Ghetto Gangsta Slang

The other day, K got out of the tub and told me, "I got da hook-ups!". I wracked my brain for what she meant, wondering if was some sort of ghetto gangsta slang she had picked up from before.

Then she hiccuped, and all become clear. She had the hiccups! Good thing...because I don't need my four-year-old hooking up with anything other than her brown bear named Maxine and her Dora fleece blanket.

Theology Theme Park

My sister Mary reports:

"I had to question what version of the Bible the preschool was being taught from after asking Rachel (age 5) about her Sunday school lesson a few weeks ago. We were on our way home from church and I asked her what her story today was.

"Well," she promptly informed me, "Satan put Jesus up on a high mountain and told Him to slide down!

Pencils - the New Feminine Product?

We took the girls to the local high school wrestling meet to cheer Lucas on. (NOTE: He pinned his opponent in record time...what a STUD!)

Anyhoo...took the girls to the bathroom at the school. Little K comes out of the stall and points to the feminine products dispenser. "I know what that is, Mommy!" she states loudly. "You put money in it and you get a pencil!" (A lady just walking in the door caught the conversation and nearly wet herself laughing.)

Hmmm...not quite. When I told her it did not dispense pencils, she wanted to know what came out of there. Oh honey, thought I, that's a discussion that will have to wait. Enjoy your life before puberty turns it upside down.

Top Chef Flunkee

Do you ever watch cooking shows and think, "I could do that!" I get inspired to step out of my rut and actually try cooking something other than my standard repritoire of 10 Midwestern meat and potatoes dishes. Sometimes I even get really wild and crazy and buy a santoku knife and pretend to chop really fast. It usually doesn't end well...

The reality is that I stare into my fridge about an hour before suppertime and will with all my power for a complete supper to appear. It doesn't happen, so I reach for my old standbys. I cook like my mom did - covering the four main food groups with not a lot of pizzazz.

Part of the reason is that four and six year olds are not real adventureous eaters. I made creamed eggs on toasted english muffins (a total comfort dish from my childhood) to which S declared, "This is the best meal ever." Yep, eggs, white sauce, and fried meat all slathered over carbs...you can hear your arteries clanging shut. S and K would be content with chicken nuggets and mac and cheese every night and have turned up their nose to creamy chicken artichoke and brie soup or deep-dish ham pie.

One day, I will explore the other 2,500 vegetables, herbs, spices, and fruits with fancy names. I will attempt fish that doesn't come in a box labeled "Mrs. Pauls". I will say goodbye to boxes and cans and processed foods. But not today.

Bachelorette Train Wrecks

I have a confession to make. I have watched every season of "The Bachelor" except the first one. I don't know quite why I do...it's the same formula every time. Conceited Boy Wonder tries his best to look straight into the camera and confess his true desire to find the right woman, settle down, and marry when we know good and well all he wants is to have 16 straight weeks of being surrounded by silicone-enhanced women who are trying to break into the movie business.

It's like a train wreck that I just can't avert my eyes from...the characters are all in place. There is:

Vicious backstabber woman who pretends to be everyone's friends and than shreds the other contestants' characters when she gets a chance to speak alone into the camera.

Drunk girl who is just there to party and usually has downed several glasses of champagne and stumbled around raising her glass and saying, "Hhhhheeeey-ay."

Sweet, country girl who doesn't have a snowball's chance in, er, a microwave, to get past the first couple of rounds because she really is nice, marriageable material.

Material girl who is just there to see if she can secure some diamonds or a new dress. She usually comes complete with multiple sets of luggage and shoes to match every outfit.

Aggressive girl who is determined to throw herself at the Bachelor and then completely kiss and tell after every encounter.

This season, however, there is a woman I think is pretty cool...she comes across as a sweet, Southern lady and has apparantly lost her previous husband in a freak, private plane accident. She has a four year old daughter names Sophie that she very evidently loves with all her heart. Despite the fact that she needs to skip her next installment of Botox injections or her eyebrows may remain permanently in the shocked position, she seems to have depth and perspective unlike most of the bimbos that make the show. Unfortunately, she is also older than most of the candidates and not nearly as brazen so I'm sure, as history would show, she will not last long.

The Bachelor this season is a single dad with a three year old son. Most of the women on the show are adamantly telling the Bachelor that they really want to be a mom but what they don't know is that motherhood - particularly step-motherhood - is not something you step into after 16 weeks of suspended reality on a TV show. It's for real, it's for life, and it's the hardest job a woman does.

So for now, I raise my glass of 2% milk to all my mom friends out there who have foregone tanning beds, fake nails, silicone implants, a personal trainer, and shoes for every outfit and say, "ROCK ON, SISTER!" I share this thing called motherhood with you and have an open door for anyone who thinks they are going this road alone.

Stealing Marley's Title

I went to see "Marley & Me" in the theaters only because I read the book at the same time I was training my own puppies and howled (pun intended) all the way through the book. I do have a bone (another intended pun) to pick with author John Grogan, though...because I have the world's worst dogs.

Henceforth, I present my case...

Atticus (boy) and Sasha (girl) are the stud and runt of Susan's dog's first litter of pups. In a moment of sheer desperation of wanting to nurture SOME living thing in my life (all my plants had died and I left my goldfish back in NC), I told Susan I wanted a dog and then figured my dog might need a playmate. Susan took care of the pups until they were about three months before bringing them up to my house. Man, they were the cutest things ever...

But then they turned into runaway, gnaw monsters! I figured we lived in the country and no one would mind but I had a neighbor who would call Animal Control every time they came near her house. I tried kenneling the dogs but they chewed through the metal kennel...repeatedly! They got into another neighbor's garage while she was painting and snagged a paintbrush. I came over to get them and they looked at me with blue painted snouts.

My friend Kitty recommended a local trainer. This dog trainer came with high credentials (she had trained police dogs for years) and a reputation of handling tough cases. We eagerly signed up the dogs imagining well-behaved pooches in the aftermath. I should have known when the trainer showed up in a hot pink wind suit with lipstick to match that this wasn't going to end well. Alas, the trainer informed me that Atticus was the worst dog she had ever tried to train. She worked on him for a full week and I would get updates like, "He is not right in his front end. I don't think he is very bright. He is extremely lazy. He is very barky." I slunk back at the end of the week to pick him up and Atticus looked up at me like, "What in the world did I ever do to deserve this crazy lady for a week?"

I faithfully followed the Dog Whisperer's advice...Be the pack leader...exercise, discipline, affection...rules, boundaries, limitations. But they are outside dogs and so they only obey when I am in sight. They have chewed everything they can reach including the sides and ends of our log home. The other week S accidentally left Grandma Ellie's back car door open. Atticus got in and had a hayday in the car...shredding ballpoint pens to smithereens and rooting around for food. They ate the red bows I put up outside for Christmas and chewed through the strands of Christmas lights. They have chewed through hoses, flip flops, bike knees pads, cell phone chargers, and would start in on anything left by UPS/FEDEX/DHL, etc.

We put in invisible fencing which completely freaked them out for the first week. Our landscapers accidentally cut the line while grading and the dogs figured out they could get out. I ordered a line break kit to figure out where the break was to fix it but not before Atticus gleefully ran to the river bottom and promptly got sprayed by a skunk. Now, whenever his fur gets damp, I get a strong smell of skunk all over again. I tried bathing the dogs in the bathtub and they were freaked out of their minds, so the smell will remain until the weather warms up again.

What makes me keep them around when they have cost me hundreds, if not thousands in care and items I have had to replace? I guess it's the same commitment and love that makes you keeps your kids around even on the days that they push every button you have.

O Brother, Where Art Thou?

S had so much fun playing with Susan's 5-year-old son Abe (or as we call him, "Aber Baber") that she is insistent that she really wants a brother.

Oh brother. She doth not knoweth whateth she asketh for...

I told her brothers aren't all as fun as Abe. In fact, I have distinct memories of the trauma inflicted by my own brother Jeff. He desperately wanted a brother to roughhouse with (and I have it on good authority that the only reason the last two of us kids came to be was because my parents were trying to fulfill that wish. Jeff was Kid #4 with three older sisters and four younger sisters. My parents wisely chose to quit trying after Erin was born) but since there were none, we became his fill-ins. I am six years younger than him but that did not deter Jeff from making me his wrestling dummy. Whatever torturous move he had learned, he would practice on us and yell at us if we weren't trying hard enough to win.

One such move was the famous "Lawnmower" where I had to lay on prostrate on the ground with my arms by my side. He would reach across me, grab my arm and yank my arm across my back as hard as possible (i.e. pretending to start a push lawnmower) until I would scream in pain and roll over. I guess I should be thankful for all his wrestling "practices" because I was the second grade wrestling champ in P.E. Yep, even beat my "boyfriend" Danny at the time - which I am sure endeared me to the guys in my grade for years. That, along with the fact that I was usually a few years ahead of everyone in physical development. Amazon Jane (insert jungle yell here).

My brother also introduced us to power wedgies and made Mary run around the yard because he didn't want a fat sister. He told Erin that if she didn't help him finish a pool fence, he would throw a hammer at her. Oh yes, and also told her that some scary being lived under his bed, then would start backing under his bed and pretend that the scary being had grabbed his ankles and was pulling him further under the bed. He would clutch at the carpet and act like he was in the throes of death, completely freaking Erin out.

And forget having a boyfriend if he was around...he didn't want any "meat scraps" dating his little sisters . He really can be blamed for most of Mom's gray hairs. Or at least for the reason that her Swiss pastries didn't rise (something about drinking the whiskey out of the bottle that Mom used for the recipe - which she diligently marked the level of after each use - and replacing it with black walnut extract and water.)

Jeff eventually grew up to be the hilarious, scary smart, neurotic brother that I love (and work with) every day but if S really thinks she wants a brother, I might invite Uncle Toffee (as the kids call him) to come on over, regress back and see if he can change her mind.

From Rags to Really, Really, Really Rich

We have been working on the issues of thankfulness and giving this month. The girls have battled some Prima Donna syndromes because they have been receiving a steady stream of new things since they have come to our house, thanks to the generosity of others. When at Christmastime, S was pouting because K had received an extra present (new shoes that she needed), Darren and I decided it was time to teach some lessons in gratitude.

We pulled out pictures of three different children we sponsor through World Relief, Compassion International, and World Vision and introduced the girls to Sanieka, Sam, and Yersson. We read their profiles to S & K, profiles which talked about the lack of education, food, and water unless sponsored and what the kids like to do for fun. We went over their living arrangements (Yersson's profile mentioned a house with a straw roof) and the girls' eyes got bigger and bigger. They wanted to know why anyone would have a straw roof akin to the "Three Little Pigs" story. I did my best to share with them that other kids in the world are thankful to get green beans to eat or one pair of shoes, let alone the volume of clothes, toys, and games the girls have (and yet, miraculously, have "nothing to do" on any given day).

That night at bedtime, S was saying her prayers, which usually go something like this, "And help me to go to sleep, and to not wake up very, very early, and if I do wake up early, to read books and not wake up my sister" (can you tell what has been an issue in the past?)...and the like. She wrapped up her prayer, and I told her that perhaps, instead of praying only about herself, she would pray for the kids whose pictures we had looked at.

Well, S is no slouch when it comes to prayer so she busts out, "And help those kids who are poor and help them to get lots and lots of toys and to be really, really, really rich.". Hmmm...not quite what I had in mind but she now faithfully prays that the "poor kids" get to lots of material possessions and the "really-s" increase in number each night (i.e. really, really, really, really, really rich).

Someday, I'll explain to her that "richness" has very little to do with money and more to do with her relationship with God, her family, her health, and her friends. After all, in the wisdom once printed on a No Fear t-shirt I saw, "He who dies with the most toys...still dies."

911, What is Your Emergency?

Ever since S and K got to play with Lauren and Megan's cell phone cameras, they have been dying to own a cell phone. Not so much for the talking function but to take random pictures. In fact, when K sat on Santa's lap and was asked what she wanted for Christmas, she told him a cell phone. He asked her if she also wanted a doll or candy or anything else and she slowly shook her head....nope, she was placing all her bets on a cell phone.

I shared this with my sister Erin who just happened to have an old cell phone that would still charge up and take pictures but was not connected to any live cell phone service. In fact, she had transferred the number over to her new phone. She brought the old cell phone home at Christmas time and it dutifully made it's way into the "shared" stocking on the fireplace.

The girls were ecstatic about their cell phone from Santa. They both ran around taking pictures of the refrigerator, the microwave, all the poles in the house, their foot, and other random, blurry objects. They would punch buttons and when the pre-recorded message that "service is not available. Please call your local provider to reactivate service" came over the voice lines, they were sure their phone was for real.

Yes, all was well in Merry Mobile Phone Land until S decided to pretend to call 911. Turns out that even an inactive cell phone will still dial 911 as we soon learned when Erin got a call back on her new phone asking if she had called 911. She got the call as she was stepping foot back into our house and quickly was able to pinpoint the location of the culprits (i.e. the smoking gun, or should I say, cell phone was still in their hands). She quickly assured the sheriff's dispatch that the only emergency was letting two little squirrely girls know that they could not call 911 again unless instructed to do so by their mom or dad.

Perfume Blindness, Tomato Watches and Bar Maids

This Christmas vacation has been an exercise in family bonding and a test to the depth of my sanity. The girls got an early start on the vacation because what was supposed to be the last day of school before vacation turned out to be canceled because of the weather. The girls now are so confused what day it is and wake up every day asking if it is Saturday.

We hosted my whole family for Christmas at our house. Turns out that is a great way to heat your house - 39 people in a room. The house looked like a certified disaster area afterwards but it was worth it. The nieces and nephews had a hayday dressing up. Mary's daughter Rachel crammed herself into the pink Power Ranger suit (and kept her clothes on underneath so it was a really tight fit) all day while Susan's daughter Lena pranced around in a blue princess dress. The only mishap we had was when K got into S's "High School Musical" perfume and sprayed herself in the eyes. She came to me squinting and crying...it was time the perfume found a hiding place anyway. S was putting more on every five minutes until I thought I was going to have to pass out gas masks or fumigate the house.

The girls were also a little out of sorts because the sleeping arrangements were different. Add to that some bad storms which, combined with the holiday chaos, made K wake up at 2:30 AM and would not go back to sleep. I stumbled out to look at Weather Channel Desktop and mumbled to Darren that there was a tornado watch. K must have overheard me because when I asked her the next morning if the storms had scared her, she said, "Yes, there was a TOMATO coming. We need to lock the doors so the POTATO doesn't get in." Yes, fruits and starches can be nasty intruders.

We capped off the time with my family by staying in a local hotel so the kids could swim. This was a first or near first time experience for S and K. They have never had swimming lessons but have been "practicing" in the bathtub. When they first came, they were deathly afraid of water on their face or in their ears or in their eyes. You can imagine the shrieks at shampoo time. But they actually caught on very quicky. Jeff's wife Bethany used to swim for a local college and she spent some time with them at the hotel. They got blue swim caps, goggles and suits for Christmas so they looked quite hilarious...the swim caps pushed their eyes down and the goggles pushed their eyes up so they looked Asian.

Later on, S was gloating at how good she had become at swimming and proudly proclaimed at the dinner table that she could "swim like a bar maid". I'm going to assume she meant a "mermaid" but if not, hope she can swim over here and bring me a chilled glass of Moscato D'Asti...for my stomach's infirmities, of course. Or maybe just to cope with the remaining days of Christmas chaos...I mean, vacation.