Eyes in the Backamyhead

My girls are amazed at my ability to detect when they are doing something they shouldn't be doing behind my back. I suppose some of it is a sixth sense you develop as a mother...like the sense to know when things are "too quiet" or to have laser precision hearing to pick up on the terse, whispered "Stop touching me or I'm telling Mom"s that are sniper-fired back and forth.

I tell the girls the reason I know is that I have Eyes in the Backamyhead! Someday, I'll tell them it's really because, due to the black microwave over my stove reflecting all that goes on behind me, I can see when they are picking, poking, kicking, making faces and muttering to each other.

The other day, Elisabeth was trying to style my hair (code word for painful brushing of my hair and ears, and several multicolored hair bands being put at the bottom of loosely twisted hair) when she pauses, puzzled, and turns around to face me.

"I don't see them, Mom!" she says with furrowed brow. "What don't you see?" I ask, thinking she is missing the last of the 3,298 hair bands she wants to use in my hair. "The eyes in the back of your head."

Whoops! And being the good, nurturing Christian Mother-of-the-Year (Still waiting on my crown and sash), I lie to her.

"Really?" I tell her, "Maybe you have to be a mom to see them. But never fear...they are there. And they develop x-ray vision when you turn 13."

Miserable Mom Mix-Up

Some things you hear as an adoptive mom just make you shake your head and laugh. My sister Renee and her husband adopted Grace from China several years ago. Grace is now 7 and quite a character. Renee sent me an email that said:

"Grace [said] to me one day when she wasn't happy with me (which happens often):

'I don't think you are the right mom for me. I think you adopted me just to make me miserable!'

(Grace's mom tries to repress snorting laughter)."

Hmmm...mounds of paperwork, mucho dinero, several red tape nightmares, heinously long flights with SARS masks on, all done so one little girl could leave behind an orphanage where she spent the majority of her waking hours in a walker - so much so that it took several years for her legs to unbow - and come into a extended family that loves her more than life itself and wouldn't trade her for all the tea in, well, China. I think she got EXACTLY the right mom. And it's our job as a mom to sometimes make our kids miserable;-) It's a right of parenthood, no?

Orange Spastic Hoopster

In one of my many attempts to keep from ending up in a pretty white sweater with funny sleeves this summer, I enrolled Squirrel #1 in an all day basketball camp for four days at the local college. It probably sounds like a lot for a 7-year-old to handle but my thought was "Hmmm...she's occupied all day, learning something useful, fed lunch, and will be tired by bedtime...all this for a mere $70...that's one cheap babysitter!"

No, I don't harbor hopes that she'll be the smash hit of the WNBA, and I hope others don't expect her to be the next Sheryl Swoops just because she is black. But she is a tomboy so she was non-plussed that she was in a group of all boys for her age bracket.

I went to pick her up the first day and I see she is scrimmaging. She's got a bright orange jersey on that is several sizes too large and she has to keep hiking it up to keep in on one shoulder. She sees me and waves, oblivious to the fact that she is supposed to be playing basketball. Her team runs down to the other end of the court and she is still dancing in the end zone (or whatever it's called in basketball...hey, I played six-on-six basketball in Iowa and it was only for one miserable 8th grade year so my sports knowledge is extremely limited).

I motion for her to run down to the other end. She finally turns around and realizes she needs to hustle. Her team of boys thinks that girls have cooties so she rarely, if ever, gets the ball passed to her but when she does, she doesn't attempt a basket, she just scoops the ball back outside the three point line again.

Four days later, she is excited that she knows how to pivot, bounce pass, and alternate swooping the ball between her legs. She has team pictures on the last day and at awards time, she is given a certificate for participation. She's thrilled, although a little saddened that she didn't make "Camper of the Day" any of the days. Beings that that honor required someone who paid attention and followed directions, she would have had a major uphill battle to win that one;-)

We get her team pictures back and Darren and I howled for a good 15 minutes with laughter at Elisabeth's face in the team picture. See for yourself:

Why Wild Animals Eat Their Young

I looked out my window tonight and saw a full moon...but I could have just as well have guessed based on the week I am having. As if the daily adventures of two ADHD squirrels isn't enough (and by ADHD, think of Mexican jumping beans on a caffeine bender), the week got more interesting when Kate fell off the see saw. I am not one of those hyper medical moms that rush their kid to the ER for every sniffle but I kept looking at her arm, testing her functionality, checking for inflammation and warmth, when I noticed it was hanging kind of funny.

Better safe than sorry, I put the two squirrels in the van and rushed to the local prompt care. Elisabeth doesn't do well in enclosed spaces when she has to sit still and be quiet longer than 2.3 milliseconds so she was bouncing around the exam room, getting into everything. When I told her to get off the doctor's spinning stool, she started to whine. I'm in a public place so I really can't discipline as normal (did I mention spanking is finally okay?!!!!), so I used my best threatening, under my breath voice to try to get her to chillax.

Finally, the doctor came in and examined Kate. He couldn't see a visible fracture but announced that Kate's forearm bone was "bowed". He gave us a referral to see an orthopedic doctor a few days later. Kate's arm was wrapped in a splint and we were sent home with instructions not to get it wet.

Right.

Despite my best plastic bag and tape job, Kate got it wet. And she got it wet again in the bathtub despite Husband's warnings for her to keep it on the edge of the tub. We went to to the ortho doctor today and he cut the splint and wrapping off, only to find leaves underneath the splint.

Wonderful.

He decided she should have a cast for four weeks and she picked hot pink. The nurse tried to get Kate to rate her pain but she didn't have a clue what she was supposed to be doing. Meanwhile, Elisabeth - again - was bouncing off the walls in the exam room (sigh).

Then off to the social security administration office to change their social security numbers and get cards with their names on them. We endured an interminable government office wait that made the DMV look like a McDonald's drive-thru. The squirrels decided they would hop across the waiting area while I was trying to get the forms filled out and information copied for the clerk.

Did I also mention that Kate cut her own hair? Not all of it....just a large chunk out of the left side...and down to the scalp. Too big an area to braid/cornrow around so amidst the weeping and gnashing of teeth, I had to cut the rest of her hair off. She looks like a little shorn sheep. Black hair takes FOREVER to grow so she will be my shorn sheep for a while. I should have known this was forthcoming when I saw several strands of blond Barbie hair in the basement that someone had cut off the dolls. But neither squirrel was 'fessing up despite both Husband and I warning them that punishment for lying was twice as bad as for cutting off Barbie hair.

So this is my week...and I am staring down the barrel of an eight and a half hour drive tomorrow and a week long stay in my hometown with two squirrels and no husband. After today, I understand why animals in the wild eat their young.

The Homicide of Punxsutawney Phil

At approximately 1400 hours 31st of July, a little-known blog writer was alerted to a potential homicide underneath her deck. Upon further investigation, two black, barking hairy suspects were seen cornering what the little-known blog writer was convinced was a badger. The "badger" was clicking and chomping its teeth while the two Barking Suspects were foaming at the mouth and taking turns nipping the Alleged Badger Victim.

The little-known blog writer shouted to her two cohorts - AKA Squirrel 1 and Squirrel 2 - to get her a broom and her mud boots. Outfitted in her mud boots and wielding a broom, the little-known blog writer made an attempt to roust the Alleged Badger Victim from its corner, only to have the Alleged Badger Victim start after the little-known blog writer. This convinced the little-known blog writer to let the two Barking Suspects handle this - it could now be labeled as self-defense - a justifiable homicide.

The two Barking Suspects eventually positioned themselves to chase the Alleged Badger Victim out of its corner, while Barking Suspect #1 (AKA Sasha) latched onto the Alleged Badger Victim's neck while Barking Suspect #2 (AKA Atticus) sunk his teeth into the spinal column. Both Barking Suspects raced around the lawn, hanging on for dear life until the Alleged Badger Victim gave up the ghost.

The little-known blog writer put a call in to Husband amidst the chaos to which he replied that it was probably not a badger but a ground hog. The little-known blog writer thought he said "Prairie Dog" and remembered hours of countless film reels she had to watch in elementary about stupid prairie dogs and shouted "It's not a ground hog. I know what a badger looks like."

[Note: Upon further Google searching, the little-known blog writer discovered that it was indeed a groundhog].

When the Barking Suspects finally dropped the Alleged GROUNDHOG Victim, the little-known blog writer was heard loudly praising the suspects for their good work. The W-county coroner was called in and the cause of death was determined to be multiple puncture wounds to the thoracic and cervical region.

The Barking Suspects were released on bail and dog treats. When interviewed, the little-known blog writer justified the homicide by saying: "Serves that stupid groundhog right! He always sees his shadow on Feb. 2 and we are stuck with six more weeks of winter."

Authorities are investigating. Expert witness Nelson, a hunting/trapping brother outlaw of the little-known blog writer, indicated that had this indeed been a badger, the story would have ended more like "Where the Red Fern Grows."

Scrabblemaster Joe Famous Pancakes

A few weeks back, I attended a family reunion for the family on my mom's side. My main motivation was to see a beloved uncle that is dearer to me than he will ever know - Uncle Joe. I used to stay at his house when the family would go down to M-town at Thanksgiving to visit Grandma. Uncle Joe would play Scrabble with me and show me how to make hash and eggs. Best of all, Sunday mornings, Uncle Joe would make, what he called, his "Joe Famous Pancakes".

Uncle Joe was one of kindest men I ever knew. I never knew him to get angry or pessimistic. Rumor has it when he was pulled over for speeding, he would thank the officer for keeping the roads safe. Somehow, coming from Uncle Joe, it sounded sincere. And he managed to get out of several tickets that way. Knowing Joe, he meant what he said!

Uncle Joe had a Purple Heart medal hanging in his office. I used to go in there to look at it. Even then, I knew a Purple Heart was something special. I asked my mom about the story behind it and this is what she shared:

"Uncle Joe was a medic in the army stationed on the island of Luzon in the Philippines in WWII. They were marching...I think single file...through a narrow opening. The first man got shot. Then I think the second man through got shot. After that they called "Litter bearers forward." Being a medic, that meant Joe and the likes. He started through and was shot in the arm. I asked him once what he thought at he started forward, and he said, "I thought this was "it"."

I'm so glad God spared Uncle Joe's life that day because he went on to create an amazing legacy of faith in his family and throughout his life. He always made you feel special just being around him and had this slightly mischievous twinkle in his eye.

His eyesight is faded now and his hearing is starting to go as well. He doesn't always remember names and gets around with his walker now. His family tells me that he is sad to know the "end is near" for him as he'll miss out on the lives of his great-grandkids growing up even though I'm sure he looks forward to seeing Jesus face-to-face.

Here's what I wanted to tell Uncle Joe when I saw him but I was too choked up to do so...

That though he will someday, possibly soon, be absent in the body, he will always be present in spirit. He is a giant of a man who I count as one of the best of human beings. And when, Lord willing, someday we all join him beyond the gates of splendor, I'll be looking forward to another Scrabble game and a plate of his Joe Famous Pancakes.

Turkish Bumps and Whiplash Collars

I am on my newest Get Fit campaign - I think this is # 4,567 - after seeing a picture of me on Facebook in which (from the side) I resemble Sponge Bob Square Pants. I just can't face climbing on the Treadmill from Hell again so this time, I DVR'd some "fitness classes" off of FiTV. My newest endeavor? Belly Dancing.

Ah yes, you're shaking your head because you know I have locked hips like most white people raised on a farm in Iowa but I am trying to get them to unhinge so that I can work on my abs and flexibility.

The first night saw me down in the basement learning the basic moves - the first of which was putting my hands up on either side of my head (a la the 80s Madonna "Vogue" videos) and swiveling my head left and right. It was the sideways version of "Walking Like an Egyptian" and I quickly had it down.

Then I was to move on to the "Turkish Bump" in which you put one leg forward and pop a hip out without moving your upper body. I call this move "shutting the kitchen drawer while my hands are full".

Then on to "Figure Eights" in which my hips were supposed to hit four points (back, left, right, front) alternating from hip to hip. A few fancy arm movements and I was on my way to beginner's belly dancing. Much turkish bumping, figure eighting, and head swiveling later, I figured I was good enough to show Husband.

"Look," I said, poised and ready to Turkish Bump. He glances over from one of the three thousand episodes of "UFC" he watches. "I am learning to belly dance." I pop a hip out and he gives me a smirk. "Are you trying to turn me on?" he asks. "Nope," I say, "Just my good looks does that. I'm trying to get in shape." He returns to his show and I call it a night, realizing I need one of the those skirts and scarves with jangly things on them to make this belly dancing thing really authentic.

The next morning I wake up and I feel like I have spent the night at a junior high dance...you know, the one where you have one dance move which is to put your arms on your partner's shoulders and shuffle, straightlegged, from leg to leg while slowly turning in a circle and not looking at your partner. And my neck is in need of a whiplash collar.

I don't know about my abs and my flexibility but much more of this, and I may need a titanium double hip replacement. Getting old is not for cowards. Or for belly dancers.