dollars worth of rodent traps and a “plan.” Ignoring him, I proceeded to fix dinner, clean up dinner, put Nate and Sam to bed, and then sit in a trance-like state in front of the TV while he dotted the first floor with traps. Great, now I have to buy more peanut butter. As we fell into bed that night, he explained his plan to me, fully prepared for a repeat of the battle from the night before. I’ll spare you the details because I don’t know the details — I fell asleep before he got to “Phase 2.”

 

We all slept soundly that night, waking only for bathroom breaks, and eventually, around 7AM when Nate came in to give us hugs and tell us the plot from his new ninja book — the exact book that we had each read to him at least three times the night before, so we really didn’t need a plot summary. But it was definitely better than waking with a chipmunk tangled up in our bedsheets. 

 

And so, assuming the chipmunk skirmish was over and that we had wasted a lot of money on rodent traps, Nate and Sam and I decided to spend the morning at the zoo. There, we faced growling tigers in cages…swimming polar bears behind thick glass…hungry orangutans hurling stalks of broccoli…swarms of field trippers and their burnt-out chaperones…and cute little penguins waddling around on rocks! But nothing could prepare us for awaited us at home.

 

I’ll skip the meltdowns that each child had when we got back for lunch. One involved the ripeness of a pear and one involved a missing water bottle. Suddenly, something dashed across the floor of the dining room, under the table, across my feet and into the kitchen. My expletives jarred both boys to attention and Sam stopped sobbing in front of the open refrigerator to watch the chipmunk sprint right in front of him. 

 

“Let’s get him, Wally!” The dog followed me through the kitchen as we checked behind doors and cabinets and trashcans and found nothing. Hmm… Oh well, we’ll get him, I’m sure. Maybe he’ll dart out into the garage on his own. We went about our lunchtime routine as usual, which meant Sam had slopped peanut butter all over his body, so I decided we would do baths after lunch.

 

While Nate danced in the tub and a naked Sam ran around the upstairs in an effort to evade the bathwater, I marched around the house gathering dirty laundry. As I lifted Nate’s laundry basket in the corner of his room, a chipmunk scampered out from under it, sprinted down the hall, and into the master bedroom where he ran into — literally, I think — a screaming, naked, and overtired Sam. Suddenly, Sam’s screeches reached a new, sky-scraping pitch! The chipmunk turned to retreat, but faced me and my litany of curse words, and, in a panic, climbed up the drapes and perched himself on top of the curtain rod. 

 

Grabbing a broom and calling for Wally, I scooped up Sam and leaped onto the bed, swatting at the chipmunk with the broom. Meanwhile, Nate, still in the tub, chattered away obliviously about ninjas and his Spiderman washcloths and the new “friends” he made at the zoo that morning. An aside: just because you tell someone that you like his shirt does not make you friends, especially if that is the extent of your interactions, but I digress. I continued to throw in some “uh-huh’s” and some “cool, Nate’s” as I extended my arm as far as I could reach. Suddenly, the chipmunk flew — really, he flew! — from the curtain rod, landed safely on the floor, and rushed by a stunned Wally, out of the room, down the hall and back into Nate’s room. Idiot!

 

I spent the next several minutes trailing after the chipmunk as he sprinted from room to room, down the stairs, back up the stairs, under doors and beds and tables, evading my tentative broom swipe every time. Sam and I, clinging to each other fiercely, took turns shrieking and jumping and yelling, “Get out of our [censored by sponsors] house!” until he went downstairs one last time.

 

Exhausted — that chipmunk was in pretty good shape — we returned to Nate in the bathroom who was still yammering away about “reaching his true potential.” Then, suddenly, “uh-oh” as he stood up and reached for his butt. 

 

“Nate! Do you have to poop?” I picked him up, threw him onto the toilet and tried to calm Sam down while I rinsed peanut butter from his hair. 

 

Moments later, as Nate was sitting on the toilet explaining the difference between “wet farts” and “poop juice” — apparently the latter is when the poop “melts” before it comes out of your butt — he peered into the hall and said, “Hey, a chipmunk.” Totally cool and calm, as if he had just said, “Hey, bananas are on sale this week.” Which would be great because we always seem to need bananas.

 

Let me take a moment to explain the layout of our house. Just beyond the bathroom is an exterior door leading to a second-story deck. We suspect this is how the chipmunk entered the house in the first place since the valet can’t recall admitting him. Anyway, in the aforementioned mayhem, Sam and I had opened this door, hoping to usher the little varmint out and onto the deck. Where he goes from there is his problem.

 

Anyway, the chipmunk seemed to be trying to make his way to the door. Progress! He crept in the direction of the sunlight until he turned to his left and saw us huddled on the floor of the bathroom. Sam’s shriek pierced my eardrums and the chipmunk retreated in fear! Crap! We were so close! 

 

“Wally! Get up here, you worthless, overly affectionate dog!” I hoped that Wally’s bounds up the steps would corral the chipmunk back towards the door. And I was right! After several more attempts, the chipmunk, getting closer and closer to the deck door each time, finally made it across the threshold! Success! Fresh air! I can’t even imagine his relief!

 

I pulled the door shut and locked it! Nate hopped down from the toilet, declared it one of the biggest poops he’s ever had, and asked me to wipe him. Sam, his wet little body still shaking with fear, grasped my neck as we wiped, dried off, and got dressed again. Once his heart rate returned to normal, I put Sam in his crib for a nap and ventured downstairs with Nate — who had not stopped talking the entire day — and we sat down to finish our lunch. From his chair, he squinted at the carpet in the next room. “Look, Mom!” he said as he ran across the room. “Oh, no. A fly! Now we have two problems.”

 

Stay tuned next week: The Saga of the Common Housefly!

How I Escaped Barnes and Noble Without Spending Any Money

I love books. And I love to read. I also like calendars, CD’s, journals for writing, vinyl records (?), board games, and Starbucks — all of which is sold at Barnes and Noble. But I’m also into saving money. By not spending it. It’s tough. As a family, we have to eat, we have to be entertained, and we have to endure public three year-old temper tantrums when a certain someone doesn’t get what he wants…sometimes it’s just easier to spend the dough, to drop the credit card on the counter and not even look at the total.

 

But no! We will not spend money unnecessarily! We will save money for a new house! We will spend money on learning experiences! We will save money for a second dog! Ok, that last one’s not been agreed upon by anyone but me. 

 

Thus far, Nate’s spent his summer throwing dice, whacking Sam with his lacrosse stick, and dumping piles of sand onto his head. An educational intervention is needed. So, one recent morning, we headed to Barnes and Noble to browse the possibilities. And that place is particularly crafty with their marketing and their display shelves. I’m pretty disciplined and I have pretty good self-control, but at Barnes and Noble, I can justify these purchases: This makes a good gift! This is educational! This is on Oprah’s book list! This is a collector’s edition! This yoga DVD comes with a yoga mat! Their bargain priced books are especially irresistible. I mean who doesn’t need a picture book of the finest adobe houses in the American Southwest. Or the mysterious growth of the American dogwood tree. Or the controversial history of brake pads. Or the eight different versions of The Eagle’s Greatest Hits on CD. And on vinyl. Also, in page-a-day calendar form. I walked out of there recently with thirty dollars worth of puzzle books…for myself. The public library is a much safer alternative.

 

And being a teacher, I know there’s a lot of value in helping your kids recklessly accumulate books. Not just books, but toys too! Especially the traditional wooden ones. Something about wood just prepares kids for the world in a way that nothing else can. Then there are the battery powered toys that help kids learn to count and practice phonetic sounds! And Lego’s and puzzles — spatial awareness! And board games and card games — social cognition! I could justify any purchase in this maze of brilliance!

 

But I didn’t have to. I spent exactly zero dollars there. Zero. And this is how.

 

Step 1: I swore to myself in the parking lot, before even getting out the car, that I would not spend a single dime in there…unless we came across something really, really, really cool. I mean like, really cool — like a book of Tom Brokaw quotes about the art of writing eulogies. Or a coffee table book on vintage Radio Flyer Wagons. These are books we need

 

Step 2: I texted my husband for moral support. “At Barnes and Noble again…talk me out of spending any money.” That was the exact text I sent. His reply text told me to use my best judgement. Fair enough. He replied again a few minutes later and asked “What will make him a better man?” So, I naturally began to search for Jack Donaghy biographies. Or a pocket-sized edition of Ron Swanson quotes.

 

Step 3: I told Nate I didn’t have any money. This was weak, though, because he doesn’t even know what money is. He thinks it’s something we count and sort when we play board games. He only knows that I always carry a credit card. Beware though, Would-Be Robbers, Nate always carries a sword. Or sais. And sometimes nunchuks.

 

Step 4We caused the B & N employees to feel suspicious of us, making us feel extremely uncomfortable — especially on a Monday morning, the day after I spent a slow and painful hour being embarrassed by my kids at church. Suddenly, paranoia set in and I thought everyone was judging us. We were literally the only customers in the children’s section when two middle aged female employees suddenly had a whisper powwow on the other side of the “Classic Reads” display shelf. One of them gestured in our direction as the other glanced over, met my nervous eyes, and quickly looked away.

 

Perhaps it was the several minutes in the toy section when Nate and Sam pressed every single “try me!’ button they could find in three consecutive aisles, setting off the audio function on at least thirty different toys at one time, that perturbed the clerk. Perhaps it was our stench — more on that in a minute. Perhaps it was the temporary tattoos that dotted Nate and Sam’s arms that made them look distrustful. Perhaps they had heard of my proclivity for dangling participles. And perhaps it was just our sketchy appearance and a corporate commitment to preventing shoplifting and violence — keep in mind that Nate was dressed as Kai the Red Ninja, yet again. 

 

“Thanks for the warning,” the second clerk said to the first, as they parted ways again, stealing dubious eyes in our direction again. Uh-oh. I felt like an L.A. hooker being stalked by snooty saleswomen who work on commission while shopping in Beverly Hills — suddenly not in the mood to try on extravagant 80’s fashion in a place where I’m not wanted.

 

Step 5: But then I came across the Disney section and remembered that I don’t already have every single one of these books. And Nate and Sam need them! Ok, this was getting increasingly difficult. As each new display table popped up in front of me, I was so mindful of my marketplace defenses that I realized I needed to blog about this experience. The world needs to know about my will-power! I was already brainstorming potential titles: One Woman’s Struggle Against Big Box Commercialism, to be set against the backdrop of a long, hot and humid summer morning. But I couldn’t write this blog and then at the last minute, hastily purchase a shapes and colors workbook — even if it is only $9.98. Where’s my integrity? Who would ever trust my worldly advice again, knowing that I had lied. And on the internet no less! The internet never lies. That’s it, I was resolved: I will not spend any money. Now I had to focus on getting Nate and Sam out of there without too much of a scene.

 

Step 6: Bribery. “Nate, let’s go to the car and have a snack. And maybe we can stop at the playground on the way home.” There is nothing wrong with this.

 

Step 7: Saved by the poop! Sam pooped! And it was a stinky one, too, hard to miss. And of course I didn’t bring diapers or wipes with me — it’s my way of magically potty-training Sam. If I will it, he can achieve it! Anyway, the poop stench was getting pretty bad, and since the place was nearly empty, I knew it’d be tough to blame it on another family. And that’s our cue to leave. 

 

So, we left. Largely unscathed. I mean, there were still definitely tears, both mine and Nate’s — and the woman’s at the checkout register as we passed by, most likely from the funky fecal odor trailing behind us — but they were the silent, pouting type, not the publicly humiliating, wailing type. I stuffed them back into their carseats and we headed across the street to Walgreen’s for some diapers and wipes and M&M Chip’s Ahoy. Everybody wins! I felt good about not making frivolous purchases at a large retail center, and Nate and Sam felt good about a sugar high and a playground trip — though Nate later confessed to me that he’s allergic to M&M’s, a fact that, as his mother for over three years now, somehow escaped me. And we all felt better about no longer smelling like human feces. Thanks, Walgreen’s!

 

My Favorite Parts of Being a Mom

Well, I’ve been sarcastic and seemingly bitter in this space in the past. And of course, I’ve offended people. But I make no apologies — I’m not bitter, just tired. More than half of the time, I’m amused and laughing, but there are also times when I’m exasperated and grossed out and on the verge of a breakdown. But so are Nate and Sam, so that evens the playing field.

 

Just to assure everyone that I’m not totally angry, I’ve compiled a list of my favorite aspects of Mom Life, but I’ll warn you: sarcasm is bound to surface. It’s innate.

 

It’s always time to eat  Three meals day plus two snacks?! With an emphasis on sugar? Sign me up! Twice! (I should probably eat double since I have two kids.) Admittedly, I don’t always eat every time they do — I don’t think I’m growing at quite the same rate — but I do enjoy living vicariously through them, watching them chow down on chocolate chip cookies and Cheez-its. Or the other day when we quadruple stacked Ritz crackers, stuffed them all into our mouths at once and then chased them with a slice of Swiss cheese. And the amount of frosted mini-wheats we go through is astounding. Just ask our frosted mini-wheat vendor — he’s able to afford to send his kids to boarding school thanks to us. Color me jealous. 

 

Preschool Logic — Nate truly believes that if he eats green food, he’ll turn into a Ninja Turtle. He also believes that if he eats Kraft Macaroni and Cheese that are shaped like Ninja Turtles, he’ll grow three big fingers, a shell, and a yellow belly, just like the Ninja Turtles. I know Kraft has recently faced some scrutiny over the contents of it’s mac and cheese, but I’m pretty sure it’s not laced with green ooze. Regardless, Nate continues to develop his ninja skills, his prowess, and his valor. We’re not going to argue with him — it’s an admirable discipline. “I love food. It fights the germs for you!”

 

Overhearing conversations like this — “Come on, Sam! Let’s go club some snakes!” WTF. I also like hearing Nate talk to the TV. Sometimes he introduces Sam to the animated characters he watches. “Good morning, Man In the Yellow Hat. This is Sam. And Wally. My mom is in the kitchen [hiding].” Other times he cheers for them. “Good job, Kai! Good fighting!”

 

Upon hearing that there were eight murders in Baltimore over the weekend, Nate declared triumphantly, “Well, ten is more than eight!” I’m a former math teacher, so I looked into it. He’s right. Ten is more than eight. So, things in Baltimore could be worse.

 

Teachable Moments — I’m not going to argue that my kids are the smartest kids in the world or even that they’re eligible for the gifted and talented program at your local remedial school — let’s review: Nate thinks he’s morphing into a giant reptile — but I will say that I’m working hard to teach them everything I know. We recently had a conversation about tampons while using a public restroom. But I’m pretty sure he zoned out when I got to the words “heavy flow.” Everything is a life lesson to these guys. And they retain everything I tell them. We work on letters and colors and shapes, vocabulary, and overall old man sagacity. Just today we were working on practical, age-appropriate ’s’ words: Sam, sunshine, splinter, snack, sensei, sword, sugar, and Sean Connery.

 

Chess Game — Simultaneously, I’m also constantly at war with Nate and Sam, and I must prove to be the smarter. I’m constantly thinking ahead, anticipating their perceptions of the words that come out of my mouth as to not put myself in precarious situations. For example, I can’t mention certain dessert foods before or during a meal because they’ll obviously need to eat the cookie or the lollipop or ice cream AS. SOON. AS. POSSIBLE. I can’t say the words “brush teeth” in front of Sam before Tighe’s finished up his morning routine in the bathroom because he’ll immediately drop everything and haul ass up the steps to clean his little pearly whites. I also have to make sure they don’t encounter weapons, the toy section at Target, or each other, again for fear of putting myself into a situation where I have to lay down the law. We don’t need more toys! And we definitely don’t need any more weapons — Sam’s head is already more dimpled than a golf ball. Tighe and I spend a lot of time in the evenings, after both of our adversaries are in bed, strategizing: “We will not buy him anything.” “No more chocolate after 3pm — too much caffeine!” “We must say ‘no’ more frequently.” “Should we beat them?” “Why do we keep getting rejected from these boarding schools?”

 

And sometimes I win these battles with no pre-planned strategy at all. The other night, for example, I was putting Nate to bed. We had already read three books, which is my limit. We had already changed his underwear several times for no comprehensible reason. We had changed his pajamas twice because he was trying to dress thematically: superheroes and dinosaurs, superhero dinosaurs. We had discussed at great lengths the Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities, Threats of each possible combination: ceiling fan on or off and door open or closed. As I motioned to leave the room, he slid out of bed and stood next to his pillow, eyeing me with a menacing look. “I’m out of my bed,” he said. It was both a declaration and a threat. “Good for you,” I said flatly. I was exhausted, I needed to leave before I did something I would regret, like inviting him downstairs to watch “Game of Thrones” with us. But I managed to restrain myself. I didn’t say another word. Neither did Nate. We stared at each other, assessing one another’s resolve and fronting our best poker faces while frantically searching our brains for the next move. I came up with nothing, so I inched out of the room, slowly pulling the door shut behind me. I tip-toed down the steps, confused and on edge. I waited at the bottom for the thudding of his footsteps, the creaking open of his bedroom door, and for his voice — I anticipated a battle. After a minute, nothing. After two minutes, still nothing, so I sat down on the couch. I had won? I had won. I breathed a sigh of relief and prepared myself for my next set of foes: Cersei and Ramsay Bolton on “Game of Thrones.”

 

Friendly Little Reminders that Gremlins Live in Your House — Like at night, when I’m finally laying down my head on my soft, welcoming pillow after a long, physically and emotionally draining day, pitting my rational arguments against their absurd brand of logic, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice little bits of Pop-Tart residue dotting my pillowcase. Of course! Because Sam, safely standing up in his high chair at breakfast, trampled his shoe into the remnants of his strawberry breakfast pastry and then came up to jump on my bed while he was brushing his teeth — another gold medal for safety! We also apparently keep a football shaped piggy bank in the laundry room, an overdue library book about ninjas under the dog’s bed, and a sparkly yellow bouncy ball next to the bathroom scale. These items have been in their designated locations for many weeks, and no one has thought to move them — we just accept it because we’re all tired and irrational, but I like calling it “creative” or “visionary.” My fun finds today include a bagel in the washer, missing puzzle pieces everywhere, four hard-as-rocks fruit snacks under the coffee table, and peanut butter crustiness on my laptop keys. Gross. And unhygienic. But also sweet and rather endearing — nice little reminders that not only have I sacrificed my abs, sanity, and free time to raising these monsters, but also any type of accolades from Better Homes and Gardens. I don’t cry when I think about these shattered dreams, but…

 

Toddler Mood Swings — Nate arose from bed the other morning in. a. MOOD. He planted himself on the steps and screamed, “Mooommmmy!” again and again and again and again while the rest of us ignored him. First of all, we were watching Sports Center, and it was hard to hear my husband’s expert “I was born in Philly” analysis of the Phillies' losing season over the sound of the siren-like wailing. Second of all, my name is Erin. Please don’t call me Mommy. You can call me Erin — and he often does, particularly when he’s “in character” of Batman or Kai the Red Ninja or Raphael. I’ll also answer to Ma, Sweet Mother Dearest, Mama, Mom, or Great and Reverend Maternal Figure, but not Mommy. It’s sounds so cantankerous and infantile. Anyway, the wailing continued for several long minutes, until the moment when he suddenly stopped, and calmly, without saying a word, walked to the bathroom and emptied his bladder like a little gentleman. He emerged from the bathroom and immediately threw his arms around me and apologized for screaming. “I love you, Mom.” Aww, he is human. Or a sociopath. Either way, I am loving hugging him right now and hearing that he loves me.

 

This is an important post for me, a reminder of sorts as we brace ourselves for summer vacation. Yes, that’s right, Nate’s preschool — all of six hours per week — is now finished until August. It doesn’t sound like much until you eliminate it. Already this week, he’s asked for a tattoo, claimed chronic lower back pain, and had to ride home from the playground naked. And don’t get me started on his new ninja “friends.” Those little six-inch plastic figurines are causing me more trouble than overly aggressive cops cause the inner city gang world.

 

The teacher in me is set on working on letters and numbers and has already started making flashcards and creating fun “grab-bag” games. The lazy spider in me — isn’t that an Eric Carle book? — just turned on the TV for him. Meanwhile, Sam just pulled down The Bedford Anthology of World Literature from the shelf. And it’s only Book 1: The Ancient World, Beginnings-100 C.E. Yeah, we’re talking authors such as Hammurabi, Plato, Homer, and Confucius. It’s gonna be a long summer. Now, to find a reputable tattoo parlor…

Five Problems Mothers of Girls Will [Probably] Never Have

Don’t get me wrong — I don’t actually want daughters. Parents of girls have plenty of problems, most of which will rear their ugly, horrifying heads around age twelve or so — I should know, I used to teach in an all-girl’s school. I also used to be a girl. And I was a raging bitch. One could even argue that I still am. Nate makes this argument frequently, though not in so many words. Anyway, I like boys. I get boys. I grew up with all brothers and almost all boy cousins. Boys are easy. They get muddy. They hit things. They throw things. They kick things — usually each other. They make each other bleed. Then one of them farts and they chuckle uncontrollably for an obnoxious length of time while they eat everything in sight. 

 

So, here is a short list of my recurring problems that I can only assume are uniquely mine because my offspring are boys, not girls.

 

Batarangs. This was more than a priority one recent spring morning — Nate suddenly developed an urgent need to have a fully functioning and made-to-scale Batarang. I had a lot to do that morning: laundry, some basic cleaning, library books to return, a complete grocery run — a monumental task with both Nate and Sam: “Stop asking for stuff! Stop running away! You’re disrupting my very focused inner monologue! Do we need milk or not?!” — and I had to make a dinner for that evening that the babysitter could simply throw in the oven since I wouldn’t be home. Plus, Sam seemed to be getting some new teeth in that little mouth of his, so he was a little needier than usual. He basically wanted to spend the entire morning in a desperate mother-son embrace. If I so much as dared to pry those little fingers from their fierce grip around my neck, he emitted an ear-piercing shriek. 

 

“Shut up, Sam! Give me my space! I’ve got a Batarang to construct!”

 

Because for some reason, I had an intrinsic drive to make this Batarang the best. one. ever. And I’m not talking about some passive-aggressive competitive mom thing where we have to show off our perfectly iced Minion cupcakes on as many social media outlets as possible — I’m talking about making this the champion of all Batarangs, strong enough to actually be hurled at the villains that populate our suburban Kansas City neighborhood — like Nancy, our very sweet mail-carrier with whom I secretly want to be best friends. Or Grover, the neighbor’s dog who barks incessantly and at whom I really do often want to hurl things.

 

Nate sat nearby, patiently dumping out every toy we own and re-locating it as far from it’s proper storage location as possible, while my inner perfectionist — whom I really, truly thought had died and was long buried — took over. The joke’s on me, though, because not only did I end up picking up all those aforementioned dislocated toys, but I was repeatedly thwacked with the Batarang while doing so. And yes, that thing, complete with duct tape and reinforcing take-out chopsticks, is strong. And painful.

 

I just overheard Nate say, “Who needs to buy weapons when you can make them?” I suddenly foresee a long future ahead of me, forging metal

 

Peeing while standing up. Ok, this talent/skill/gift from God is both a blessing and a curse. It’s a blessing because we can take potty breaks anywhere. Give us a tree and Nate’s set — he doesn’t even care who’s around: forty high school girls practicing lacrosse? No problem, Nate’s not shy. Neighbors we scarcely know? It’s cool, he gives them a friendly wave as if peeing in our front yard is standard operating procedure. The downside to peeing while standing up? Aim. This kid can barely aim well enough to walk through an open doorway, let alone pee into a porcelain basin, roughly twelve inches in diameter. Consequently, all of our toilets smell of stale urine, and from what I remember sharing a house with three brothers and now a husband, this will be the case for a long time. Forever. Someone should clean.

 

Toddler boners. I’d expand on this one, but I’m not exactly clear on the rules here. I don’t know what causes them… Just know that they exist.

 

Overflowing Pockets. From what I can tell, boys are hoarders — matchbox cars, rocks, action figures, crayons, puzzle pieces, socks — and when they run out room in their own pockets, they’ll resort to yours. “Hold this, please Mom.” “Ew, why?” And sometimes, Nate manages to do this when I’m not looking, which is why I now have Silly Putty permanently cementing the pocket shut on my favorite green sweatpants. Maybe it’s a sign that I should stop wearing such frumpy sweatpants, but hey, it’s one of the few professional benefits of a SAHM.

 

Meanwhile, Sam has food adhered to all parts of his outfit. I’ve found frosted mini-wheats folded into the cuffs of his jeans, Kellogg’s Nutri-Grain bars tucked into his little velcro shoes, and grapes wedged in his pockets. Sam’s hoarding for a very specific reason: survival. If I take him to run errands with me and we spend too much time at Target, it’s cool, Sam’s planned ahead and packed enough food to sustain his existence another few hours. Nate, on the other hand, hoards to hoard. Accumulating wealth is a sport to him and he will not be sharing. He stops on the walk home from school to pick up sticks, leaves, and rocks. He gets excited at the grocery store when he sees a penny on the floor. And he is thrilled when he sees that some very unfortunate child has left a toy at the playground — even if it’s just some small fragments of sidewalk chalk. Finders, keepers!

 

Daughters-in-law. What a terrifying concept! I should know because again, as I mentioned, I’m a girl. And a daughter-in-law. I know what girls are capable of, and it’s not pretty. So I try to be proactive here — I keep an eye on the girls in Nate’s preschool class. I watch with a vigilant eye the twins as they flaunt their twin magic and their superhero books —two things they know, without ever being told, that no boy can resist. 

 

One little girl caught my eye last week at the library when Sam and I were there for Story Time. She must have been a little more than a year old. I gave her the up-down. She probably did the same to me as she moved in to flirt with Sam. She was sporting some little pink Nikes and an Under Armour t-shirt that said “Kiss My Cleats.” Clever. I respect that. And she’s apparently an athlete. What a formidable foe. Sam was immediately drawn in by her bright blue eyes and perfect lashes — do I detect a little mascara, my gold-digging friend? — and a luscious, full diaper that she shook with great purpose during “If You’re Happy and You Know It.” And once he saw those Pepperidge Farm Goldfish — oh, she’s good! — he was smitten. Okay, little diva, have your way with him. Break his heart, it’s a lesson we all have to learn. And lo and behold, she did…when her mom pulled her away to go check out some books. Meanwhile, Sam recovered. Moments later, he was salivating over a new girl. This one had a very runny nose. Be cautious, Sam! You’ve been hurt before! I got your number, girl. You better check yourself — if you give this kid a new heartache, or a cold, or croup, or gonorrhea, you’ll have me to deal with.

 

Alright, I’m out. I gotta go wipe breakfast off the walls and start getting lunch together so that, you know, I can wipe that off the walls later, too.

Why I Hate Mother's Day

Ugh, I hate Mother’s Day. And for so many reasons. First, it’s a reminder that I have kids. Boo! As a kid, I always hated Mother’s Day because I had to get my mom a present. A present?! Really? Of course, I love my mom and I completely understand that my brothers and I drove her absolutely crazy as kids, so we owe her something, but we have to buy her something? And it has to be from Hallmark? You think my mom wanted a card? Or chocolate? Or flowers? Or a stupid scarf? Probably not. She probably just wanted to be left the f#@$ alone for an hour or two. We were not easy children. Even Anna Jarvis, the founder of the first Mother’s Day in 1908, came to regret her advocacy for mothers as she witnessed the resulting, unintended consumerism. As a mother, I feel like a college athlete being exploited by the NCAA.

 

And there are other reasons to be anti-Mother’s Day. Why are we revering mothers above all other people? Why is my life more valuable than anyone else’s just because we had a few birth control slip-ups? What about my friends who struggle with infertility? Are they then amoral? Or less self-sacrificing? No! In fact, they have tighter abs and tighter you-know-whats. Good for them. Or my friends who have chosen not to have kids. Perhaps because they’re “selfishly” pursuing a career. Perhaps they’re unselfishly considering overpopulation and the world’s limited resources. Perhaps these friends are so respectful of the parenting role that they’re carefully weighing their readiness and suitability for it — some people already know they’d make psychotic parents and want to responsibly spare their children that accompanying angst. Others know they carry genes for undesirable conditions or disorders, like shortness, and want to save their non-existent Napoleons. Or what about my friends who want to have kids, but haven’t found a suitable partner yet? Why should they not be allowed to celebrate today just because they have higher standards than I did in selecting a mate? I just went for above average height, an adequate sense of humor, and someone who respects Ray Lewis.

 

I’m a mother. I was narcissistic enough to believe the world needed more ME, so why celebrate me today? Hmm, sounds fishy… Which reminds me, I need to take the salmon out of the freezer for dinner tonight. 

 

And don’t get me wrong: I don’t want to take away from the precious experiences of other mothers — mothering is incredibly exhausting and self-sacrificing and confusing. First, I had to be pregnant, meaning I had to get fat. That means that I had to simultaneously eat loads of ice cream but also eat healthy — for the baby. I was too uncomfortable to sit still for months at a time, but I was also too tired to be moving around. And then there’s the birth. And the breastfeeding. And the postpartum stuff. And the worry. And the messes: poop, vomit, Pop-Tart residue, Crayola markers, etc. And the costs: diapers, health insurance, Benadryl, Motrin, Tylenol, fruit snacks, more milk, more cereal, more fruit, more bread, etc. And I have to share with them? Yuck. Not having to share is supposed to be one of the great benefits of adulthood.

 

And speaking of sharing, try explaining the concept of Mother’s Day to a three year-old. He barely understands why we have to put socks on before shoes. How’s he going to understand a made-up holiday where you have to be nice to someone other than him? Let alone someone he’s usually rather abusive toward. 

 

So, even though it’s Mother’s Day, we were still woken well before 7AM to Nate knocking on our bedroom door. Not sure why he’s knocking — usually we wake to him sprinting down the hallway and kicking open our bedroom door like he’s rescuing us from a burning building. Or avenging some great injustice — Jack Bauer-style. He might have been angry that I moved ninety percent of his toys to the basement the day before. Or that I stopped buying fruit snacks. Or that I insist that he wash his hands after peeing each time. Maybe now that he’s three — as he tells everyone we meet — he’s suddenly more worldly and is fearful of seeing something in our bedchamber that he can’t un-see, if you know what I mean, so he knocks now. Anyway, this morning, he was fully dressed in a Chiefs football uniform — helmet and all — and he proceeded to stand next to the bed to give us what he believed to be a really encouraging and animated pre-game pep talk. I’d give you a transcript of this speech, because I’m sure it was absurdly funny, but thankfully, I dozed through most of it. He did not take our desperate “shut up!’s” as an indication to shut up and get the hell out of our room. He never does. It was so inspiring, though, that I got out of bed, got dressed, went downstairs, made breakfast, and started some laundry, begging him to “shut up” the whole time. Happy Mother’s Day indeed. 

 

And, in reality, I love being a mother. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t complain about it so publicly. Instead, I would stew silently, fearful that the authorities would find out I hate my kids. Motherhood is joyful to me. It is fulfilling. And I am grateful for my two little assholes because they’re both blessings, and I can still physically overpower both of them. But that doesn’t make me better than anyone else. And it doesn’t make me want presents — from Hallmark or otherwise. I certainly don’t want Nate’s crappy artwork all over the house. It’s in my way, it keeps falling off the refrigerator each time we open it or have the audacity to walk by too quickly… and it sucks. It’s just crappy art. If you don’t have the dexterity and fine motor skills to color inside the lines, then don’t waste my time. And at least share your markers and crayons and colored pencils, so that I can show you how to “art.” I was inside the lines by age 4. I could even make a capital R. 

 

And it’s not because I don’t get real Mother’s Day gifts that I dislike this false holiday — I’m not ungrateful or bitter or self-pitying. I know that if I asked, my husband would surely give me a few hours off; he’s spent enough time around these assholes — God love ‘em — to know that breaks from them are crucial to everyone’s survival and sanity. And I know that if I asked for something tangible for Mother’s day — something affordable and feasible — I’d surely get it, but apparently boarding school is “unreasonable.” As is not smearing one’s breakfast on the walls. And letting me watch “Meet The Press” in silence. Me: “Did Carly Fiorina really just call him ‘Chodd?’” Husband: “No idea, couldn’t hear above the screeching.” 

 

I love my kids and I love to celebrate, but motherhood is more about winning battles. It’s about endurance. It’s about cleaning. And disciplining…kids. And explaining tampons. And recovering the coasters out from under the coffee table. And not over-indulging — because as soon as you have too much wine or beer or chocolate or you accept their sweet little kisses and hugs too readily, you let down your guard. They’ll turn on you. They’ll take full-advantage. They’re deceptive, those little guys.

 

So, today, May 10, let’s celebrate life and love and springtime. And, by the way, springtime in the middle of the country means tornados. So, please pray.

Thirteen Possible Reasons Nate's "Lightning McQueen" Sock was In the Mail Slot

Nate’s a little superstitious and in his culture, socks seem to hold a lot of power. We spend a lot of time picking them out in the morning, and a lot of emphasis is placed on whether it’s a matching day or a mismatching day. He has a lot of apparel with various cartoon characters on them. Sometimes the Ninja Turtle socks will join forces with his Minion t-shirt and can be worn at the same time, and other times they need to match — the Dusty socks with the Dusty shirt, a Disney double whammy. Or the red socks need to go with the red pants, red shoes, red shirt — of which he has many — the red windbreaker, and the red hat. This is actually a very popular combination for him. And sometimes, particularly now that the weather is warmer, he opts for flip-flops, but for some reason, he often still picks out socks, as if to continue the practice of picking them out.

 

So, on Tuesday morning, when I went to check the mail, I was surprised to find a Lightning McQueen sock in the mail slot next to the front door. I quickly began to brainstorm all possible ways to explain how and why it got there, but to this day, the mystery remains unsolved…

 

1. Our mail carrier, Nancy — God love her — found it in the front yard, and thought it’d be a good way to return it to us. Because lots of kids disrobe in the front yard. If it’s after 12pm, I can pretty much count on Nate marching around the house wearing only his underwear.

 

2. Nate was trying to mail it somewhere far away. He’s been watching the news a lot lately, getting pretty fired up about the situation in Baltimore and the earthquake in Nepal — maybe he thought Lightning McQueen could help: peace, an end to racial injustice, first aid, meals. Little does he know that without a postage stamp, it’s not going anywhere.

 

3. Sam was trying to mail it out. Probably to teach Nate a lesson or possibly just to mess with him. Because if the sock is cherished by Nate, it’s even more valuable to Sam. That’s just very corrupt household politics at it’s finest — extortion, coercion, bribes, brotherly shakedowns, wedgies, etc. 

 

4. The sock was trying to mail itself out in an escape attempt. I’ve thought about doing the same thing to myself some mornings, but we’re always low on stamps.

 

5. Nate is in the process of designing a Mother’s Day scavenger hunt, and he didn’t have time to add a hint for the next clue — he’s just so busy battering Sam and practicing his ninja moves. The end of the hunt probably results in something really exciting, like a boarding school acceptance letter. Or a coupon for a maid service. Or my dignity. Or my sanity. Or the first of many paychecks I’ll earn as a stay-at-home mom.

 

6. An attempt at performance art. He’s no Christo and it’s not exactly a wrapped coast or a giant curtain in a valley, but it’s a start. Even Claude Monet started with some early caricatures that are pretty puerile. Ha, and his teachers think he doesn’t like to “art.” In reality, he loves it, he’s just more conceptual than his classmates. Pretty advanced actually. While they’re struggling to scribble circles, he’s busy breaking ground in abstract preschool art. How avant-garde: a sock in the mail. What a snob.

 

7. A sign from God. Perhaps the Almighty is just reminding me who’s in charge. Well, he needn’t be so dramatic and random — I know I’m not in charge around here, believe me. I spend most of my time making sure that Nate and Sam don’t think they’re in charge. It’s basically a big free for all around here. Total anarchy.

 

8. An ominous, yet very weak threat from Nate. But who is he threatening? Me? The sock? Nancy? Sam?

 

9. An exercise in stealthiness as part of Nate’s ninja training. It’s like sanding the floor or something.

 

10. Nate was disciplining the sock. Maybe it got out of line and Nate or Sam put it in time out. I can’t imagine what possible infraction a sock could commit, though. It was on the wrong foot? It slid down into the bottom of his shoe? Nate has very limited patience for such irritations — remember this is a kid who becomes enraged if one of us looks at him before he’s had his coffee. Oh, wait — that’s me.

 

11. Payment to the mail carrier. For some favor or prearranged agreement? Maybe she agreed to ship out a secret package for him. Maybe she’s been smuggling in fruit snacks now that I’ve stopped buying them. Maybe she’s hulling out the loads of food that I put on his plate at dinner and he doesn’t eat. I can’t be mad at him if this is the case, but does he really think that a sock is the best means of payment?

 

12. Some angry worms dropped it in there. Perhaps they were feeling disrespected, finally fed up with having Nate’s clothes discarded on top of their holes. 

 

13. He’s protecting the sock — probably from Sam — and thought the mail slot was the safest place for it, akin to Al Gore’s lockbox.

 

 

And now, one question remains — where’s the other sock?

The Mermaid Question

Nate and Sam. My sons. My narcissistic legacy I’m imparting to the world. I already birthed them and fed them breakfast. Isn’t that enough? Am I finished my job? No. Nope, I still need to educate them. I need to nurture their creativity. I must cultivate their abilities to construct, design, plan, and organize. I need to stimulate their intellects, further challenge their genius, enlighten them with worldly truths. Then there’s the physical training. We have to drill in push-ups, seventeen types of crunches, militant jump-roping, and their daily timed one-thirtieth of a mile — which is basically a lap around our house. And let’s not forget the brainwashing!

 

Without my guidance and instruction, how will they ever survive in the world? How will they earn their fortunes? Gain fame? Accomplish anything? Thrive? Achieve? Flourish? Prosper? They won’t. They need me. Without my help, Nate and Sam will fail, and I will have failed the world, denying it the gift of Nate’s and Sam’s groomed talents. Perhaps they will solve all the problems that I couldn’t get to — hunger, poverty, climate change, alien invasions, congressional term limits, and a salary cap in Major League Baseball — but only with my tutelage.

 

And that’s a lot of pressure. I’m reminded of the quote from the book, The Mermaid of Brooklyn by Amy Shearn, which I highly recommend, especially if you’re a mom or dad, and especially if you’re the stay-at-home type. “How many hours a day did we have to actively cultivate the children’s sense of wonder before we earned a few hours to ignore them?” It’s the mermaid question. 

 

Yes, my point exactly! I’m inherently lazy, so what exactly is the ratio of “active” engagement of our kids to “earned” neglect? If I do a puzzle with a kid for twenty minutes in the morning, can I go soak in the tub for forty? If we read books together at bedtime, can I at least finish my cereal uninterrupted in the morning? Is it wrong to go sit in the car in the garage, where they can’t find me, after I dump out some crayons and paper on the dining room table and tell them to “art?” Can I get away with curling up in bed with my book after I serve them lunch? 

 

Because listen: constant engagement and entertainment and education and encouragement and any other “e” word is exhausting. I’m exhausted. We’re all exhausted.

 

And really, isn’t this the question that everyone asks about everything in their lives? I don’t even think that’s a hyperbolic, rhetorical question. Like, “if I stay late at work today, can I leave early tomorrow and go to happy hour?” Or, “if I go really hard in this part of my workout, can I take a longer water break later?” “If I eat a salad for lunch, can I have Boston Cream Pie for dinner?” “If I listen to my friend’s super-boring story about her childhood trauma and ask an on-point follow-up question now, can I zone out during her answer?”

 

And the answer is “yes!” To all of the above. It’s called delayed gratification, and it’s a concept that kids need to learn anyway, so why not model if for them? Often.

 

And be upfront and honest about it. Just tell him: “Son, I’m going to sit here with you and patiently refrain from clawing my eyes out while you color and then later, I’m going to reward myself with some hot cocoa and some Facebook-skimming time while you veg out in front of Ninjago. By the way, your drawing is terrible. But I’ll smile at you and praise you for your hard work, not for your God-given talent because, clearly, you have none.”

 

This is the only way your kids can possibly learn the lesson that good things can come to those who wait. So, Nate, stop asking me repeatedly to serve you your breakfast in the morning. Bagels take longer than 0.034 seconds to toast. Then it takes a few moments to add cream cheese, pour your orange juice, and fish a Flintstones vitamin from the jar in the cabinet above the sink — on the other side of the kitchen. Instead of growing increasingly irritated as I can’t speed up the toasting process, why don’t you dream about the bagel. How good will it taste then? The smooth, velvety cream cheese that melts in your mouth…The soft bagel with the crispy, slightly charred edges…Mmm….How much better will that combination taste after you’ve waited a whole four minutes? Meanwhile I’m forgoing my own breakfast pleasures by prioritizing yours. My bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios with half of a banana and 1% milk while I skim the New York Times will feel like a spa treatment at the end of a marathon.

 

The best scenario is when you can multi-task. For example, you can drive to the grocery store, a necessary operation in most households, and turn around repeatedly to the baby in the backseat and make him shriek with laughter each time with a goofy face, like you actually might be funny. It’s even better when you don’t crash the car while doing it. You’re bonding, teaching social cognition skills, and being moderately productive. Or, while in the grocery store, talk to them, teach them lessons about discounts and coupons, and when they’re old enough to walk, send them on errands in the store. “Go pick out the leanest ground beef, please.” Or, “please go find the cereal that maximizes fiber and protein while minimizing sugar content. I’ve never been able to do that myself, but hey, you’re three now. Wow me.”

 

And, sometimes, my “delayed gratification” activity is — brace yourselves — something really worthwhile, which is almost equally satisfying. Like folding laundry. Or scrubbing the toilets or the shower. Or making dinner. Or sweeping the dust bunnies out of Nate’s room. Those little guys are getting so big now that they have actual personalities. Nate says good-bye to them when he leaves for school in the morning. Sam kisses them goodnight at bedtime. I read them stories. But they’re paying rent now, so I can’t really complain. 

 

Now, if you’ll kindly excuse me, I’m going to go read the “food page” from The Very Hungry Caterpillar to Sam for the 5,632,934th time in hopes of having a clear conscience when I try and close my eyes for twenty seconds after lunch to dream about my life in eighteen years. I’m really starting to despise you, Eric Carle. 

 

Charm City

So, the question of the week — aside from “Mom, can I have more Cheez-its?” — seems to be “aren’t you glad you're not in Baltimore anymore?” And to quote the great Al Bundy, “Uh…no, Peg.” I’m never glad I’m not in Baltimore. I would love to be back in Baltimore. It’s my home, my friends and family are in Baltimore, my history is Baltimore, and quite possibly, my future is Baltimore. Like most Baltimorons, I bleed orange and purple, I crave steamed crabs and beer throughout the winter, and I sometimes have trouble pronouncing the word ‘ocean,’ hon. I was even recently told I have an accent.  

 

The only times I’ve preferred KC to Baltimore the past year and a half have been when the weather has been significantly worse there — think: the elongated winter when the midwest had already moved on to spring, and Baltimore was still suffering slushy, traffic-halting, school-closing snowfalls. Otherwise, I’d much rather be sitting in traffic on the beltway…or dumping Old Bay into my bloody mary…or fishing a body out of the Inner Harbor. Just being able to view the Bromo Seltzer tower from my seat in Camden Yards would make me pee my pants with glee — though today, as I write this, anyone would love to have that opportunity — let’s go O’s!

 

I don’t want to get political here, I don’t want to offend people — though, “this is a revolution, dammit! We’re going to have to offend somebody!” Obviously, there are racists in Baltimore, and documented cases of police brutality, and opportunists looting stores for profit, but the anger and the passion, on both sides, are very real. The entire world, it seems, has seen The Wire and Homicide, has listened to Serial. They know it’s bad — corrupt politicians, “failing" schools, a fleeing middle class, gangs, drugs, blocks and blocks of empty, crumbling row homes, and a dangerous shortage of good Mexican food. Yes, dangerous. 

 

And I do not mean to undermine the poverty and the adversity and the “detrimental situations and shit.” Sadly, no one in the outside world is even surprised that Freddie Gray died in police custody, nor that many citizens were so enraged that they chose to protest, both peacefully and violently. 

 

But Baltimore is an authentic and honest city with authentic and honest people who are dedicated to the improvement of the city and its honor and prestige, many even willing to bleed real blood in its defense and recovery. We have ideas and organizations that throb with innovation, pulse creativity, and tremble with imagination. 

 

Then there are, of course, the Baltimore dietary staples: Natty Boh, Berger cookies, crabcakes, and bagels. Growing up, most Baltimore kids endured obligatory annual field trips to Fort McHenry, Lexington Market, the National Aquarium, and the Maryland Science Center. Baltimore has a vibrant art scene: Artscape, the Walters, the BMA, MICA, the Visionary Art Museum, the Creative Alliance and countless galleries stuffed with local artists. 

 

I couldn’t even begin to name all of Baltimore’s bustling neighborhoods, distinct in intangible ways that words can’t do justice: Little Italy, Canton, Fells Point, Federal Hill, Mount Vernon, Hampden, and Greektown. There’s the real Washington Monument, Cross Street Market, Honfest, the Senator theater, EAP’s grave. We have tunnels and bridges all over and around the city, we’re close to the ocean and the Appalachian mountains, and we’re rich with history. Then there are all the “p’s” of Baltimore: Pigtown, Pelosi, Powell, Port Discovery, Phelps, Pratt, Preakness, Palmer, Patterson Park, and the Pride of Baltimore. Numbers like eight (#8) and fifty-two (#52) and twenty-seven (#27) are uniquely significant to Baltimore residents, and not just because they have an array of factors. Nineteen (#19), too, but that’s prime, so it deserves its own sentence.

 

Nate put it best earlier today when I asked him what exactly I should write about Baltimore. Yes, it’s sad that I consult a three year-old on a daily basis, but sometimes he’s very wise. “Thank you God for letting us live in Baltimore.” — Nate, tenure in Baltimore: February 2012 — September 2013. Thank you for tolerating my pro-Baltimore rant. I’m homesick and I’m sad and I’m prideful. Writing is just my therapy

Top Headlines From The Shallot This Week

The Shallot, A Milder Version of The Onion

 

Home Invaded by Ants because Baby Sleeps with Cereal

“Food is the only thing that makes him happy!” said the very tired but also strikingly beautiful mom. When asked to comment, Sam spit out some Pepperidge Farm Goldfish and said aggressively, “book.”

 

 

Cell Phone Shatters Yet Again!

Husband not as angry as expected when wife tells him four days later 

“It happened on the same day that I needed to replace the battery in the Suburban and I knocked someone’s side view mirror off… Even Nate agreed he’d probably kill me. What a relief to still be living!”

 

 

A Somber Erin Turns 32

Insists on listening to Phil Collins during Sam’s nap on her birthday 

“I don’t know, I really just wanted to hear ‘In the Air Tonight’ to pump myself up for the NFL draft, and this YouTube app just kept going with more playlists,” she says in an interview with The Herald, “I was too lazy to get up and change it, better than Rod Stewart anyway…Thanks a lot, Google Fiber!” At press time, the theme from “Tarzan” had just come on as Erin cursed Disney. “Did anyone even see that movie?”

 

 

Nate tells woman at church: “I’m not a baby”

Violent face-off averted

In a casual exchange before church on Sunday, an unnamed woman who held the door for Tighe, reportedly remarked to him, “well, you’re carrying a baby.” The woman was apparently referring to Nate. Stunned by her comment, Nate stewed during much of the service, until the sign of peace, at which point he shook the woman’s hand and told her factually, “I’m not a baby.” 

 

According to eyewitness accounts, he went on to explain that he’s a big boy, but he has a baby brother, named Sam, at home. “I’m just glad he wasn’t armed with any ninja weaponry,” said one witness. Tighe, also relieved, said that Nate’s imaginary sensei would be proud. “Is there any greater insult to a three year-old than calling him a baby? He acted with such discipline and self-restraint. She got lucky.” The unnamed woman was unable to be reached for comment.

 

 

Puzzles Remain All Over the Floor of The Office  

Wally the Dog to file official complaint 

“There are books and puzzle pieces right where I sit to look out the window for 90% of my waking hours [90 minutes] a day! How am I supposed to serve and protect with that juvenile nonsense all over the house?” During a press conference outside the Kitchen Headquarters on Tuesday, Erin’s lawyer alleged that parents should refrain from cleaning up for fear of stunting their children’s creative development.  “That’s such a cop out,” Wally told reporters. “I’ve heard her say that on multiple occasions — show me the research to back that up! Show me the studies! She’s just lazy!” Nate and Sam did not immediately reply to The Shallot’s request for comment.

 

 

Nate Gets New Red Shoes! 

Dad, hoping to live out his athletic dreams vicariously through his son, says shoes will make him faster 

“I love red! Now I’m fast! You know Kai, the red ninja? Well, he’s red, and I have a red ninja outfit,” Nate said on Sunday. At least that’s what we think he said. His voice was muffled because his mouth was covered by his red windbreaker and he was doing “ninja spin moves,” according to his press agent, Sam. Reporters were advised to “keep their distance” since he was swinging two sticks from the backward.

 

 

Unwelcome Enya playlist comes on after Phil Collins 

Erin, outraged, finally gets up to switch the channel

“How is this logical?! Who makes the leap from Phil Collins to Enya? I can understand Sting or The Police or even Michael Bolton, but Enya? I’m calling my congressional representative.”

 

 

 

Ketchup Shortage Not as Dire as Predicted

Should be sufficient for Friday night’s chicken fingers

Upon checking the Heinz supply in the refrigerator on Wednesday afternoon, Erin realized there should be enough to last through the weekend. “This is a real game changer for me, I’m so relieved. I know I’m really not going to feel like going to the store this week, and there’s no way Nate and Sam will eat chicken fingers or fish sticks without it,” she told reporters. “Plus, I feel like I just bought some. I feel like I buy it all the time, and I’d rather not support the Heinz family if I don’t have to.”

 

When asked how much ketchup Nate and Sam typically consume and how frequently, Erin started to become agitated. “The real issue isn’t the consumption; it’s the waste. They smear it around on their plates to the point that it’s unusable. And then Nate will get indignant when the slightest bit gets on his carrots or strawberries, and he’ll refuse to eat them. I don’t even think he actually likes the taste of ketchup, I think he just likes it because it’s red. I think he’s a Communist.” Sam could not be reached for comment due to an afternoon nap, and Nate was pre-occupied with a scheduled showing of Curious George.

 

 

 

Found! Dave the Easter Egg Rescued From Back of Refrigerator

Cracks almost immediately 

After being missing since Easter Monday, Dave, the hard-boiled Minion Easter Egg, has been found in the refrigerator, behind the milk and orange juice. “The day after Easter, Nate had Dave out of the fridge and carried him around with him most of the afternoon. I couldn’t remember him putting him back in the fridge, so I was getting nervous that he was hidden in the house somewhere, being mutilated by rodents and ants.”

 

“Minions are tough,” Nate commented as he crushed the shell and smashed the yolk into a bowl at the dining room table. “It tastes nasty.” Nate was seen spitting out pieces of the yolk onto the carpet, saying, “It looks like cheese.” Dave is survived by Nate and all Nate’s “minion” paraphernalia, including a tent, socks, stuffed minions, a pillow, a puzzle, and a watch. In lieu of flowers, mourners are asked to donate to Gru’s Scholarship Fund for Villains.

 

 

New Batman Book Found at Library

Nate thrilled; Sam indifferent, rumored to still be hungry

“Tighe’s gonna come home from work, and I’m gonna tell him: ‘Tighe, we found a new Batman book at the library!’” Nate told his Mom on Wednesday at lunch.

 

 

Tighe to Visit Las Vegas this Weekend

Erin looking forward to full control of the TV remote

Unsubstantiated reports also allege that Erin will eat cereal for dinner and make massive strides toward finishing reading her mermaid book.

 

 

Nate Correctly Pronounces ‘Each Other’ for First Time

Groundbreaking milestone leaves Mom incredulous

“I didn’t even know what he was saying because he actually said ‘each other’ correctly instead of ‘each oth-ee-er.’ It always sounds like he’s speaking French or something. He can say ‘other’ and ‘another,’ so I don’t know why ‘each other’ is any different. Must be tough to be illiterate.”

 

 

Erin Puts on Shoes

Wally seems to think walk is imminent 

Upon checking the weather forecast and realizing that the high would not be much over 60 degrees today, Erin went upstairs to put on shoes and socks in lieu of her flip-flops. “If my feet are cold, my whole body will be cold, and I’ll find myself making tea for lunch and digging around for my hand warmers, which is ridiculous,” she was overheard telling Nate, who seemingly could care less. “I hate letting Wally down like that — just because I’m putting on shoes doesn’t mean we’re going for a walk or to the playground. We can’t go for a walk right now. Sam’s asleep. Poor Wally, he’s just so pathetic.”  When asked for a response, Wally’s comment was not fit for print.