Can't Win For Losin'

Now that Sam is in summer camp, he has a field trip on most Fridays, which means we have to be at school by 8:30 in order to make the bus. And since we face a 30-minute drive, it can be close. Most Fridays Bryon takes the 'wee ones' so Sam and I have plenty of time, but today Jake wasn't having it. He wasn't going to be happy (and if Jake ain't happy, ain't nobody happy) until I took him to school.

So everybody ate quickly, dressed quickly, packed and left. We practically ran through Jake and Abby's day care. Abby to her room. Check. Drop off grapes for today's food activity. Check. Drop off pink paper flower for Abby's show and share. Check. Jake to his room. Kiss. Hug. Go.

We pulled into Sam's school at 8:32. Before I turned off the car I turned down the radio, pointed at the clock and said, "Sam, look. 8:32. Did your mom deliver or did your mom deliver?"

"You're 2 minutes late," he told me, completely unimpressed.

Unbridled

I was in the shower this morning when I heard Abby babbling outside the bathroom door. I was toweling off when she slowly pushed the door open and said good morning. I bent down to give her a hug and as she was hugging me, patting my back, she said, "Happy, happy, happy ..."

I'm not sure my day will get better than that.

Addition

I took Sam out to lunch today - it's the last day before he starts his summer program tomorrow. We were waiting for our food when a woman came in with her son and daughter.

"That's us in 6 years," I told Sam, figuring the boy was about 12 and the girl about 8.

"But he's older than me," Sam said.

"Yes, but if you are 6 now, in 6 more years, you would be about his age," I explained.

"But I'm 7," Sam said.

"You are?" I asked, as I quickly did the math in my head. "I guess you are. I'm sorry, I have a lot of stuff swimming in my head, a lot of numbers to remember."

"Maybe 7 should be one of them." Sam said.

That's What Little Girls Are Made Of

My family often recounts a story about my grandmother that goes something like this.

My mom had just come home from an outpatient surgery that left her quite loopy. She and my grandmother and sister were sitting at the table in the dining room of my mom's house, where a door leads from the dining room to the back deck. A neighbor who had stopped by to check on my mom was chatting through the screen door. At one point, my mom started talking what seemed like nonsense about the snake crawling up the door. Except, it turns out, it was a real snake. It had oozed its way from under the deck and was crawling up the screen.

The neighbor, a lifelong male friend, screamed and jumped. My sister tried to make her way around the table. But my grandmother ... my grandmother jumped up, grabbed the snake by its head and took it behind the garage where she was seen chopping it into bits with a garden tool.

Now I tell this not to make you think my grandmother abused animals. But to show that she was tough and quick and with the exception of baby birds, midgets (sorry, little people), clowns and Jimmy Stewart, she didn't spook easily.

After tonight, I am proud to say there is a bit of my grandmother in Abby. I was cooking dinner when I asked Sam to help out and feed Tag the Dog. (He seems to beg less if I feed him the exact time I feed the kids.) When Sam put down Tag's full dish, he started screaming. There was a dead cockroach near the bowl. Jake wandered over to see about the fuss, and he started screaming.

"Somebody bring me a wet wipe and I'll get rid of the flippin' thing!" I told them, a little perturbed that these boys who dig for bugs and pick up worms and talk so fondly of bodily functions were thrown by a bug. A dead bug.

In the midst of the melee, I hear Abby stomp off to the bathroom. Soon she comes stomping back. "I got paper towel," she says, but in a way that sounds slightly French, "I got pape-air tow-well."

Then she leaned down, grabbed the bug in a single square of toilet paper and threw it all into the garbage.

Meams would be proud.

Kiss My Grits, Keep On Truckin, et al

On any given day one of my kids falls down. One of those oblivous stumbles where they trip over toys or shoes because they are running too fast or not paying attention. Yesterday it was Sam. He was goofing off and tripped backward over a bag of his baseball gear (that I'd asked him to move 100 times). He kind of ran in place for a few steps, arms like propellers trying to keep himself upright before he actually fell.

Thankfully it was Sam. He's good natured about this sort of thing and thought it was just as funny as I did. (Not so Jake. If he fell he would've sulked for an hour. Make a joke about it and he would sulk all night - probably after telling you you were stupid and throwing something.)

But just to drive home Sam's humiliation, I pulled a goody out of the 1970s quip bag, and said, "Smooth move, Ex Lax."

About 20 minutes later Sam and I were playing "hacky sack" in the front yard. He tossed me the ball and somehow it bounced off my foot and my stomach and hit me square in the face. So now it was Sam's turn: "Smooth move, Netflix," he teased.

LegOhs

On any given weekend we don't do many things as a family. Not for a lack of trying - it's just that birthday parties and baseball games and lessons and work travel often keep us all from moving in the same direction.

But this Saturday Sam's baseball game was rained out so we all headed north to a mall in the suburbs because The Lego Store was opening. Yes, Legos. The toys you can get at any toy store, Target or Wal Mart. But we drove 20 miles in the rain to a mall that I hate to go to the opening of The Lego Store.

In retrospect we could have skipped the store. The draw was that you first got to help a Lego Master Builder build an 8-foot R2D2. We should've counted our blessings and said our goodbyes then and there. But each kid got a Master Builder certificate, which you could only redeem ... IN THE LEGO STORE. Which was halfway across the mall. Which had a line to get in. A 2-hour line.

We all made it about 15 minutes in the line before I suggested I take the kids upstairs to the food court for a snack and a ride on the Merry Go Round. For the next 90 minutes one of us was up and down with any one of the kids trying to entertain. Why we didn't just walk away I have no idea. Minutes before getting into the store Jake needed to use the bathroom so Bryon took him. Cue Abby's first meltdown. When they returned we all squished into The Lego Store, only to have Abby try to grab everything she could get her hands on and have Sam and Jake decide they wanted the very first thing they saw.

Then we got to stand in the purchasing line, which comprised more than half the people in the store. Which led to two registers. Two. Abby's grabbing and flailing was making me very anxious so I took her back up to the food court for another ride on the Merry Go Round. Cue Abby's second meltdown. This one was so formidable a circle of teenage boys gathered around, mouths agape, so I locked us into the breastfeeding room, put her on the floor and let her have her fit. She arched and rolled and screamed. After what seemed like an hour my cell phone rang. Bryon and the boys had left The Lego Store and were looking for us.

Exhausted by the waiting and the crowds and phased by the expensive purchase, we decided to eat in the food court. Nuggets. Yes, we must get nuggets. But everywhere we went were more lines, more people, more yellow Lego bags.

Things didn't get much better when we got home. As I've said here before, I don't like Legos. And I'm sure after spending the next four hours putting together Lego City and the Lego Star Wars starship and a Lego Bonneville horse, Bryon doesn't like them either.

So much for my good intentions. It was a wasted day. Everyone but me had a meltdown, we spent more money than I care to admit and today, where are these Legos? Not sure. Sitting here I see a scattering of them on the kitchen counter. I know in the next few days I'll probably step on quite a few, kick some under the couch, find some in my pockets.

One thing's for sure. The next time the kids want Legos, I'm going to Target.

No, YOU Shut Up

I was reading today about a 14-year study that has shown that the way mothers talk to their children at a young age influences their social skills later in childhood. To quote the study, "children whose mothers often talked to them about people's feelings, beliefs, wants and intentions developed better social understanding than children whose mothers did not."

On one hand, I think I'm good at this. I talk to the kids a lot about empathy and respect and consideration. On the other hand, I'm not sure if there's a positive result when your kids, specifically your 4-year-old, tell you to shut up.

Like last night. I was giving them all the 'what for' because they were acting like banshees. Truly. Do all kids act this way? You would've thought their behinds were on fire the way they were tearing through the house, out the back door (which they'd slam), then through the side door and onto the couch. Every time they'd pass through Abby would swing a light saber at them and yell "BAM!" and Tag the Dog would lurch and bark. It was quickly becoming a Calgon Take Me Away moment.

But after I calmed them down and explained to them that I didn't like them treating my things (the couch) that way and it wasn't fair that I would have to clean up their mess, Jake said, "Shut up Mom."

So I put him in time out, which went over well, and when I told them all that they should never tell me or any other grown up to shut up, Sam asked, "But what if you REALLY need to quit talking?"

It was as much a request as a question.