A Ruined Target Shopping Trip and Other Things That Annoy Parents

It should be illegal for the Icee machine at Target to ever, ever be broken.

I usually like to make my trips to “the mecca” solo, but when I do have to bring a kid or two along, $1.69 + tax is a small price to pay to insure I can give Target my full shopping attention, as it rightfully deserves.

So you can imagine my terror when I arrived at the snack counter today, with Michael in tow, and ordered a medium ICEE (a medium is a nice compromise between the completely unnecessary sugar spaz that comes with a large, and the decreased browsing time that a small buys), only to have my request met with the words, “The ICEE machine is brrrrooooookeeeeeennnn.” (I write it that way to denote how the word sounded to me at the moment…like in the movies when everything happens in slow-mo, and you hear something in that deep, drawn-out voice that signals catastrophe.)

Well, crap.

“We have popcorn.” Thanks, but that doesn’t help me whatsoever. What good is popcorn when all it will do is make Michael thirsty, prompting him to ask for an ICEE? Does Mr. Snack Counter Man not foresee this vicious cycle?

I simply tell him, “Thanks anyway,” as I walk away. I break the news to Michael, which of course results in a pitiful, whimpering cry. And I realize there will be no moments of self-actualization or nirvana on this particular Target trip.

So while we are on the subject, here are a few other things that I think should be illegal in order to make parents’ lives a lot easier:

1. Other parents announcing in public that they are taking their kids to McDonald’s. Every parenting handbook should warn against committing this act of terrorism on fellow parents. It’s just not a nice thing to do to those who have children within earshot of that announcement. Any parent who breaks this rule should be subject to a punishment that lasts as long as the endless whining that results from my children overhearing that OTHER kids get to go to McDonald’s, but THEIR mom hates them and gives them peanut butter for the fourth time this week.

You may need to pray, but this pew is just begging to have my cars driven all over it.

2. Churches with no cry rooms. It may be the House of the Lord, but surely having no cry room is the Devil’s doing. It’s hard enough to receive God’s Word when you have a two-year-old asking for Cheerios and pointing out that there are no pictures in the hymnals, but it’s near impossible when you have the added stares of people wondering why you can’t control your children. Yes, you are justified in your indignation Ms. Judgey McJudgepants…it is completely acceptable to expect a toddler to sit quietly still for forty-five minutes to an hour. I’m sure all of YOUR children did in the good old days. Thankfully, our church does have a cry room, but I have been to my fair share of ones that didn’t. And it is just not fun. In the worst cases, I honestly wondered what was the point of me even being there. In fact, do you want to know how important I think cry rooms are? One of the reasons we actually chose to join the parish we did was because it had a more welcoming cry room than the other nearby parish. It may sound a little shallow, but I can tell you I have had mostly pleasant church experiences. Nothing frees you up to get closer to God than not having to worry when your kid decides to sing the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle song instead of “On Eagle’s Wings.”  

I’d like to give whoever invented these a swift kick in the pants

3. Giving Fuse Beads as a birthday present. If you don’t know what Fuse Beads are, consider yourself lucky. While in theory they are a mild-mannered craft project, in reality they are minuscule menaces that are impossible for children without fully developed dexterity to handle, which inevitably end up all over your floor. Or in our case, the entire bucket is found during a Halloween party and the contents dumped all throughout the basement. However, I am ashamed to admit, I just broke this rule. But in my defense, I didn’t do it on purpose. My husband likes to find toys on sale and buy up a couple to have on hand for whenever one of the kids is invited to a birthday party. Grace had a party to go to today, and I didn’t worry about finding a gift because I knew we had our stockpile. Well, when I went to get the gift (of course, right before we had to leave for the party) I found that all I had to choose from was one lonely box of Fuse Beads. When Kurt saw what I had, he said, “I thought you liked Abby’s mom.” I replied that I did. “Then WHY are you giving Abby Fuse Beads?” I did apologize to Abby’s mom when I dropped off Grace…luckily she’s a laid-back lady and is used to having Fuse Beads dotting her floors. But I know my parental karmic payback is coming.

Now let’s commiserate…feel free to comment about other things you feel should be made illegal. I know this list can be much, much longer…

It’s a Dog-Eat-Turtle World

Our dog Scout is about as sweet and undemanding as animals come, which (by the fact that the rest of our family registers at varying degrees of selfish and demanding) pretty much makes her the low man on the totem pole in our house. This past weekend, poor Scout did something that knocked her down even one more rung lower on that hierarchical ladder: she found a turtle.

All the comforts of home

We were all in the backyard on Friday evening, enjoying the beginning of Memorial Day weekend. Kurt and I were lounging in the hammock watching the kids play in the sprinkler (can’t you just picture us in one of those new JCPenney commercials?), when Scout emerged from a hunting excursion under a bush with something rather large in her mouth. Upon discovering it was a turtle, the kids declared that we had a new pet, and the immediate construction of a new turtle habitat began (a.k.a. a cardboard box with one stick, a clump of grass, and a few stray leaves to make the box “feel like nature,” along with a hunk of kale in case the turtle stopped peeing himself out of fear long enough to realize he was hungry). And with that, Scout lost her new chew toy AND her spot of most beloved family pet.

The naming discussion begins

Logically, the next thing to do was name the turtle. Michael immediately went to his second go-to name of “Max” (his first go-to name usually being “Bob”), which Grace of course vetoed right away…mostly because she didn’t come up with it. She wanted to make up a name using the first letter of each name in the family. But being that “KKGM” has no vowels, it didn’t have a real good ring to it. Then there was talk of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, which of course led to the name “Michaelangelo.” That was the favorite Michael settled on, but not before offering the very typical and very expected suggestion of “Toot Tootbutt.” This was vetoed for obvious reasons. I thought I would throw out the name “Atticus.” I mean, how perfect, right? Scout and Atticus. I giggled in my head as I pictured Atticus the Turtle lecturing Scout the Dog that she could eat all the blue jays she wanted, but that it was a sin to eat a mockingbird, “because mockingbirds don’t do anything but make music for us to enjoy.” But alas, my seven-year-old and three-year-old didn’t get my literary allusion. Grace, in her creative fashion, wanted to name him “Turtelo.” Finally it was decided: “Michaelangelo Atticus Turtelo.” We’ll call him MAT for short.

Scout was ready to fight for her turf.

Scout just wanted to call the turtle “dinner,” and soon her innocent sniffing became more aggressive paw batting and gnawing…which sent Grace into a fit of dramatic crying that mean bully Scout was going to kill this new pet that she loved so much. The turtle was gaining even more ground in the battle for most beloved family pet.

About, oh, five minutes after christening the turtle with his new name, Grace curiously wondered if maybe, just maybe, the turtle was a GIRL.

Our newest beloved pet. Call me crazy, but I think the turtle is looking for a little tongue…

Now we have to start all over again. Michael thought the very best name for a girl turtle was “Crystal.” At first, Kurt and I found this to be odd, but then considering the connotation that sometimes comes along with that name, maybe it wasn’t such a bad choice for an animal that has its own mobile home. (I do apologize to any Crystals who may be reading this…from their mobile homes). Grace wanted to name the turtle “Jennifer” after my brother’s girlfriend. (Jennifer, if you’re reading this…not from a mobile home… I’m guessing that’s an honor?) So again, the compromise of “Jennifer Crystal” was made.

All of this agonizing decision-making was really a moot point though, because the next morning we found that Michaelangelo Atticus Turtelo/Jennifer Crystal had somehow escaped from its new “natural” habitat and was nowhere to be found. Apparently we should have named him “Houdini.”

Grace and her first fish, “Herbert”

There is a happy ending for Scout though, as she now remains our one and only beloved pet. She came close to having some more competition two days later when Grace caught her very first fish during our day trip to Innsbrook Resort. I think she would have gladly kept “Herbert,” except that we had to throw him back by law, which was even less of a reason than the fact that the poor fish ended up having a fatal encounter with her hook. Really, we should have expected Herbert’s demise considering the track record we had with our series of goldfish a few years ago: R.I.P. CallieEllas I-III and Chocolate Milks I-IV.

Now that I think of it, maybe instead of worrying about being our most beloved pet, Scout should just be happy she’s made it nine years…

Andy Cohen Meets The Real Housewives of St. Louis

It’s official. I am 2-2 when it comes to saying absolutely ridiculous things to celebrities. My first moronic blubbering happened when I met Micky Dolenz of the The Monkees last summer. My second just recently occurred at a book signing with Andy Cohen, Bravo television executive and champion of The Real Housewives franchise…who also happens to be a fellow St. Louis native. Because of this, I have decided I should cloister myself away with my computer and only interact with the public via my blog. Apparently, I am really lame in person.

Cohen’s new book, “Most Talkative”

Cohen made an appearance at the St. Louis County Library last Friday to publicize his new book Most Talkative: Stories from the Front Lines of Pop Culture, and my friend Catherine and I thought it would be fun to go see him. We are both guilty of being Real Housewives fans after all, and I have a little soft spot for Cohen. Aside from marveling at his grace under fire during every Housewives reunion special, he is also responsible for bringing the shows Top Chef and Project Runway into my life, one of which sparked my interest in sewing, leading me to spend precious bonding time with my grandmother learning her tricks of the trade for pillow shams…the other sparking my interest to gain five pounds. There’s also a sense of pride that comes along with seeing a likable homegrown boy make it in the big city. But mostly, I was hoping to get some Housewives dirt. I was sorely disappointed on that front. But “bravo” to Cohen for being smart enough not to bite the obnoxiously blinged-out hands that feeds him. That’s some good old Midwestern common sense.

After I took this photo, I looked at Catherine and said, “This is SO Andy”…because, you know, we’re pretty close and I know this stuff.

I like that Cohen is a proud St. Louisan. He often references being a native of The Lou on his live late night talk show, Watch What Happens: Live. And he was just as appalled as I when, during a game of Pictionary with a couple of the Real Housewives, Kyle Richards had no idea what the St. Louis Arch was. He is a loud and proud Cardinals fan. And a recent article in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch relayed his feelings on his place of birth: ”When I tell people I grew up in St. Louis, their first reaction (is sometimes) ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ (…) Here’s what: Apology not accepted — or needed. I loved growing up there.”

Wearing my “Housewives of St. Louis” tee-shirt. Cohen did acknowledge it when he signed my book: “Kelly! RHOSTL!”

Given the props Cohen routinely gives to his roots, Catherine and I thought it would be funny and perhaps (not so) clever to make The Real Housewives of St. Louis tee-shirts to wear to the book signing. (Cohen did make clear during the interview with McGraw Millhaven prior to the book signing that there will never be a St. Louis Housewives…for purely selfish reasons. As he put it, he doesn’t want to be home for a relaxing Thanksgiving break and run into the “Ramona of St. Louis.”) So I took a little trip to Walmart (because that’s where any good Housewife gets her apparel) for some $4 tee shirts and printable iron-on transfers. I spent a good thirty minutes or so recreating the Real Housewives logo with our esteemed city name and icon of choice: Orange County has the orange, Atlanta has the peach, New York has the apple, Beverly Hills has diamond-studded sunglasses…what better to represent St. Louis than the Imo’s pizza logo! Not only does it have the Arch, but it is also the symbol of the square-beyond-compare of delectable provel cheese…the cheese to which Cohen confessed to loving, though he touted it as the cheese they put on salads at Cafe Manhattan, not mentioning Imo’s once. What???? I have to admit I doubted he was REALLY from St. Louis for a moment.

Anyway, Catherine and I were totally digging our shirts, despite the fact that we were surrounded by women who were dressed as if they were auditioning for Real Housewives themselves. It’s all good, we thought. All the more reason we’ll stand out. Catherine even dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, Cohen would love our shirts so much he’d give us a “mazel” on his talk show. That was stretching it a bit, but surely he would love our playful sense of humor, right?

So our turn came to get our books signed. I walk up to Cohen and immediately thrust my hip to the side, point at my chest with both hands, and say in a somewhat cocky manner, “Like my shirt?” Oh…my…God. He smiled a little and said “Aw, cute.” But it was totally in the tone someone uses when she first sees a friend who has just gotten her hair butchered at the salon. Really? I spent a good thirty minutes on this tee-shirt buddy! Perhaps to make up for my failed attempt to win his friendship with my shirt, I go on to say, “Thanks for always representin’ the STL.” ……………??????????????? Yes, that was “representin’” minus the “g” and “STL”…not “St. Louis.” I actually used the letters S-T-L preceded by the word “the.” I will no longer comment on this for there really are no words. What I SHOULD have said was, “Please tell Alexis Bellino to stop reminding people she’s from Missouri, because it’s giving us a bad name.”

Totally adorable?

One of the librarians quickly snapped a photo of Catherine and I with Cohen. I was excited to see it since the librarian kept saying how “adorable” the photo was as she was taking it. She very obviously loved our shirts and found them very clever (aHEM, Mr. Cohen). However, either she was in need of a new prescription for her glasses, or she just thought Catherine and I were more “adorable” if our faces were blurry, because the photo was a pretty big fail.

But all in all, I give the experience two thumbs up. Sure, I wish we had gotten a better reaction about our shirts, but really, it’s not like it was this crazy original idea. And we had fun with it, so that’s all that matters.

In honor of Cohen I will end this post in a similar fashion to how he wraps up each episode of Watch What Happens: Live…with my “Jackhole of the Day” and my “Mazel of the Day.”

My “Jackhole of the Day” goes to the crazypants woman from Iowa who expected Cohen to recognize her voice since she had called into his show three times, and who both asked to be his wife and wanted to know what her chances were of becoming a Real Housewife. His response? A very honest probably not that good. Honey, if Real Housewives of St. Louis doesn’t have a chance, I wouldn’t hold out any hope for Real Housewives of Des Moines.

My “Mazel of the Day” goes to Cohen himself for giving me something fun to do with my good friend on a Friday night. Then again, the rest of my day consisted of a trip to Walmart, making an unappreciated tee-shirt, and cleaning up my dog’s barf off of our living room carpet…so he really didn’t have all that much competition. Now THAT’S the life of a Real Housewife.

The Greatest Mother’s Day Gift

Do you smell that? It’s the smell of tempera paint, clay, a fresh pack of construction paper, and Elmer’s glue mixed with some misshapen waffles and the aroma of overpriced flowers. Ah…the smell of Mother’s Day.

Kids (and dads) everywhere are hustling to put final touches on homemade gifts. Reservations for brunch are being made. Men of the family are struggling to put together menus for family get-togethers that don’t consist solely of barbequed meat and beer. Gift certificates for manicures, pedicures, and massages are being bought at an alarming rate. Hallmark stock is likely skyrocketing.

What mothers REALLY want for Mother’s Day (from https://www.facebook.com/guggiedaily)

I myself always look forward to seeing what my kids and husband cook up for me every Mother’s day, both literally and figuratively. But as a post my friend Maggie (check out her awesome blog at Perspectives Writing & Editing…little plug) made the other day on Facebook, it really does not take much to show us mothers some honest appreciation. I would be happy if my kids could just understand that I would give my life for them at any given second of any given day…and treat me accordingly as the unselfish and heroic queen that willingness to sacrifice proves me to be, bowing to my every wish and command. I guess breakfast in bed is nice, too.

But honestly, nothing my children could give me could ever match the gift I was given simply with their advents into my life: a true and pure understanding of unconditional love. Never have I ever been so angry or upset with my kids that I did not tiptoe myself into their rooms after they were asleep, whisper a kiss across their foreheads, and silently thank God for the dreaming little blessings before me. And it will always be that way. I know that because the moment my oldest child came to be and I was able to feel that unconditional love stirring within me was also the moment I understood, for the very first time, just how much I was loved by someone else. For me, it took becoming a mother to know the depths of my own mother’s love for me. To look at my daughter and my son, to feel my adoration without horizons for them, and to realize I am the source of that same feeling in someone else…well…that is a beautiful revelation.

I think those of us especially with young children get wrapped up in Mother’s Day being “ours.” We are now a part of that sacred female community, and we feel a bit entitled to a day where we get a pat on the back for surviving sleep deprivation, temper tantrums, and assaults of various disgusting messes and smells. But when you get those adorable cards with crayon lettering, framed handprints, and handmade beaded necklaces that you will sentimentally treasure for the rest of your days, just remember that somewhere in a box or a closet in the house you grew up in, your mother has packed away all those little things you made for her. And now, you will understand why.

Me and my Mama

Happy Mother’s Day, especially to my mom. I love you.

(P.S. Mom, you just said the other day that you told someone, “Her blog will make you laugh…and cry.” Well, I’m guessing the tissues are out on this one. Sorry.)

Snookie and Star Wars: Teaching Our Kids to Be Culturally Literate

A few days ago, on the morning of May 4th to be exact, Grace emerged from her bedroom and greeted me with the phrase, “May the fourth be with you.” I must have looked at her a little strangely because she followed with the explanation, “It’s from this movie called Star Wars, in case you didn’t know.”

Duh..

My first instinct was to say sarcastically, “Thanks. Of course I know that’s a play off of Star Wars…EVERYONE knows that.” But then I realized why I must have looked at her strangely in the first place: because SHE wouldn’t know that phrase was a play off of Star Wars. She is a seven-year-old little girl who has never seen the movie, so she obviously learned “May the fourth be with you” from someone at school. And since she didn’t know why it was a cleverly funny phrase, she assumed I wouldn’t know either.

I think sometimes we parents take for granted that our kids know about things that seem obvious to us, things that are part of our everyday social fabric. It is something called cultural literacy, a body of general and collective knowledge that we expect everyone to be familiar with. Like Star Wars, for example. One would assume that at the mention of that movie, every person within listening distance would know what was being discussed. But we are not born knowing this stuff, and part of our job as parents is to raise kids who have a good fundamental literacy of our culture…which means yes, we do have to answer all those seemingly endless stupid questions that flow from their mouths in a steady current of mind-numbing frequency. Thankfully, our exasperated answers are really helping to build our children’s ties to society’s collective knowledge so they are less likely to always be that person figuratively just climbing out from under a rock.

When I was in college I read the book Cultural Literacy: What Every American Needs to Know by E.D. Hirsch, Jr.  In it, Hirsch takes the position that children are not learning what they need in order to become culturally literate members of society, and he also includes what he believes are necessary pieces of information that every American should know. It is no secret that many believe Americans are getting “dumber” with each new generation. Jay Leno has his popular “Jaywalking” bit that proves the average American can struggle with information that SHOULD be a no-brainer. I am not so sure that we are really dumber than we used to be, but I would argue that what is considered to be “common knowledge” has been changing.

And it changes quickly. What seems to be something everyone in a certain age set knows can be completely unknown to another age set, even just a few years younger. As a new teacher, I figured I had an advantage in being able to identify with the culture of my high school students who were sometimes less than ten years younger than me. I would often compare literary characters to celebrities in modern culture to make things more relevant. This usually worked, but there were a few occasions where what I thought would be hysterical and helpful just fell completely flat.

“Like sands through the hourglass…”

Like the time I spent hours creating a lesson plan where I compared each of the Greek gods and goddesses to characters on “Days of Our Lives” (mythology really WAS the first soap opera), only to find out that pretty much none of my students had ever watched the show. WHAT???? Didn’t they grow up with the afternoon drama of Bo and Hope as the background soundtrack as they played Barbies and their moms ironed clothes? Didn’t they try to arrange their high school class schedules so they had last period free and could watch “Days” in the senior lounge like I did? No, apparently they did not. And then there was the time I thought I was SO funny when I recreated the last act of Julius

My attempt at humor with the final act of Julius Caesar

Caesar as a movie storyboard to help my students keep all the events of the final battle straight. After listing out the “starring” cast of characters from the play, I playfully added “and DON KNOTTS as The Messenger.” Funny, right? Except that none of my students knew who Don Knotts was. Part of me wanted to tell them to watch some “Nick at Night” for homework. As far as I was concerned, that was a failure of cultural literacy.

But I guess that begs the question is cultural literacy a static concept? Obviously, it can’t be. As time marches on, there are more people, events, concepts, books, movies, etc. that inspire and change our culture, and therefore should become part of our common literacy. But once something is considered part of our collective knowledge, must it always maintain that status for future generations? Snookie has certainly become a person of reference known to the masses, but if the average person on Jaywalking in the year 2112 fails to know who the orange-tinted guidette on “Jersey Shore” is (or what a “guidette” is for that matter), should the American public be appalled? I am going to say no on that one. I would argue that there are two types of cultural literacy: generational (to which Ms. Snookie would belong) and trans-generational (to which George Washington would belong).

Considering that the “may the fourth be with you” joke has clearly amused a new young generation of fans, I’m guessing Star Wars has safely retained its spot in trans-generational cultural literacy. But I’m wondering, what will remain common knowledge to my children’s generation?  What will fall by the wayside? And I’m interested to know what YOU think should be taught to today’s children to ensure a society of a culturally literate public. As Linda Richman of Coffee Talk used to say: I’ll give you a topic. Cultural Literacy. It’s both cultural and literate. Discuss… 

Osmosis Boy’s Trip to the Grocery Store

At my recent conference with Michael’s preschool teacher, she told me something interesting. She said that she and his other teacher refer to him as “Osmosis Boy,” meaning that he never looks like he’s paying any attention, but somehow, everything seems to sink in. At first I thought this was probably a pretty accurate description of him. But the more I thought of it, I was not so sure.

Sometimes I think he is just NOT paying attention…at all. If indeed the osmosis process was occurring, I surely wouldn’t be beating my head against the wall multiple times a day over his behavior. You would think that saying, “Please don’t color on things that aren’t paper,” five million times would sink in. Or that setting parameters for behavior before we go someplace would take just ONE of these times. I remember when Grace was little, my husband and I took a Love and Logic parenting course that all but promised us that if we were consistent in our expectations, our kids would catch on. I guess they never said how long we needed to be consistent for. Apparently three-and-a-half years isn’t quite long enough.

Case in point: a recent visit to the grocery store.

Michael and I ran up to the grocery store the other day to pick up some flowers for my mom. She recently had a pretty bad accident where she passed out, fell, and fractured her neck, resulting in a contusion on her spinal cord. After fear that she was paralyzed, she thankfully began regaining feeling in her limbs. However, she still has a long road ahead of her to a full recovery. After having neck surgery last week, she is now focusing on intensive rehab to get her back on her feet. It has been a scary situation for my family, but we are counting our blessings as things could have been a lot worse.

So right after the accident occurred, we ran in to get some flowers on the way to the hospital. That is all we had a to get…flowers. A five-minute endeavor. I even explained to Michael that this would be a quick little trip, and that he could help me pick out which flowers to get for “Mimi.” He asked if he could get a cookie (our grocery store lets kids pick out one from the bakery for free), and I told him if he was a good helper, he could get one. Sounds good. Parameters set. Let’s get some flowers.

We were doomed from the moment we entered the store. Of course, like any red-blooded child, Michael wanted to ride in one of the baskets with the car attached to the front. I explained that we didn’t need a basket since we were only getting flowers, but we would use one next time. I really did not want to push that giant, awkward, impossibe-to-maneuver cart around if I didn’t have to. So that STARTED the tantrum. I almost gave in but told myself I needed to stick to my guns. Love and logic, Kelly…love and logic.

The tantrum continued into the florist section, where Michael refused to help me pick out flowers and instead began punching the mylar balloons that were attached to various arrangements. Awesome. Keep your cool, Kelly. The florist kindly asked me if I needed any help, to which I replied, “Yeah, you want to take my son?” She quickly and wisely said no, saying she has already been there, done that. At least I was getting some sympathy.

Then Michael had the audacity to demand we go and get that free cookie. Oh really?

“Only good helpers get cookies. I’m sorry to say you can’t get a cookie today.”

Well that did it. It was the three-and-a-half year old apocalypse. There was screaming. There was thrashing. And there was storming off…in the direction of the bakery. “That little…”

I grabbed some flowers and took off after my now sprinting son. I managed to head him off at the bakery, but not before he grabbed onto my legs and almost unintentionally tackled me to the ground. I’m pretty sure this was the most embarrassed I have ever been in public. I picked him up and carried him through the store, with him screaming at the top of his lungs. Unfortunately, it seemed to be “senior citizens who either never had children or forgot what it was like to have children” day at the grocery store, because the number of horrified stares and wrinkly, furrowed brows I caught a glimpse of was too many to count. Where were all the other moms who could at least give me that look of defeated solidarity so I didn’t feel like such a complete and utter failure? I probably should have abandoned the flowers altogether and just left, but by then I was determined that this child was not going to put me through this for nothing. So I fumbled through the self-checkout and walked out, with a wailing, angry shadow behind me.

So much for osmosis. My child just does NOT get it.

But then I think of the reason we were getting flowers in the first place. The night before, I told both my kids about my mom’s accident. As I was putting Michael to bed, we said a prayer for her, and I told him we would go visit her at the hospital the next day. He looked at me and asked, “Is Mimi sick?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Can we go get Mimi some flowers? I think she’ll like pink.”

“I think that would be a great idea, Buddy. We’ll go get her some flowers.”

Oh, the irony. But I guess maybe some things do sink in.

An Accidental Bunny Sighting, Among Other Things

Well, it is almost Easter. And that means a trip to the mall to visit the Easter Bunny. Actually, my kids saw the Bunny by accident this year. Since it seems that recently I have the foresight of a possum (they’re blind, people), I was actually surprised to see the Easter gazebo set up when I took the kids to the mall the other day to get Michael fitted for his ring bearer tux for my cousin’s upcoming wedding.

“Mom! The Easter Bunny is here!”

“Already? Oh. I guess Easter is in a couple of days, isn’t it?”

“Can we go get our picture taken?”

I looked at the two of them standing in front of me, not in their Easter best, but in whatever was clean in their closets. Fortunately, their outfits weren’t too horrible, so what the heck?

There was no line, so the photographer told the kids to go ahead and see the Bunny while he finished checking out the family that had just gone. Cool. Well, not so cool. It took the guy a full five or so minutes to finish up with that family. That doesn’t sound very long, you say. And it wouldn’t have been, if my kids were sitting on Santa’s lap. Because Santa can TALK to the kids. The Bunny just sits there and gives thumbs ups and covers his eyes with his hands. So I tried to strike up a one-sided conversation. Awkward. Very awkward. Five whole minutes of awkwardness. And my kids were no help. The children who were jumping beans of excitement just moments ago were now stoic monks who had taken a vow of silence. Tic…tic…tic…

Finally, the photographer was ready to take the photo. By some miraculous form of rabbit sign language, the Bunny and I did cook up a sneaky little pose for the picture. And might I say, all the awkward silence was worth it to have a photo of the Easter Bunny giving my unsuspecting kids “bunny ears.” We also got coupons for Auntie Anne’s Pretzels. Bonus!

So as we walked through the mall to get our free pretzels, I started taking note of the stores we passed and realized ones I will likely never patronize, or will begrudgingly patronize.

Ambercrombie & Fitch: Any store that blares crappy techno-dance music and declares biological warfare with their overpowering cologne reminiscent of awkward thirteen-year-old boys looking to cop a feel during a slow dance at a mixer OBVIOUSLY cares very little about me having a pleasant shopping experience. And I recall the day after Thanksgiving when a few rather buff young male employees were standing shirtless in the entryway. I realize this was a shrewd marketing ploy to entice female shoppers, but it ended up feeling more like an awkward “To Catch a Predator” setup.

Justice: This store makes me weep inside that I have a little girl who is reaching the age where she cares about fashion…or what she THINKS is fashion. A little on the side of hoochie and a lot on the side of hideous, Justice represents most of what is wrong with clothing trends for little girls. And for some inexplicable reason, the mall by my house has TWO of them, catty corner from each other. The exact same store…doubled. Is there THAT much of a demand for neon tees with graphics of women wearing sunglasses and pouting their lips? Guess what? Little girls don’t need to look like Madonna circa 1985…or Madonna circa 1995…or Madonna circa anytime. So stop telling them this is what is cool. And don’t give me that bull that you supply what the public demands. If you didn’t make it in the first place, the girls wouldn’t know what they were missing. Go take a little walk down the mall to Gymboree and see what any self-respecting mom would buy for her self-respecting young daughter to wear.

Spencer Gifts: Mostly because I’m not in junior high anymore, and I no longer find naughty novelties and black light posters funny or cool.

XXI Forever: You’re not fooling anyone. We know you are still Forever 21. Putting Roman numerals on your sign won’t magically make your clothes of good quality or taste. Besides, on your website you have a “Club” subcategory under “Apparel.” Cla-ssy.

Plaza Frontenac (for those of you not from St. Louis, this would be our “upscale” mall. You must say it with an uppity tone and draw out the ‘a’…”Plaaaaza Frontenac.”): Yes, I am protesting this whole entire mall…mostly because I wear clothes from Target, and not only can the salespeople tell, but they let me know they can tell. However, I do make two exceptions. I will eat at Canyon Cafe, because it is the bomb. And I will go to Williams-Sonoma whenever we get a gift card from my husband’s aunt and uncle for Christmas. Because who am I to turn down free money towards some super cool stuff? And the gift card kind of explains the clothes from Target anyway. Maybe on my next trip to “The Plaza”  I’ll pull out my one shirt I own from Ann Taylor, thanks to the outlet mall.

But boy, those were some good pretzels. I hope since God raised Jesus from the dead to give us eternal life, he also bought into the Auntie Anne’s franchise and put one of those suckers in Heaven. Can I hear a Hallelujah? Oh wait, not yet…we’ve still got two more days before we can say that. My bad.

A blessed Easter to one and all…unless you’re Jewish. Then a blessed Passover…unless you’re atheist. Then bummer…no Easter candy for you. But have a good weekend anyway.

Sesame Breadsticks and a Happy Heaven Birthday

I just wanted to make a quick little post because today my grandpa (a.k.a. “Papa” to me and a.k.a. “DooDa” to Grace) would have been 87 years old. But he’s been gone for almost five years now. Or has he?

A picture of the rainbow that encircled the sun on the day of my grandpa's funeral.

Some say that after a loved one passes, he or she will send you little signs occasionally. I’m not sure I believed that until my grandpa was gone. And he wasted no time in making it abundantly clear that he was okay, and that he would be watching us. After his funeral, the family gathered for your typical Irish wake. In the midst of beers and Bloody Marys and laughter and one-upping “Big Ed” stories, someone glanced toward the sky and saw a most unusual sight: a rainbow encircling the sun. Not a rain cloud for days, not even the smallest of haze…but still, a ring of color where none of us had ever seen one before. Coincidence? Maybe. An unusual scientific phenomenon? I’m sure it is. But at that moment, it felt like Gramps was finding his own way to crash the party.

Papa and his little Keeny

I’ve experience other little reminders of him gently nudging me throughout the years. And gosh darn it if Big Ed didn’t send me one today, on his very birthday. I was at the grocery store in the salad dressing aisle. I was walking rather briskly, barely paying attention to the shelves, because I knew I did not need anything in this particular area. All of a sudden, my eyes deadlocked on a package of sesame breadsticks, and I stopped in my tracks…and smiled. You see, my grandpa ate these ALL the time…so much so that we nicknamed them “Papa Cookies.” I don’t ever remember taking notice of them at the store before (mostly because they are right next to things like capers and olives, which as a rule, I usually avoid). Without a second thought, I picked up the Papa Cookies, put them in my basket, and whispered to myself, “Happy Birthday, Papa.”

Grace and her DooDa on Halloween 2006

So today, yes, I am missing my grandpa, missing the fact that he’s not physically here. Missing the tree trunk arms that would wrap around me. Missing the way he would bite his lower lip and smile when he was proud of me. Missing the way he would always greet me with an enthusiastic “Hello Keeny!” as if I was still the little girl who couldn’t pronounce her own name. But if it has to be this way, and by nature’s law it does, I am happy to have our time together over things like rainbow enshrouded suns and unexpected lunches of sesame breadsticks.

I’ll leave you with a poem by Chief Tecumseh that my cousin Bill, my grandpa’s nephew and godson, suggested because it embodies the man my Papa truly was. If I did not know better, I would have thought my grandpa penned these words himself, because he certainly lived them:

So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart. Trouble no one about their religion; respect others in their view, and demand that they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people. Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide.

Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and grovel to none.

When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself. Abuse no one and no thing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools and robs the spirit of its vision.

When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.

Papa, you were one hell of a man. Now you’re one hell of an angel. Happy Heaven Birthday.

Love, Keeny

Dancing on Betsy Ross’ Grave

What a strange title for a blog post you say? Perhaps I am about to launch into a commentary on civil liberties in our country. Or possibly I am researching unusual burial rituals throughout history. Maybe it is just a clever ploy to attract readers.

Or maybe on our Spring Break trip to Philadelphia last week, my son did just that: danced on Betsy Ross’ grave. Aside from being utterly embarrassed and a little afraid he may have committed a federal offense, what else can I do but blog about it?

So, yes. While perusing the grounds outside of Betsy Ross’ Philadelphia home, reading various plaques extolling her act of bravery in facing charges of treason by creating the very first flag of our grand country and bearing the heartache of losing not one, not two, but three husbands, I look up to find my son has climbed up onto the little wall protecting the sacred ground and is hopping around on the cement marker of her final resting place.

I would say I was horrified, but that would be a lie. In order to be horrified, there must be some element of surprise. No surprise here, as unfortunate as that is to say. There was a split second I thought about slowly backing away and saying to no one in particular, “Where are that boy’s parents?” But then I quickly faced the truth that I must own him…and it would have been pretty crummy of me to let my husband take all the judgmental stares boring into him alone.

Sigh. Nobody knows the woes of the mother of a three-year-old boy…except for another mother of a three-year-old boy. Like I said, there was not one hint of surprise at the sight of my son doing a jig on the burial ground of a beloved historical figure. Because frankly, the boy is a destructor of just about anything, sanity included. The number of near catastrophes that would have landed us on the news as “the family who destroyed the [fill in the blank with your choice of historical Philadelphia buildings]” caused me to wonder how history ever survived thousands of years of three-year-old boys. I wouldn’t be surprised if the REAL culprit of the Liberty Bell crack was a small grubby-handed child of the male persuasion.

****BREAKING NEWS**** Right now, as if on cue, my husband just yelled down to me and asked if I was still working on “The Michael Blog.” Because apparently the kid just rinsed off his toothpaste-sudsy toothbrush in the hubby’s iced tea. Now, back to our program…

I know, as a reader, you will be disappointed to find I do not have a photo of my son dancing on Betsy Ross’ grave. For once I did the responsible thing and stopped my child from doing something outlandish instead of prolonging it so I could get a good picture…which I may have been known to do in the past.

So here are some of those other pictures (which also serve to illustrate why the above incident was not surprising in the least):

This is the moment I learned Michael could climb up onto the kitchen counter…and my husband learned he had to stop leaving the sugar canister open after his morning coffee.

I guess he thought his skin felt very, very, very, very, very dry. And so did his hair apparently.

Freshly poured new sidewalk, meet the boy who lives in the house you are in front of. And his bike.

Even Mother Nature doesn’t escape destruction. This little spruce never stood a chance of becoming a grand Christmas tree thanks to Michael’s backside.

It isn’t just gravesites where Michael is irreverent. Here, he is using the church’s Communion rail as a parking lot for his cars. Earlier that day, he drank out of the holy water font like a dog. No picture…I chose the responsible route on that one as well.

Finally, a photo opportunity in Philly that was just too good to pass up…Take note of the sign behind him

And then there’s the poop story. No one wants to see pictures of that.

There it is. My son, in a nutshell. It’s a good thing he is cute. Hopefully Betsy Ross thought so too and decided NOT to come back and do some vengeful haunting.

Similar Tastes: A Letter to My Daughter On Her Birthday

Dear Grace,

Today you are seven years old.  Birthdays mean something different to parents than they do to kids. To us, we cannot help but think about the day our child came into our lives, and every day since then. As this day approached, I have had a certain song playing in my head:

“You can’t fool me I saw you when you came out. You got your mama’s taste but you got my mouth.”

I remember hearing these lyrics to “Gracie” by Ben Folds soon after you were born. Gazing at your tiny, delicate features, acquainting myself with this new little person I had always loved but just met, it was clear that you did in fact have your daddy’s mouth. But only time would tell if you had my taste. I would have to wait and watch you grow. At the time, that was beyond my realm of imagination. I was content to keep you my dribbling, nuzzling little bundle forever.

Sometimes I miss Baby Grace and her big, squishy cheeks that were irresistible to kiss and her downy hair scented with the freshness of baby shampoo and the natural sweetness of brand new life. But if I had only had Baby Grace for these past seven years, I would have missed out on all the things you have become and all the things you have created that I have packed away in my heart.  And I would not have discovered that you, my dear little Gracie, do have your mama’s taste.

There are times I observe you and have the feeling I am looking in the mirror, only at a reflection that does not look like me. In your face I see your dad, which has resulted in a beauty my own face has never and will never know. But what goes on behind that pretty little face, that is where I have left my mark. And I cannot help but think this might just give me an advantage in parenting you. I’ve been there, kid. I know what you are thinking and feeling, because already it has been apparent to me that your brain is trying to interpret the world in many of the same ways mine did as a child. So this means I can help you when you need it, if you are not too stubborn to let me…which you probably will be. And I will have to fault myself for that.

But maybe before you get too old to want to listen, before you cringe in utter embarrassment and disbelief that you are anything like your mom, I can let you in on a few little things.

Dad loves to claim you get your artistic interest from him. But we’ve seen him draw, well, anything. So we know the truth. Let that passion live inside you always, and don’t forget to use it every now and again, even when it seems you have more important things to do. Right now, you want to be an artist when you grow up. And you very may well make that a reality. But if you choose another living for yourself, don’t let your love for your other interests fall by the wayside. The pride and sense of accomplishment that comes with creating something is important, even if you only create for yourself.

From very early on, it was apparent you are a dreamer. And by many accounts, you dream like me. I remember the time you sheepishly asked me if I ever pretended to dance with a boy when I was your age, as if you thought you were the only one. Dreaming is a necessity. It is the gateway to imagination, and imagination leads to all kinds of good things. But I also think I would be an irresponsible mom if I did not tell you to keep sight of reality. People will tell you that you can be anything. Well, that is not really true. Everyone has limitations, but those are a blessing if you recognize them and see your limits as guides, directing your focus toward your gifts. Find a gift that fuels passion, then dream as big as you can. And remember that the bridge between dreams and reality does not build itself. Only your own strong work ethic, and maybe a bit of luck, will make that happen.

Your mama likes to dance to the beat of her own drummer sometimes, and so do you. This became completely evident a few months ago when I asked if you wanted to sign up for softball. After saying no, I asked if you were sure, because all your friends would be playing and I did not want you to feel left out. You looked right at me and said with conviction, “Mom, I don’t have to do what everyone else does.” I was cloaked with pride at that moment. Because you were right, and I hope you remember those words all your life.  At the same time, the part of me that wants to enshroud you in bubble wrap and hang a sign on you that says Please say only nice things to my daughter whimpered, knowing what lies ahead for a kid who goes against the grain. There will be teasing. There will be times of loneliness. People will hurt your feelings and try to make you feel bad about yourself. But try to remember this in the midst of it, though it will be hard: you are exactly the person God meant for you to be. Not everyone will like you; that is a universal truth for everyone. So you should never change yourself for someone else. Otherwise, you will be changing all the time. And you will find people who love you for who you are…I will always be first on that list. And you will never be truly alone, because your dad and I will be here for you anywhere, anytime. I have been down many of the roads you will be traveling, and I promise I will do my best to remember how it feels to be your age. You may not always like what I have to say, but my love for you will always be boundless.

So you have grown another year’s worth of becoming who you are, who you will be.  Seeing you discover yourself has been one of the greatest privileges of my life, and it will continue to be as I watch you add new layers. But underneath it all, “you will always have a part of me nobody else is ever gonna see but you and me…my little girl…my Gracie girl.”

Two Peas in a Pod

Happy Birthday, Boo.

Love, Mom