Think Blonde

A French scientific study recently came out which showed that men dropped intelligence points after being around blondes. I am not making this up.

Now, as a blonde, I must take issue with this particular study. First of all, I highly doubt that if I were a brunette, I’d be any smarter………….Wait. That didn’t come out right. What I meant to say is that any ignorance I have has nothing to do with my hair color…………No, that wasn’t said well either. Let’s move on.

I actually am pretty smart, probably more so than people realize. I am not “Nuclear Physicist Smart” maybe, but I’m “Normal Smart.” I can hold down a job and multi-task and find my way home from the mall. I can even make a mean Marlin Roulade, which is not nearly as easy as it sounds. And possibly I could be a Nuclear Physicist if I wanted to. I just don’t want to, because it doesn’t sound like fun. (No offense to you, if you are a Nuclear Physicist. I hold what you do for a living in high regard. The world needs more Nuclears. And I’m sure you sometimes have fun.)

Now let me rebut this study. First of all, are blondes really dumb? And if that’s true, then are they saying that brunettes are more intelligent? I do not agree, and here's why: I happen to have a hamster who is a brunette, and he is not smart at all. He’s been running around on his wheel 20 hours a day for the past 3 months. Last week I moved his wheel half an inch to the left, and he couldn’t find it. He’s still looking for it. And then I have a blonde hamster who is……..well, actually she’s dumber than a box of rocks, too. She cannot tell a kibble from a finger. Never mind. The theory may not work on rodents. But I have all kinds of human friends, and I must say that I find the blondes equally as intelligent as the brunettes. That’s my first point.

My second point is this: If the men in this study “dumbed themselves down” after being around blondes, then would their IQs increase after being around brunettes? And how about redheads? So, in theory, I could run out to Ulta and get a box of Loreal #4C Dark Ash Brown, do the dye job, then hang out with my kids and be assured they’d be heading to a future at Harvard. I doubt it. I happen to be the only blonde in a family of dark brunettes. Which, if the theory holds true, should make me “Nuclear Physicist Smart” just by Brunette Approximation Saturation. And as I mentioned before, I am not.

And lastly, if it is true that blondes are dumber, then is it also true that “blondes have more fun?” I must say a resounding "YES!” I happen to have a lot of fun, but I then I came out of the womb ready to party. I am a Sanguine, and Sanguines go through life having fun. It’s just my personality type. I live for All Things Fun. I am married to a Melancholy who doesn’t like to have nearly the fun that I do. He takes life much more seriously. And he is also a lot smarter than me. And a brunette, which actually doesn’t help my point at all.

I don’t know. I just think that maybe the French scientist should have not wasted precious time and money on such nonsensical research. And that’s all I have time to say. I must run out to the salon now. All this "blonde talk" has made me realize my roots are showing.

My Friend, Tim

I have been an actor in our church’s Drama Team for almost 4 years. Performing with this team of talented artists has been one of the greatest joys of my life. There is something very bonding about being part of an ensemble doing live theater. We are “in the trenches” together; depending upon one another for lines of dialogue, sharing pre-performance jitters, and encouraging each other’s best.

My Drama Team also has the ability to bring out levels of immaturity in my humor that I didn’t even know existed. They can make me laugh like no one else in my life! I admit I am usually right in the thick of the joviality, and often the instigator of All Things Ridiculous. They are some of my closest friends, and always great refreshment for my soul.

Another benefit I’ve found from being part of this excellent church’s Arts Ministry is that I get to brush elbows with some incredibly talented artists who inspire me. Today I want to give a “shout out” to my good friend, Tim Merkel. I’ve performed in dramas with Tim for three years. He is also a dear friend who has prayed me through some of the most difficult times of my life. He is an all-around Excellent Person.

Tim is a well-rounded gifted artist: Actor/Singer/Writer/Musician and Voice Over Artist. He is currently giving my son, Rock Star, guitar lessons and his idol and mentor. He recently set up a new website: http://treebeardsound.com. Take a few minutes to visit, and if you ever need a talented artist, give Tim a call.

Tonight I look forward to hearing him perform at a local restaurant. Super Hubs and I will meet with several actors on the Drama Team to have dinner, relax, and hear Tim’s beautiful gift of song and music. Go, Tim!! Many blessings to you!

The Y Chromosome

Two interesting happenings in our household today, both involving our sons:
1. The one and only line of dialogue that Little Squirt has zeroed in on and now memorized for all eternity in our favorite family move, “A Christmas Story”, is : “Son of a ______(rhymes with witch)!” So now he’s all “Son of a ______” ing this and “Son of a ______” ing that all the live long day. Which my teenagers are finding quite comical. Let’s just hope Little Squirt forgets about that particular locution in time for church next Sunday.
2. In cleaning out Rock Star’s bedroom today, we found a three-week-old half-eaten ham sandwich sitting on a plate on his closet floor. Yes, just sitting there on the floor of his closet in plain sight. For three weeks. On my good dinner plate. By now this Repast-Gone-Wrong is so filled with various forms of life that it really ought to be paying us rent.
Frogs and snails and puppy-dog tails, that’s what little boys are made of.

Black Beauty

We brought home our new car the other day! I shamelessly admit I was quite excited, although I am not really a “car person” under most circumstances. I don’t have the time or inclination to research “Consumer Reports” to find the best automobile for our money. I don’t find joy in pouring over a car manual; memorizing features and accessories. I’d rather read Sue Grafton, frankly. I just don’t care enough about what I drive. All I require is a vehicle that can take me from Point A to Point B safely without making me look like a Beverly Hillbilly. So I let Super Hubs choose the type of car, while I chose the color. (Black, to contrast nicely with my blond hair.)

And my car needs are very simple, really. I do not require remote-start or a sunroof or a Front Seat Bologna-Maker. I just would like a cosmetic mirror so I can apply my Loreal “Bella Donna Mauve” lipstick without mishap, a cup holder to carry my Dr. Pepper, and a CD player to play my subliminal messages of affirmation. (“You’re the tops, Kel.”)

Super Hubs and I have purchased several cars together during our 18-year marriage, and we find that we are amazing as a car-buying team, utilizing well our individual strengths. Super Hubs is adept at doing the research, choosing the car, and negotiating successfully the sale. I am adept at………..well, none of those things. I actually have no car strengths. Not one. Besides my afore-mentioned lack of interest in all things auto, we both know that I would be deplorably bad at car-buying because I happen to have rather large co-dependency issues. I CANNOT SAY NO. EVER. I am a born people-pleaser. Which makes me extremely dangerous when I am in the presence of a car salesman. And carrying my check book. Truly. If the car salesman began feeding me a pathetic story about his grandmother’s upcoming surgery, I’d be handing him my credit cards in the blink of an eye. And agreeing to pay more than the sticker-price.


So, while Super Hubs went to meet with the finance guy, I took Little Squirt by the hand to the Tot-Room, after promising my husband on my mother’s grave that I would not make eye contact with any of the car salesmen, lest I come back with the title to a Grand Velocious Limited, or something. I sat on a tyke-sized chair in the germ-infested Tot-Room for literally an hour and a half, watching the Disney Channel. When I could stand it no longer, I called Super Hubs on my cell phone and hissed, “What in Sam Hill is taking so long?? You are buying a car, not a country!!” He assured me that he was still haggling over the price and various accessories, and the deal would be sealed momentarily. And please be patient and stop calling him. So I waited a little while longer, until I decided I needed to flee the Tot-Room with Little Squirt because a certain child in there was coughing so hard I feared he had SARS.

It turned out that Super Hubs got a great deal on our new car, and I was very proud of him. He was a man with a plan and he stuck firm. Yes, he wanted tires, but not with the package that included the Nuclear Bomb Safety Shield for $900. No, he did not need the Moon Terrain Converter or the While-You-Drive-Pants-Press. Neither did he need to buy the Extended Warranty to cover the extension on the Extended Warranty ‘s Warranty Extension’s Extensive Plan. Yes, he did want windows and a steering wheel. And paint on the car. But not a gauge that reads the Earth’s core temperature and converts it into 40 different languages. Or the In-Car Butler who serves you a sandwich and gives you a neck rub. Just a regular automobile that’ll suit our family’s needs nicely. And is a smidgen sexy.

So now we are a family with two decent, workable cars, once again. And we have a driving-age teenager who guarantees that she’ll be putting lots of mileage on the new car in the upcoming weeks. Which means I will hardly get to drive the new car anyway. I’ll be stuck with the mini-van.

Happy Thanksgiving

As I was dishing out the turkey dinner this afternoon, my eyes fell upon a bright splash of color. The Hawthorn tree outside our dining room window had branches draped with red berries; a brilliant contrast against the otherwise gray outdoors. Momentarily interrupting our dinner, my husband ran to the front yard to cut a few branches, which I spontaneously propped between my silver candlesticks on the dining room table. An inspired centerpiece resulted, which would have made Martha Stewart proud, I believe!

So today I am grateful for the ordinary. Besides the blessings of my family, hearth and home, I am thankful to God for the scarlet color of the Hawthorn berry, which brightened the colorless canvas of this November day. It truly felt like an unexpected gift.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and your loved ones! I join you today in thanking God for all our many blessings.

Drugs, Anyone?

How do I even begin to describe my day? Hmmmm, let me think.……Taxing?……Stressful?……Wanna just shoot myself?……Tempted to pilfer the hydrocodone??

Butterfly (16 yrs) had her wisdom teeth removed today. While she was having her oral surgery, I sat in the waiting room for an hour, listening to a total stranger talk my ear off about Marlo Thomas’ bad cosmetic surgery while I drank icky lukewarm instant coffee.

A while later, I drove my tearful daughter home in the sleet (yes, it was sleeting here in the Midwest, isn’t that lovely) while listening to her cry for her boyfriend. Back home, I propped her up on the couch with an icepack and the “Hairspray” dvd, loaded her up with painkillers and attempted to meet her every demand.

My daughter tends to be high maintenance when she’s not feeling well. Here are all the things she claims I did wrong today:
1. Didn’t let her call Boyfriend upon immediate arrival home after surgery.
2. Brought home the wrong flavors of Jamba Juice.
3. Made rice too salty.
4. Didn’t keep her little brother quiet enough.

But, God bless her, she’s a good kid most of the time. I hate to see her in pain. And I did leave her in the care of her brothers for an hour today so I could get out for coffee with my girlfriends, who put together a beautiful basket for my daughter, filled with jello and pudding and magazines and pj’s…..I have the greatest girlfriends. They care for me through caring for my daughter.

Right now Butterfly’s in a peaceful hydrocodone fog while I am attempting to prepare part of our Thanksgiving Day feast with Super Hub's help. Warm and safe in our home with our three healthy children nearby, my heart is beginning to let go of the stress of the day……and think about all the reasons I have to be thankful. Which are many.

Trauma Drama Mama

I had one of those mornings today when my mind felt all blurry as I was trying to toast my daughter a bagel before she left for school, and I was waiting and waiting and waiting for the imbecilic toaster to cook the bagel and fretting that it was taking too long and now she’d be late because the stupid idiot useless toaster didn’t know how to toast a bagel in a timely manner like normal toasters, and I was about to drop-kick it across the floor and then call Black & Decker and get someone fired, when suddenly I spied the bagel sitting on the kitchen counter, uncooked. I had forgotten to put it in the toaster. (And I swear that bagel gave me a smug look as I picked it up.)

So I had that kind of experience this morning, and after a horrific moment or two of thinking, “This is it! Early-Onset Alzheimer’s is beginning!”, I realized that I made the bagel toasting error because I was completely exhausted, physically and emotionally, from the drama of this past weekend. The drama regarding Butterfly’s dating woes.

Rock Star, who is only thirteen, has had just one “girlfriend,” and I seemed to be able to take their relationship much more in stride. He and his girlfriend “dated” for a month (I use that term loosely as “dating” involved talking inanely on their cell phones continuously to the tune of a $788 Cingular bill and occasional tv watching marathons). But one day Girlfriend called Rock Star on his cell phone, and he didn't return her call for three days because he was busy. My naïve son had no clue that a sin such as that was akin to a Relational Death Sentence in Estrogen Land. His girlfriend promptly broke up with him on MySpace, causing Rock Star to spiral down into a mini-depression during which he spent two days not showering and singing John Mayer love ballads on his electric guitar. But on Day #3, he woke up, showered, and returned to playing songs by Green Day; completely fine once again.

But with Butterfly, who is sixteen and more emotional, I am whipsawed back and forth by her every feeling, owning them as if they were mine. If she’s up, I’m up, and if she’s down, I want to crawl into a fetal position and just die. (I believe that’s called co-dependency??) She and her long-term boyfriend were having relational problems that seemed to stem from spending too much time together and decided they needed to “take a break” (and we all know what happened when Ross and Rachel did that. It was over with them from Season 2 until Season 10, for those who are not “Friends” fans.) So Butterfly spent a lot of time crying and being sad and heartbroken this past weekend. And I spent a lot of time comforting her and saying all the wrong things, until I finally realized I needed to just shut up and take her out for a manicure.

It’s hard, sometimes, being a mother to a teenage daughter. I connect emotionally almost too much. Her sorrow and losses stir up my own. I want to spare her from any pain in her life, even though I know that’s completely impossible and not helpful. She can grow from pain and be better for it. Some of the most beautiful people I know are that way because they have been through tremendous losses in their lives. But none-the-less, I want to make life all better for her because I am her Mommy and I was able to do that when she was a little girl. But now she’s sixteen, and I feel powerless to help her.

Last night at 9pm, Boyfriend came over and professed his undying love for her. “Break” over after two days. So Butterfly is happy again. But I am empty after the past 48 hours of emotional upheaval. Completely spent. Hence I cannot remember to put said bagel into said toaster like a person with functioning brain cells. But tonight I am having dinner with a couple of friends who make me laugh and fill me up. Pour me a martini and let the good times roll! I am SO ready!

Woof No More

If you are from P.E.T.A., please stop reading now. This post is not for you. I seriously mean it. Consider browsing a blog filled with successful pet stories, where The People and their well-adjusted, well-trained Dog frolic into the sunset, happily ever after. This is not one of those stories.

Little Squirt wants a dog for Christmas, suspiciously after viewing the “I Want A Dog For Christmas, Charlie Brown” DVD 17 times in a row. We already have a long-haired daschund, Rudy, who occasionally is one dog too many. But Little Squirt insists that Rudy needs a friend. He does not consider our three cats and three hamsters friends enough for Rudy, apparently. But I shudder at the thought. Another dog = Another possible Pet-Gone-Wrong. Here is the story of one example.

Several years ago, our beloved pug, Molly, died suddenly on a Saturday afternoon. We spent the evening having a “memorial service” for her with the kids; celebrating her life of 9 years.

The very next morning after Molly’s death, on the way home from church, I convinced Super Hubs to stop by the local pet shop, “just to look at the cute puppies for the fun of it.” “Ok, but we are ABSOLUTELY NOT coming home with a new puppy already, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he stated.

“Of course not!! How much of a cold-hearted nutcase do you think I am?!!” I said incredulously. I was appalled that he would even suggest I would consider such a thing. True, my pet buying track record was thus far less than stellar. I had made a few impulsive pet buying mistakes during our marital history. Okay, quite a few. Many. I have this soft spot in my heart for warm, fuzzy creatures. But surely he did not believe that I would think of replacing our 9-year-old dog with a new one THE VERY NEXT DAY AFTER HER DEATH! Jeeez!!!!!

We went into the pet shop to browse. My family headed off to see the fish-filled aquariums, while I viewed the puppies. An overly-zealous employee caught me eyeing a black boxer/lab mix, and asked if I wanted to pet her. “Sure! I LOVE dogs!” I replied enthusiastically. He put us together in one of those little Pet Viewing Rooms where you can play with the puppies while listening to a musical CD playing subliminal messages such as “Take me home!” and “You MUST have me.”

Within 10 minutes of looking into this lab/boxer’s big brown eyes, and smelling her puppy fragrance, I was sold. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this dog was God’s answer for our family. This dog would erase our sadness from Molly’s death and be the answer to THE PERFECT PET for the next 10-15 years. It would be a homo sapien /canine marriage made in heaven.

As Super Hubs walked by the Pet Viewing Room, he did a double-take, saw me with the puppy, and a look of horror crossed his face. “We are SO not buying that dog!” He said. “Let me remind you that our precious pet died just yesterday and we are still in a mourning period. And then there’s the fact that we are leaving for a 700-mile drive to my parents’ house at the end of the week. There is ABSOLUTELY NO WAY we are leaving this store with that dog. I put my foot down!” Ten minutes and $700+ later, we headed to our station wagon with 5 lbs. of IAMS and an 8-week-old BIG MISTAKE. I can be a bit persuasive when I am determined.

From the moment we arrived home, it became abundantly clear that this new puppy of ours, whom we named Gracie, had severe social and psychological issues. As we walked her into the front door of her new home, she ran straight under the kitchen table, where she remained in a quivering ball for the next 6 hours. She apparently was the only puppy on the planet that did not like people. And most especially, she did not like children. She snapped and growled at my kids as they tried to coax her out of hiding.

When I finally tempted her out from under the table with a piece of bologna, a new and very strange relationship was born. With that offer of processed meat, I became Gracie’s BEST FRIEND FOR LIFE, her SOUL MATE, her PERSON TO SWIM ACROSS OCEANS FOR. Everyone else became a threat to her relationship with me. I felt a bit pleased. A tad flattered. And then extremely suffocated.

Gracie followed me everywhere I went that first week. We were joined at the hip. I could not leave the room without her going into hysterical barking. She slept next to me. She growled at my children. She attacked my cats. And she glared at Super Hubs.
I began to feel the slightest twinge of doubt. Had I possibly made a mistake? Should I not have bought the very first dog that I saw, less than 24 hours after Molly’s death? Perhaps I had been a bit hasty? …….Nah. Probably not.

My marriage suffered a bit that week. And then there was the question of our upcoming trip to CT to visit my in-laws. What would we do with the puppy? After exhausting all possibilities, it became apparent that we had no choice but to bring Gracie with us. In the car. For a 20-hour drive. As the thought of this began to dawn on my husband, it wasn’t one of our better marital moments. “I’ll take care of her. She won’t bother anybody. It’ll be my problem,” I promised. “Trust me.”

We headed to CT at the end of the week, with the dog crate in the back of the station wagon. It was a very long drive. VERY LONG. The dog barked and howled in the crate for the first 120 miles. The kids complained for 120 miles. Super Hubs stewed for 120 miles. I ended up carrying 50# of lab/boxer mix on my lap for the rest of the way, just to keep peace. I ate my meals in the car. I became intimately acquainted with every “dog potty” area between The Midwest and Hoboken, while Super Hubs honked the horn impatiently. The air conditioning broke. It was hot. It was smelly. It was not pretty. Certain people in my family were very cranky for most of the 20 hour trip.

I tried to get Super Hubs to see the “half-full glass” of the situation. “This is an adventure! You, me, the kids and the dog. Taking a family vacation all together. How very American! And kind of funny, really. A good memory, yes?!” I said brightly. He did not agree. He most definitely did not agree.

Late, late that evening, we pulled into the CT driveway of my in-laws. They aren’t exactly “pet people”, and so Gracie and her crate were sent to spend the week in their mudroom. And, because of her previously mentioned neurotic attachment to me which included barking obsessively whenever I wasn’t in sight, I spent much of my vacation on a cot in the mudroom as well.

Our week in CT went by slowly. My family went off on fun dogless adventures while I was relegated to stay home and “baby-sit” Gracie. One morning, desperately needing a break from her, I tied the dog to a tree in the backyard so I could sit in the kitchen alone. Seeing me, her beloved mistress, through the sliding glass door, Gracie yanked so hard on her chain that she broke it and a branch off the oak tree to which she was tied. She ran through the yard to reunite with me, knocked over two big ceramic pots filled with azaleas and then scratched a big gash on the kitchen door. An oak tree and two azaleas taken out in less than 10 minutes! It was surreal, like a really bad “Lassie Come Home” remake. And I had to re-pot the azaleas.

Spending lots of time alone with the dog in CT gave me time to think. Time to reflect. And time to resent. And I was beginning to resent this dog in a big way. I was feeling smothered. And I missed my family. No one could come near me without the dog becoming threatened. I felt depressed and weepy. It was a rotten vacation. I knew what had to be done. Gracie would need to find a new home.

On the return car trip home, I gingerly broached the subject to Super Hubs. “Honey,” I began. “I’ve been doing some thinking. Maybe we made a mistake. Maybe we were a little bit too quick to buy this dog. “ “Oh, YA THINK??????!!!!!!” He quipped back.
“Yes, I do think. I’ve concluded that this dog is not working out. And so when we get back home, I think you need to find her a new home.” And with that request, was born SUPER HUBS’S QUEST TO GET RID OF THIS DOG. And he embraced this quest as if he was one of King Arthur’s Knights seeking the Holy Grail.

He began with the pet shop where we had purchased her. The interesting thing about pet shops is that once the puppy is purchased and leaves their property, they no longer want the puppy back under any circumstances. Not even for free. NOT EVER. Apparently, the minute the puppy walks out the pet shop door, it may contract a Pandemic Puppy Plague, which could wipe out all the other puppies in the shop. And perhaps the hamsters as well.

The animal shelters were all full. There was a waiting list to take unwanted dogs. They did not want ours. Who knew this was such a common problem?

Another interesting tidbit is that none of our friends were in the market for a free puppy at that time. Or they were all away on vacation. We aren’t quite certain, as none of them returned our calls.

But it was becoming clear that Gracie needed to leave the our home, and fast! And it became Crystal Clear the night she snapped at my daughter, nearly biting her eye. So Super Hubs and I did the only thing we possibly could. We are not proud of it. We neither recommend nor condone it. But we felt we had no other choice.

One evening, under the cover of darkness, adorned completely in black hooded outfits, we headed to a dog shelter which was closed for the evening. We attached Gracie and her leash to the front door of the shelter, with a full dish of puppy chow in reach.……..And then we drove away. FAR away, for the shelter was in a completely different county, which will go unnamed to protect the innocent. And we left Gracie and her puppy chow, howling and barking on the front steps. Alone. With a last look and a very slight pang of guilt, I realized that this dog was gone forever. I could have my life back. YIPPEEE!!!!!

I guess the moral of this story is that it is not wise to buy a new puppy the very next day after your beloved pet dog dies. You need to have a grieving period. And do graduate-level puppy research first. Or my point may be that spending $700+ on a dog that you get rid of three weeks later is a deplorable waste of resources. It really is. Or perhaps I just needed to inform you that I really don’t look good wearing basic black. It washes me out.

But, more importantly, did I learn my lesson??? Absolutely not. I have since had other pet horror stories, to be told at a later date. And occasionally I still wear black.

Glean from this what you choose. In any case, this story is honestly, completely, mostly true. And I dedicate it to Molly, the dog of my heart.

Va-Voom!

There’s an adage that says, “Don’t drink and blog.” …….Or is it, “Don’t think and blog”?? Hmmm…………..Well, I’ve already done the one, so I won’t do the other.

I confess I’ve just had a glass of wine. Okay, two glasses of wine, truthfully. But they were a chianti; very fruity and full-bodied and not cheap. And it was Date Night. Super Hubs and I went out to a new Lou Malnati’s that just opened less than a mile from our home, and we had their wonderful deep dish sausage pizza. And time in the bar beforehand to catch up.

We both process our week on Date Night. It’s like having free therapy. I highly recommend it for every married couple on the planet. Even if I’ve had a crapola seven days; filled with insensitive people and whiny children and acrylic nail breakage, everything comes into a rosy perspective on Date Night. I’ve been listened to by the human being that knows and loves me the best in the world and reassures me that I am a wonderful person. So I leave Date Night feeling that I can conquer anything! And between the glasses of wine and my inner-narcissist that comes out of hibernation every Friday, I am tempted to jump on our table at Lou Malnati’s and sing, ”I am woman, Hear me roar!” But I don’t, because it would take at least one more glass of wine to lose my inhibitions entirely. Instead I come home and blog.

In any case, we must buy a new car. Sadly, our Hyundai is terminally ill. We got the distressing medical report today. We were told, this afternoon, that we can repair our car by spending thousands of dollars more than her book value or something…….I wasn’t really listening beyond that because I began fantasizing about cars I’d love to drive. Call me a traitor.

I am at the age when I am SO ready to ditch the mini-van that fits my family of 5 and their friends so cozily, yet screams, “Middle Class Soccer Mom.” I fantasize about driving a car that says, “Posh Spice.” Or someone equally cool and classy. Nicole Kidman, maybe. Or even Madonna.

So I day-dream about a Jaguar. Or a red Mini-Cooper with white pin-stripes. Or a Mustang. A car that makes people on the road do a double-take, sum me up and decide that, even though I am a middle-aged mother-of-three, I am COOL. Or HOT, even. Because of my car. And my clothes. And my French-manicure. I don’t know. A girl can dream. It’s superficial, I realize, but sometimes you want to know you’ve "still got it.” I want to be sexy, I confess in blog-o-sphere (because I’ve had two glasses of chianti.) I want to be hot and drive a hot car.

And tomorrow, perhaps, Super Hubs and I will head out to an “auto-mart” or “auto-world” or whatever they call those dealerships that are lined up on the highway in our town, and we will compromise and bargain and buy a car that fits our family’s needs. And is possibly a little bit sexy. For me.

Leaves

I watched Little Squirt today, playing in the leaf pile in our front yard. He jumped into the heap, rolling around and scattering the leaves with pure glee, uttering squeals of delight. The sight of his joy took me back. Way back to my childhood.

I have a distinct memory that I hold dear in my heart, of coming home from school one autumn afternoon. Looking out the kitchen window, I was ecstatic to see that all the leaves in my backyard had been raked into a big pile. I excitedly asked my mother if I could jump in them. “Okay,” she admonished, “But I just spent a few hours raking, so if you mess up the pile, you’ll have to rake it again.”

Joyfully I changed out of my school dress into play clothes and ran outside to the backyard. It was a beautiful, brilliant October day in the Chicago suburbs. The air was crisp and cool but sunny. Being a very compliant child, I was wary of disobeying my mother and messing up the pile. Trying carefully not to disrupt one leaf, I sunk down into that pile; ginormous to a my petite 7-year-old body. It felt like a soft, plushy bed. I lay there for a while on my back, just staring upwards.

The color of the sky was radiant; a peacock blue with streaks of wispy clouds. I could see the boughs of the maple tree overhead, and if I squeezed my eyes half-shut, the branches looked like fingers reaching toward heaven. I watched the maple branches reaching, swaying in the breeze; then closed my eyes and sunk further into the crunch of red and golden leaves. Now buried entirely, I breathed deeply their earthy scent; their perfume intoxicating me. A fresh, clean odor. I heard a squirrel scolding nearby, and then the distinct call of a cardinal. Scolding, twittering. Scolding, twittering. A cacophony of wildlife. I felt enveloped in a peaceful aura. Warm and safe. Connected to the earth, somehow.

I lay there for a long, long time, deeply ministered to by a symphony for the senses. I felt God saying, “I made this all for you.” Life was beautiful at that moment. Beautiful and rich and nurturing my soul. An intimate moment between me and nature and God. I felt truly alive.

As I watched my son today, I wondered. At the age I am now, could I lie in a leaf pile and experience the same kind of magic as on that autumn day of my childhood? Or is my heart now too cluttered with the stuff of life that block the senses from experiencing nature in all its glory? From feeling joy with the same abandonment as does my 5-year-old? I don’t know. But tomorrow I will find out. Tomorrow, weather permitting, I will rake up a big pile of leaves, muster up my inner child, and lie in the leaves. And I’ll let you know.

Good-Bye Recession

In spending three full days last week at Disney World, I have come to believe that the Disney people are quite brilliant. Not because of the dazzling shows or the elaborately detailed attractions executed with perfect precision.

No, the Disney people are clever as a fox because they know the mindset of the 5-year-old consumer. At the end of every attraction in Disney World, one must walk through a gift shop filled with elaborate and exorbitant Disney paraphernalia. And if anyone tells me their 5-year-old doesn’t want to buy EVERYTHING EVERYWHERE, I will know they are fabricating.

Actual conversation between Little Squirt and me, in the gift shop of DINOSAUR:
LS: (Picking up three-foot-long rubber dinosaur for $22) “Oh, Mommy, I NEED to buy him!”
Me: “Uh, no, Little Squirt, he’s too big. I’d have to buy an extra seat on the plane ride back. Pick out one of the smaller ones for $12.”
LS: (Picking up two smaller dinosaurs for $12 each) “I want to buy these two. The red one and the green one.”
Me: “I said you can buy ONE.”
LS: “I NEED two!”
Me: “One is all I’m buying.”
LS: (Throwing himself on the gift shop floor) “Pweeze, pweeze, pweeze, Mommy???”
Me: “No. Get up off the floor.”
LS: (Still lying on the floor, now blocking the aisle and kicking dinosaur stand) “But I WANT two.”
Me: (Beginning to feel mortified) “Little Squirt, please get up right now or we’ll leave and go back to the hotel.”
LS: (Still lying across the aisle, people now walking over him) “But Daddy needs a dinosaur, too. He told me.”
Me: “Daddy doesn’t need a dinosaur.”
LS: “YES he does. We have to buy two!”
ME: “Then let’s call him and ask.”
SH: (Super Hubs answering cell phone from his Orlando conference) "Yeah?"
Me: “Honey, did you want a dinosaur?”
SH: “Uh…..what??”
Me: “Little Squirt insists I buy him two dinosaurs because he says you want one. Is that true?”
SH: (Talking very slowly, as if mustering up extreme patience) “No, I do NOT want a dinosaur. And I need to get back to my conference.” (Hangs up cell phone)
Me: “Bad news, Little Squirt. Daddy says he doesn’t want a dinosaur. So I will buy you only one.”
LS: (Still lying in aisle. People having to step over him at The Happiest Place On Earth no longer look happy) “But Sissy needs a dinosaur! She told me.”
Me: (Admiring his persistence, yet feeling a latent homicidal urge) “Get up NOW! You have 10 seconds to pick out ONE dinosaur or we are leaving this store without ANY!”

We leave exactly 10 seconds later with one green dinosaur. And a similar conversation and posture occur in every other gift shop in all the parks.

So the sure-fire cure for a sluggish economy, I surmise, is to send all the 5-year-olds in the country on a shopping spree. That'll do it.

I Am An American

I am an American.
My father belongs to the Sons of the Revolution;
My mother, the Colonial Dames.
One of my ancestors pitched tea overboard in Boston Harbor;
Another hungered with Washington at Valley Forge.
My forefathers were America in the making;
They spoke in her council halls;
They died on her battleships;
They cleared her forests.
Dawns reddened and paled.
Staunch hearts of mine beat fast at each new star
In the nation's flag.
Keen eyes of mine foresaw her greater glory:
The sweep of her seas,
The plenty of her plains,
The man-hives in her billion-wired cities.
Every drop of blood in me holds a heritage of patriotism.
I am proud of my past.
I am an AMERICAN. (Elias Lieberman)
Thank you, Veterans. Sincerely, thank you.

Disney Day 4

Super Hubs is available to play with us today! I am thrilled to have my husband join the fun. It’s his first trip to Disney World since the park opened, and I love showing him around. We decide to take on Epcot.

We ride everything in Future World that can be done without a lengthy wait. The favorite of my boys is “Test Track.” I am partial to “Ellen’s Energy Adventure,” simply because I am a big fan of Ms.DeGeneres. And riding back in time is such a kick!

We wander through all the countries in the World Showcase. Super Hubs and I love soaking up the atmosphere. We are famished and decide to eat our way through the park. My sons have a yen for the exotic cuisine of hamburgers and fries, so we make a pit stop in “The American Adventure” for lunch. Super Hubs and I, however, enjoy an orgy of eating. We indulge in Mexico churros, tempura kiku in Japan, bratwurst in Germany, pastry and rich coffee in France. If only we could dine with such cultural variety regularly in our hometown!

We take two monorails to get to The Magic Kingdom, hitting some rides we’d neglected last Thursday. It is Saturday, and the crowds have come! Hoards of people cover every inch of the park. The lines are depressingly long. It is appropriate that Super Hubs is wearing his “Grumpy” t-shirt. I need to wear one, too.

We head back to Epcot for our last ride of this visit,"The Seas with Nemo and Friends," Little Squirt’s favorite. He especially loves watching the live fish swim in the aquarium with the real deep sea divers. They wave to him from the tank. (The divers do the waving. The fish were less affable.)

We eat dinner in the park. My nerves are shot from arguing with Little Squirt in every gift shop, because he wants me to buy him everything. A family sits down right next to us to eat their meal. They have two “special needs” teenagers. One is autistic, and he holds his head and rocks back and forth, crying, “Please! Please!” the entire time, clearly frightened by the crowded dining room. The other teen is in a wheelchair and needs help to eat his food. I am greatly touched by the love and patience I see displayed by the parents. They minister to their teenage sons with such tenderness and grace; calming the extreme anxiety of one, cutting the food of the other. I think about the love they have for their sons, bringing them to Disney World knowing full well all the difficult challenges they would encounter given their circumstances. The difficulties I’ve encountered today in parenting a strong-willed yet healthy 5-year-old pale greatly in comparison. Watching that beautiful family has blessed me. My soul is deeply moved.

We arrive back at the hotel at 8pm, and Rock Star takes one last swim. Tomorrow we have a 3:15am wake up call to make our 6am flight. It’s been a wonderful trip, and we are so very grateful!

Disney Day 3

Rock Star, Little Squirt and I drive to MGM Studios, arriving when the park opens. We have an amazing time. I looove all things Hollywood, so the whole "feel" of this park pulls my actor heartstrings.

We spend a fun 4 hours there, then "hop" over to the Animal Kingdom. I especially enjoy the Kilimanjaro Safari, where we see live elephants, giraffes and lions freely roaming. Little Squirt is over-the-moon happy in DinoLand.

We leave at 5pm, one stuffed dinosaur later. We three are also stuffed, as we ate our way through the parks. I SO delight in any experience of dining!

And speaking of dining, we pick up Super Hubs at the hotel, then drive to a Cuban-themed restaurant for dinner. I am served a fabulous dish of shrimp linguine with a spicy cream sauce. And with a glass of dry white wine- an extremely pleasant experience in all it's entirety.

I have been missing Super Hubs on this vacation, who has been otherwise occupied with his conference. But now it is over, and we celebrate by taking a couple of hours to ourselves after we get the boys settled for the night. We find a charming cabaret and enjoy drinks together.

Catching up, Disney Style

Kellye and I enjoy a brief vino vacation moment.

Disney Day 2

My sons and I head to The Magic Kingdom in the morning. Butterfly is conspicuously absent this trip (she opted to stay home with a friend) and I am missing her terribly. We experienced a mother/daughter trip here just two years ago, so everything is reminding me of her.

Little Squirt, who delights in the ordinary, is over-the-top joyous about the extraordinary that is The Magic Kingdom. It is both my boys' first trip here, and I enjoy their extreme enthusiasm. We do.....everything. Every ride, every experience is their's today.

The "Pirates of the Caribbean" seems to be my sons' favorite. Little Squirt, who has no interest in castles or princesses, implores me to buy him a play gun, and then "shoots" every tourist in sight. Ah...testosterone.

We spend a full 8 hours in the park, then head back to the hotel to join Super Hubs, finished with his conference for the day. We relax for a bit, then meet my friend, Kellye, and her family for dinner. Kellye is one of my closest friends and actually lives only about 15 minutes from my house in the Chicago suburbs. We just happen to be vacationing in Orlando at the same time, through sheer coincidence. So we enjoy pasta and wine together with our families.

All in all- A Magical Day!

Disney Day 1

We arrive at the airport, where my hand lotion is confiscated by the security dudes that pride themselves in keeping our air safe. The pervasive odor of my Bath & Body Works "cotton blossom" lotion may knock out the crew and bring down the plane, don't you know.

There is a bit of excitement at 30,000 feet elevation when a woman gets ill and faints in the middle of the aisle. They declare a medical emergency and ask for doctors or nurses on board to assist. I respond (thrilled to dust off my nursing skills), as does a chiropractor. He and I assess, and administer and oxygen and first aid. She recovers and all is well. We land without incident in Orlando at 1pm local time. The weather is perfect: sunny and in the mid 70's.

We arrive at our convention hotel, and the boys enjoy a refreshing swim in the spectacular pool with water slide. Then Super Hubs heads to a dinner seminar. Rock Star, Little Squirt and I, exhausted from our 4:30am wake up time, dine at the hotel pizzeria, then go back to our room to relax. Tomorrow we will take on The Magic Kingdom!

Destination Happy

The suitcases are packed and ready to go. A couple of light jackets and backpacks sit by the doorway, travel-ready.

Our animals are mulling about, perhaps discerning that there’s about to be a temporary change in the occupancy of this house:
(The long-haired dachshund): “Oh no! Where are My People going?? Will they take me with them?? Don’t go, My People! Don’t leave me! I miss you already!”
(The cats): “Yahoo! The People are apparently leaving. Go, People. Leave our home fast! It’s been far too long since we’ve had the entire bed to ourselves.”

Tomorrow we have an early-morning flight. Destination: “The Happiest Place on Earth.” We are heading to Disney World! Super Hubs has a conference in Orlando and will be mostly occupied with things of higher education. But the kids and I will frolic our way through the parks, and hopefully enjoy the pools at our hotel, weather-permitting. The forecast calls for high 70s and sunshine. Can you hear me singing, “Halleluia!”??

I will attempt to blog on location, if I am able. (Not to make you jealous. Just to be purely informative.) So good-bye, cold and gray November in Chicago. Hello, Happiest Place on Earth!
“Heigh ho, heigh ho, to Disney World we go……..”

Questionable Quiche

One thing that I insist on, pretty much without exception, is that we have dinner together as a family at least 4 times per week. I aim the bar just that high, and if we eat together more often, I call it us “blessed.”

Last night was a “mandatory attendance dinner”, as Sundays usually are. Because we had all eaten a big breakfast at church, I made lighter fare: a pepper jack cheese quiche, fruit salad and French bread. I love to cook under most circumstances, but was glad I had an especially easy meal to prepare last night. I prefer my Sundays to be fairly relaxed.

I was curled up in an easy chair, on the last chapters of an intriguing mystery, when the stove timer rang, indicating that the quiche was cooked. Drinks were poured, all called to the table, and I began dishing out. Suddenly, the square piece of quiche I had cut flipped over as I attempted to put it on my daughter’s plate, revealing silvery-brown spots on the backside. Puzzled, I cut through several other pieces. It appeared that there were grotesque spots on the bottom of every single piece of quiche! What in Sam Hill was wrong with my quiche??

“Ewwwww, this is disgusting!” was the general consensus. Super Hubs and I looked at each other in dismay. My beautiful meal, completely ruined! What was up with the quiche? We scratched our heads in dismay. A Teflon-leak? A weird dairy chemical reaction? A yet undiscovered fast-growing heat-thriving mold of some sort? What else could it be? Our brains sought a possible answer. Anthrax??? (Just kidding. I only wrote that for reader amusement. So if you are from Homeland Security and reading this, please don’t have your team come breaking down my door wearing Hazmat suits and carrying “Quarantine” signs. My neighbors might become alarmed.)

“Okay, kids,” I called, tossing the quiche and pan into the garbage. “To the minivan! It’s a pizza night!” And all was not lost, as we headed to our favorite pizza restaurant for a fun family evening.

But I sit here today, consumed with the mystery. I have made many a successful quiche in my day. I have used that exact Teflon pan for over two years with nary a problem. I have cooked numerous dinners in my 18-year marriage, all devoid of freakish splotches. So, dear readers, I ask for your input, and enclose a picture for your reference. (Warning: It’s not for the faint of heart.) If you can identify the unholy markings blemishing my quiche’s rear end, please advise. Input from chemists, chefs, biologists, Teflon-pan makers and terrorists welcome and appreciated.

Reality Check

It was Date Night again last night. Yahoo! We met two other couples at a charming little Italian bistro and had a jovial evening, which included a pinot grigio toast to Global Warming. (Here in the Midwest, Global Warming is our Friend.) A good time was had by all, except for the part where I thought I recognized “the young missing mother” from a newspaper story, alive and well and enjoying fettuccine alfredo a few tables over. Apparently I was very wrong, and, again, I apologize for wrestling that poor women to the ground and screaming, “Somebody call the Bolingbook police! I found her ALIVE!” It was…..well, mortifying to all involved. But I swear she looked just like the woman. And there is a $20,000 reward. Never mind. My bad. Let’s blame it on the pinot grigio.

In any case, as I was enjoying the gnocchi with marinara, we got to talking about Reality Television, and how my friends have certain favorite shows they watch. I did not admit it last night, but now I must confess that I am physically incapable of watching Reality TV. I am way too much of a softie, and I cannot bare to watch adults lose, be disappointed, get voted off, be humiliated on national TV. I honestly have to turn the channel. Darn my stinkin' “mush heart!” Their sad faces haunt me, and my co-dependency issues rear their ugly head. I want to take the “losers” home, bake them a pie, and pour encouragement into their broken hearts, and hope into their broken dreams.

When I saw a clip of a young boy on American Idol be verbally throttled by Simon Cowell, the sight of his hurt, confused eyes wrecked me for weeks. I truly cried about him for a couple of days, until I heard that Rosie O’Donnell, bless her kind and generous heart, sent him to Disney World.

I would make the WORST judge on one of those shows. I really would. I’d waffle back and forth: “I like him, but I also like her. I’d actually rather not hurt anyone's feelings. Let’s give them EACH an “A” for effort, gosh darn it! They all did their very best, so let’s just hand everyone a check and call it a night.” Yes, I would be an appallingly bad judge on one of those shows. Which is why I’ve never been asked. (That, and many other reasons.)

What is my point? I have no idea. Perhaps it's one of the following:
A. If ever I watch Reality TV, I must have a jar of Zoloft and a big hunk of something chocolate.
B. Rosie O’Donnell is a nicer person than Simon Cowell.
C. I should never blog after a night of drinking pinot grigio.

Thanks to all who have been so encouraging about my blog, and to those wonderful people that leave comments. It is humbling to discover that people occasionally read my ramblings. Bless you all!

Walking On Air

I’ve had some big doses of “happy” the last two days:
1. The early morning frost has killed off whatever allergen had been causing my chronic sinus headaches. No more nasally voice!
2. I discovered Garnier Fructis Style Sleek & Shine anti-humidity smoothing milk. My Bad Hair Days have been banished to Kingdom Come. This stuff is like Jennifer Aniston’s hair in a bottle. I swear, folks. Try it if humidity is not kind to your tresses.
3. We still have two bags full of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups left over from Halloween. Ice cold from the freezer, they are a little glimpse of what food will taste like in Heaven.
4. Relationships. Relationships. Relationships.

I had lunch with a friend yesterday that I’ve known for 9 years. She’s the one of the most encouraging women ever. She speaks my love language, “words of affirmation.” We shared some Tai food and caught up on our busy lives.

Lauree is an incredible listener; so attentive to what I’m saying. When I’m with her, I feel as if I am the most interesting person in the world. (And I’m not. Believe you, me.) She peppers her responses with, “You can do it,” ; “You’re so strong,” ; “You do such a great job.” She told me she thought I looked great; she loved my jeans; she loved my lipstick color. And I believe she really meant it. When I leave her presence, I feel built up, cared about, and valued. I float blissfully away, empowered to tackle any obstacle threatening my self-esteem. Bring it on!! I’ve just had a major dose of Lauree! I wish I could bottle her up and take a daily swig.

And why is she like this? Why is she so darn wonderful? What makes her such a warm, kind, inspiring person that genuinely loves people? I believe it’s because she loves God so much and spends daily time in His Word, mulling over it, following what it says. And I get the fruit of such a beautiful friend!

I left our lunch hoping that I'm the kind of person that makes my friends feel at least half as good as Lauree makes me feel.
“Whatever is in your heart determines what you say.”
(Luke 6:45)

A Potty Training Story

Little Squirt, my baby, is now 5. He’s been a totally lovable handful his entire life, and I could not live without him. I need him like I need air. But he has had those moments, I’m telling you, when he has really tested my limits………

I’m a procrastinator. I prefer to put off until the last possible moment things that I don’t want to do. Which is why I waited to potty-train my last-born until he was well over 3 1/2.

I readily admit that it was a decision born out of sheer laziness on my part. Deplorable laziness. I had been through the potty-training process twice before with my other children, knew the commitment it required, understood the frustration it reaped, and so chose to put it off with Little Squirt as long as I possibly could. I was hoping that if I waited long enough, maybe Little Squirt would just kind of………potty-train himself? Like magic! I had visions that he would wake up one morning with the realization that diapers were totally uncool and only enlarged his posterior. He’d choose to wear his Spiderman undies and keep them dry all day, and then we’d celebrate this milestone together over chocolate milk. It would be a bonding mother/son moment. And that would be the end of that. I’d be retired from potty-training FOREVER!

But that fantasy did not unfold. So I finally succumbed to pressure from my husband and a certain relative, cleared a few days in my schedule, and began. So far, the whole potty-training process had gone really well. More than well. It had been going great! Fabulously great! Clearly, waiting to potty-train my son until he was on the upside of 4 had been THE RIGHT THING TO DO. Little Squirt and I had The Perfect Potty-Training Partnership, I believed. I could write a book on the subject! Provide inspiration and hope to parents everywhere! Little Squirt had kept his underwear dry for two whole days straight and I was very proud of him. He was showing wisdom and self-control, of the potty-training kind, beyond his years. He was obviously brilliant! Or so I thought, until one particular morning.

We got off to an early start that day, when he bellowed for me at 6am. My older two children were off at sleepovers, and my husband had left the house for an early appointment. I drank coffee and read the paper, and then realized, after Little Squirt’s second juice box, that I had better take him to the bathroom. We were a few feet away from our destination when he poured forth a flood the size of Lake Erie. “That’s oookaaay,” I said with feigned cheerfulness. “We’ll just clean it up and try to go sooner next time!” I plunked him onto his plastic potty-seat that lay over the toilet, and told him to “stay put” while I cleaned up the mess. Then I ran to get him a change of clothes.

While I was upstairs, I heard some “thumping noises” coming from the dining room. Knowing that I had left Little Squirt sitting on the toilet with explicit instructions not to move, I curiously went to the top of the stairs and looked down. And there, below me, was a sight to behold. I was dumb-founded. What the ??? My “brilliant” preschooler stood in the middle of the dining room, naked, with his potty-seat hanging around his neck. “It’s stuck, Mommy!” he whimpered as he tried unsuccessfully to pull it off. “Little Squirt, what were you thinking? Why did you put that over your head?” I asked. “I wanted to wear a hat!” came the answer.

Slightly amused and wondering if I should grab my camera to immortalize this moment, I took hold of the potty-seat and tried to bring it up over his head. It wouldn’t budge. I wiggled and jiggled it, trying to move it up at different angles. It wouldn’t move. Not a smidgen. Not an inch. The more I tried to pull it off his head, the more fussing and wriggling he did, and I was afraid I would injure him. The darned thing just wouldn’t come off! It really WOULD NOT go over his head! It appeared to be permanently stuck! Oh. My. Gosh. It was actually possible to get a toilet seat stuck on one’s head! Now I was starting to feel alarmed. How could I get this thing off him? Should I try shaving off his hair? What if the potty-seat was on him FOREVER??!!

“Okay, buddy, let’s just take a little break while I think this one out,” I said with a calmness I wasn’t feeling. I began to search my mind for solutions that didn’t involve extreme pain for him. I twizzled my hair and fretted. Think. Think think think. I twizzled and fretted some more. I thought harder. I played out several scenerios in my head.

First, I thought of calling a neighbor to help me. If I just had one other adult to hold Little Squirt still, I thought, I could try to force the potty-seat over his head. If it went on, then surely it must come off! And neighbors love to help each other, don’t they? That is what bonds community together. A crisis such as this. Yes, calling a neighbor was surely the answer!

And then I imagined my phone call:
“Hi Neighbor! It’s Kelly from down the street…….. Yes, the one that feeds the wild opossum on her porch. I realize it’s only 6:30am on this fine Saturday morning, but I have a bit of a situation with my child………”

No. Noooo. No way. I quickly dismissed that idea. As nice as my neighbors were, I feared that they, you know, might gossip. About my family. In a ridiculing kind of way. And I did not want this foolish antic from my household to be fodder for the neighborhood gossip mill. I usually prefer to keep our foolish antics on the “down low”.

And then I thought about taking Little Squirt to an Emergency Room. An ER would be open at this time. Surely the kind professionals who worked at an ER could deal with a problem such as this! They probably had all kinds of tools and devices that could cut this potty- seat safely off his neck with a minimum of fuss. It would be just another minor problem in their busy day. Yes, that was the solution! But then my imagination wandered some more.

I pictured myself sitting in the ER waiting room for hours with my three-year-old sitting on my lap; potty-seat dangling around his neck like some big, weird appendage. Strangers would gawk and laugh at us. We would be judged and mocked. It could scar us emotionally for days!

And I thought about the ER Doctor, who, with patronizing patience, would tell me (a pediatric nurse and veteran mother of three) the CORRECT way to use a potty-seat: “It goes on the OTHER END of your child, Mrs. M., and I’ll have the nurse come in with a doll to demonstrate the proper technique, just so you know.” And then I thought of handing my husband an enormous ER medical bill, which I was pretty certain Blue Cross would not cover.

No. Absolutely not. The Emergency Room was a very bad idea all around. Way too humiliating. I could not bear it.

I quickly scanned my mind and The Yellow Pages for other possibilities. Who could help with a problem such as this? Whom do I call?……… A locksmith? A beauty salon? A plumber?? Hatmaker??? Think think think. My panic increased and my possible “solutions” began bordering on the ridiculous.

“Pweeze help me, Mommy!” Little Squirt pleaded, bringing me back from my anxious thoughts. “Ok, my child,” I said determinedly, “I will get this potty-seat off you myself if I have to use Daddy’s chain saw!” My adrenaline soared.

And then…….call it Divine Inspiration; call it The Crazy Idea of a Mother Who Was Out Of Other Ideas; call it what you will. My eyes caught sight of a very large jar of Vaseline that was sitting on the bathroom counter. It seemed to glow with all the brightness of the Northern Lights on a clear summer evening. I had a “Halleluiah” moment!!

I grabbed that jar, and told Little Squirt we were going to have some fun. I plastered him all over his hair and neck with the petroleum jelly. Then I grasped my child in a tight hold, mustered up all the strength that I could, and sent off a quick prayer. I pulled and maneuvered….pulled some more and twisted the potty-seat around his neck. Little Squirt stayed miraculously still, God moved in His heaven, all the planets aligned……. and with a loud sucking sound, the potty-seat came over his head.

“Ow! My ears hurt!” Little Squirt screeched, then scurried off to play, his hair sticking up in a greasy, spiky “do”.

I held that potty-seat, slimy with Vaseline, and I breathed a deep sigh of relief. And I thought about how smug I’d been about Little Squirt's “success”. And how I would never in my life forget the sight of him: completely nude except for the potty-seat he wore around his neck. And I was reminded about why I deplore potty-training. It’s really never easy. Not ever. Do it early or do it late. No matter. It’s always just difficult. But at least this would make a great story for his baby book.