Grocery Promises

Some time ago, I began promising my daughter something yummy or entertaining on grocery trips. It’s usually a choice of the free cookie or the little cart (which I eventually end up pushing in an osteoporosis-like stooped position). She usually goes for the cookie, which is cool, but every now and then it goes ALL wrong.

There are two ways of dealing with the cookie bribe: go in at the produce section and work our way back to the bakery and retrieve said free cookie, or take the very circuitous route of going in by the chips and soda and making our way slowly over to the bakery from the opposite side of the store. The latter offers the opportunity of many more threats of “NO COOKIE” if she doesn’t toe the line, the idea being that I can get more shopping done with a cooperative child before we reach the point of no return (cookie crammed in mouth). Let’s face it—what’s a bribe worth once it hits the digestive tract? After that moment, you have to think fast and come up with a consequence for unbecoming behavior during the remainder of the trip. A consequence that you have to remember until you get home, unload the car, put the groceries away…seriously, you won’t remember.

Here’s how it all comes undone: no matter which route you take to the free cookie box, sometimes, without warning, there will be no cookies. You have been caught in an Empty Bribe. Let the screaming commence. If you are lucky, just before the pint-sized nervous breakdown strikes, you can get the attention of a bakery attendant who, seeing your distress and the quivering lower lip of your offspring, will hurry over with more cookies. I have found it even more effective when the offspring sobs and bellows, “THEY’RE GONE!! THERE ARE NO COOKIES!” Every now and then, there is no one around and you are left to face your fate. It’s called the end of the grocery trip, or, if you have the mettle to stick it out, the beginning of the Heinous Installment of the event (yes, it is an event). There’s really nothing to be done at this point other than avoiding eye contact with other patrons, grabbing only the remaining necessities, and getting the heck out of Dodge. As an aside—you will, without fail, go home with something unwanted since you were barely aware of what you were grabbing as your child screamed “YOU PROMISED!! YOU PROMISED!!”

If, as you read this, you assumed there would be a word of wisdom at the end, you are about to be sorely disappointed. I have no answers beyond a hefty dose of Benadryl about 30 minutes prior to leaving the house. That’s all I’ve got folks. Happy shopping.

Updates:

--I have made Amish Bread for the past 4 ½ months with no fires or other catastrophes. Tip: self rising flour is not recommended when making yeast bread. Just FYI...

--Regular blogging has been no problem as long as "regular"” allows for a 5 month hiatus. I think that'’s reasonable.

--I have noticed no significant growth of my nose or earlobes. I a’m concerned about my left big toe though. I need to measure it on a bi-weekly basis to confirm or deny my casual observations.

--Sarah now has a laptop. She was asking for one of those Barbie computers with the 2 inch screen, but we set her up with this instead. So now, when her buddies say "“I have a Barbie computer"” or "“I have a Spiderman computer,"” she can say "“I have a Dell."”

--Adam and I say said "“Hi"” and "“Hey, what'’s up?"” almost daily, so verbal communication has nearly tripled around here. He has a nice voice.

--No more snake stories. There was a small one in the middle of the street a few weeks ago, but upon the last sighting it had become one with the asphalt.

--No change in the “drama department,” but I a’m not expecting that for the next couple of years. Or fifty. I don'’t want to get my hopes up about seeing that in my lifetime.

In the Not An Update Department:

--I am learing Chun Gi, the “movement” Sarah has to do for her yellow belt test. I must look really awesome when I practice because Adam watched me for a while yesterday and just shook his head. I guess he was so amazed that he just couldn't find the words to say. If I get a green belt someday I can work on my bowstaff skills.

--If anyone needs/wants a kitten -– or three, please contact Jennifer Pidcock. I can tell you how to reach her if you need that information. She has 6 right now I think (someone dumped them behind her house), and that may soon double, depending on whether the mama is pregnant or just overweight. She likes them, but is concerned about becoming "“the cat lady."” It'’s not like being "“Catwoman"” at all. Seriously, you don'’t get a black vinyl suit or anything. Otherwise I think she'’d go for it.

That'’s it for now but I'’ll keep you all in the know of anything exciting or mundane here. One or the other is bound to happen soon.

Drama Club

--Take three girls, all under 5 years of age, whom God has blessed with strong wills, put them in a room together, then sit back and enjoy the show.

My daughter is neither meek nor mild. Neither are two of her very good friends, which makes for a very interesting friendship triangle. Or friendship tornado, however you want to look at it. For those who do not have little girls, or by some freak of nature you have calm, unassuming girls, this may be enlightening. For the rest of you, consider it group therapy.

As any one of us mothers of these girlies will tell you, they are sweet, loving, smart, wonderful children. Any one of us will also tell you that you haven’t seen a Soap Opera until you’ve witnessed playtime with our crew. When they see each other from afar, they will shout the name of their friend and run toward them (cue slow-motion effect) as if in a grassy meadow, arms outstretched and tears sparkling in their eyes. Then, within 90 seconds, you will hear the usual “No I’M going to be the Mom! You have to be the brother!”, “Stop it! I wanted THAT one!” (translation: I want the one you are holding that it exactly like the one I am holding.), and of course, the queen mother of preschool threats, “I’M NOT GOING TO BE YOUR FRIEND ANYMORE!!!” This last one simply means, “I am not going to play with you for the next 5 minutes or until you are doing something I would rather do too.”

Recently, my neighbor’s daughter (one of the 3 Estrogen Princesses), in an effort to demonstrate her indignation with an unreasonable mother, announced that she was moving to our house (approximately 7 ½ feet from her house, which was a smart move since she wouldn’t have to break open her piggy bank for cab money). She never made it over and I was a little insulted. What made her think better of her plan? A number of things went through my mind before it landed on the likely truth. She has probably witnessed some “exchanges” between me and Sarah, and decided she was getting an overall better deal at her house.

In a recent email-a-thon between myself and my two friends, one of those sickos posed the following question:

“Ok, so in the case of Sarah and Mallory, the attitude queens, being able to move out whenever they want, Arden wants to know if she can tag along too! Here's a funny thought: Can you imagine what it would be like for those three to share a dorm room together, during PMS week?"

Followed by the other one:

“How about this- all 3 BFF in HIGH SCHOOL, crush on the same boy, sharing clothes, and PMS. When I think of this I feel better about the here and now- which is no picnic.”

I, on the other hand, was the only one that offered sound advice rather than reveling in their psychopathic ponderings:

“Oh run far, far away if that happens.”

Thanks goodness one of us has a level head. Is it any wonder the other two girls are so dramatic with mothers that dwell on scenarios like that? They never stood a chance. But....if that does happen, maybe one of us should call a TV crew – smells like reality TV to me. Paydirt.

A SLITHERY SAGA

I was a long distance witness to an especially disturbing snake location and elimination episode last night. My mom could better fill you in on the details since she was the one who almost stepped on it, but I got the general idea when she called me at a little past 6pm. Upon realizing there was a large snake lying across the threshold just outside the back door, she called my dad, and then, in a rather fruitless effort to distract herself, called me while she was waiting on him. I proceeded to prod her for every detail of the situation. How big is it? What color is it? Precisely where was it lying? Did you actually open the door and almost let it in? Are you looking at it now? IS IT LOOKING AT YOU? I am glad I could help her get her mind off of it for a bit.

Long story short, Dad came home, found the snake, and humanely disposed of it with a garden hoe. Now for the creepy part (no it hasn’t gotten creepy yet). He found it in a wreath on the wall outside the door. Shudder. Several things entered my mind, not the least of which was, how long had it been hanging out there and had it been right beside their heads when they came and went from the house? Certain mom hadn’t thought of that unnerving possibility yet, I blurted it out, prompting her to ask me to please not talk about it. Obviously she hadn’t realized that confronting the reality of the situation is key to the healing process.

I guess my subconscious was trying to speed that process along because I dreamed about snakes. For some reason, which was never explained in the dream, I was in apartment full of snakes. They were not in cages or tanks, and I was “in charge” of them, whatever that means. I don’t even think I was getting paid for snake-sitting, which I would definitely require if I really did that. And I would charge more than I would for dog-sitting, even though you don’t have to walk them or rub their bellies. Toward the end of the dream I had to deliver a couple of the larger ones to their owner. Whatever. Now, I have seen nature shows that depict snake loving scientists (aka: educated freaks) catching them with special poles that have a “grabber” on the end (they never seem to notice it is lacking any kind of sharp, pointy, lethal object), and then deposit them into some kind of fancy potato sack. Drawing upon this knowledge, I used a broomstick to prod the snakes into a sack from Target. Fearing they would be able to put their fangs through it, I had the good sense to double-bag them. I tied the tops of the sacks together so they couldn’t climb out and whacked the sack with my broomstick whenever it moved. Brilliant. Then the mystery person who wanted the snakes showed up, so I just handed the sack to him. I was pretty annoyed because if I had known I wouldn't be delivering them, I wouldn’t have wasted my Target bags. They are rather sturdy and you can’t see through them, which is why I chose them over Wal-Mart or Kroger sacks. You can’t really over-think the process of apprehending reptiles.

I don’t remember much after that other than leaving the apartment and going to a birthday party. There was strawberry cake and cute little Care Bear plates. I woke up before we played pin-the-tail on the donkey though. That was crummy.

Moral of the story: It’s really rude to go get an item you have specifically asked someone to deliver.

marriage.com

I have a virtual husband. Before anyone gets bent out of shape over that, I am talking about Adam. Perhaps “e-husband” would be a better term? Point being, we communicate via internet as much as we do verbally. We email each other. Instant message each other. And if we are angry we e-gnore each other. There’s nothing worse than getting the cold shoulder via the world wide web, staring at the last message you sent and wondering if the other party has seen it yet. Maybe they went to the bathroom. Maybe they were suddenly called into a meeting. Maybe they are agonizing over the proper wording for their apology.

We also send vital information to each other, such as a story about a new strain of rat-tailed maggots. When I wake up to a message like this I know Adam is thinking of me. However, I knew things may have gone too far when I realized we were doing this at home, sitting approximately 3 feet apart in our office. I began to ask myself, “Is this normal? Should I turn around and speak to him? Should I move my desk to the bedroom?”

It really sends things into a tailspin around here when our internet is down. There are some logical things to do if you are caught in a situation like this: write notes to each other, use sign language, save up everything you have to say until you can send it in a email. Check the internet connection as often as possible so that your voice doesn't become hoarse from speaking. You know, things like that.

Some things are much more challenging to address. Children, for example, have a way of forcing you out of your comfort zone. They expect direct, verbal communication, complete with eye contact. (And they say children learn by example?) After a while we began to ask ourselves, “What are we doing? How can our child thrive in an environment like this?” It was a sobering moment. As the Wizard of Oz said, “My child, you’ve forced me into a cataclysmic decision.” And so, in the end, we decided to do what was best for Sarah. We just can’t decide how big of a hard drive she’s going to need.

This is So Awkward

The dreaded awkward it-surely-won't-happen-to-me phase. A phase that, for some, spanned 5 years or more. The braces, glasses, and limbs growing before you had a plan for them. Arms that were accustomed to only reaching things they had a month before. But now, 3" longer, what do you do with them? You're liable to knock something over, or overturn the lunchtable when you stand up due to the exponential growth of your legs. And our noses were fatter. Seriously. Look back at some Jr. High pics and see if it's not true. They start small as a baby, get bigger, then get 'smore bigger, then smaller and adultish, and then commence to grow for the rest of our lives - a feat exceeded only by the earlobes.

But, I digress. Most who know me will vouch that 85% of the time I can be found wearing black, white, brown, or a combination thereof. If I'm feeling really spunky, ecru. I didn't start out this way. Color is fine. Just not in my wardrobe. Why? (deep breath)...sigh... There exists a picture of me. A picture that sums up my choices of color at the present. A picture I will not be posting, and will embark on a search-and-destroy mission of anyone who does. Apparently, the idea was to incorporate as much color as possible into my outfit, ensuring that, from head to toe, I was a full-on optic assault. I blame this on the 80's. I also sported a somewhat spiky, mulletesque hairstyle, which cannot be blamed on the trends of a decade of bad trends. But it was a girl-mullet. That nuance will surely recover some of my dignity.

A select few will say that I looked cute. You are my mother. However, for a more realistic answer, I turn to those who do not have maternal feelings for me. The responses usually include things like: "Uh. Oh. Man. I wouldn't have known that was you," and "Holy Cow what was up with that? Did you wear it just that one time?" And then there are some who, in an attempt to spare my feelings, comment instead on my little sister who is also in the photo. Her clothing is similar to mine, but she is 9 so it's somehow okay. They say things like, "Aww look at Carrie. She looks so cute! And look at that beautiful, long hair."

Now I deal with situational awkwardness. Like trying not to explain the facts of life to a 4 year old who, it would seem from her line of questioning, is not going to let this die easily. And there are just so many possibilities in a public restroom, from "It's stinky in here! " to "Which one do you have to do Mama?"

However, if I am not mistaken, there is a point in life when awkwardness will be the least of our concerns. It is called 75 years old. Lucky stiffs.

In any case, enjoy life until your earlobes start growing again. At least they will take the focus off of your nose.

The Truth About Blogging

Okay, so it's only my second blog. Maybe I don't know the "truth" yet. However, in the 3 days since my first post, I have been thoroughly *encouraged* to write more. Is this how it will be? Five, if not scores of adoring fans awaiting my next ponderance? What if I don't meet expectations? What if I collapse under the strain? How can I be expected to perform at such a level of brilliance time and again? And, alas, dare I say it - - what if my life isn't interesting enough to sustain daily blogs? What if it takes the full sum of one week for inspiration to strike? What then of my public? Will they lose interest, or will the suspense of sparse blogs captivate them even more?

It has been my experience with some of you, that you are thoroughly entertained by the mad key thumping of a 4 year old. Perhaps I should blog accordingly...? "DjibvKJdlakjre;aien29834. And THEN fkejeinlsiedk, just in time for a big askjf3902,kgfj! It was sooo tunkieoiq." Enthralling, isn't it?

Conversely, blogging is a good outlet, and, if anyone is bored by your posts, you can say, "It's my outlet. It's not a novel or an editorial column for a national newspaper. I need my outlet. It's mine. " That should quiet down the masses. And if it doesn't you can push them down. Hey, it worked on the playground. Nobody messed with you if you pushed them down. Unless they were bigger than you and they got really, really mad. But that's a blog for another day.

Until next time, whenever that may be,
Amy
--Taking the blogging world by storm.