Bucking Bath Time

I tell my youngest son to go take a bath and he panics like I keep our pet piranha in the tub.

"Why do I have to take a bath? I just took one yesterday," he wheedles.

Before I can tell him, "Because you're a boy. You were born with dirt under your fingernails," my husband supports me, saying, "You're dirty. You've been outside playing all day."

"But Mama's rule is two days," he insists, trying to be as compelling as a smudgy-faced, blond, sweaty boy can be. And I have to admit, I've probably misled him. I have let a kid here and there skip a bath.

But I jump in. "No," I say, "my rule is you take a bath when you need a bath. And, buddy, you need a bath. That's final. Look at your hands. Look at your fingernails."

He begs, "Can I please just wash my hands, then?"

Errrrrr?

Driving through town with my kids a couple of weeks ago, my 11 year-old breaks the backseat bickering, by urgently addressing me. "Mama."

"What?" I answer, fearing he will report that someone has lost an eye and the fun has abruptly ended.

But, no, that was not it. "Why do hospital signs always have errrr on them?"

This question baffles me. "Errrr? What are you talking about?"

"Like on that billboard, there," he points. "It says errrr underneath the name of the hospital."

I look, trying to keep one eye on the road while I study the lettering on the large billboard. Then I ask the only question I can think of. "Do you mean the capital letters E-R?"

"Yes, ma'am," he answers, making the phonetic pronunciation again. "Errr."

"E-R, honey. Emergency Room." I give him a shrug and an inquisitive look in the rearview mirror.

He sheepishly says, "Errrrrr."

Talk to Your Kids About Potatoes Before Their Friends Do

This is the picture. The one and only picture I managed to snap when we went on vacation to winter:

That's some sure-nuf expensive ice cream!


But it's never too early to find a natural opportunity to talk to your kids about potatoes before their friends do.

Almost There

I received the final proof for If Mama Don't Laugh, It Ain't Funny from the publisher this week. Well, actually, it's the final proof before I get to proof a sample copy of the actual book with the cover and everything. Reading all these proofs has proven to me just how human errors are.

When I first wrote all of the material for the book, I thought it was perfect. When I compiled it into the initial form of the book to send to the publisher, I knew it was perfect. Five proofs later, and three red ink pens emptier, I'm still finding mistakes and wording that isn't quite right. I'm amazed at how If Mama Don't Laugh has evolved throughout the process. And I have discovered that true perfection is an elusive goal.

If left to listening to my own self-inflicted, self-critical internal voice that enjoys telling me how my efforts aren't good enough, how I could have tried harder, and how I don't know what I'm doing, I would never have a finished product. Thank heavens for editors and publishers who speak loudly in order to drown out writers' insecurities about their work.

But intuitively, I know that If Mama Don't Laugh, It Ain't Funny will take my readers on a Space Shot of laughs, as they jump with me from throwing pre-adolescents out of the house, to getting on amusement park rides more suitable for 12 year-old boys than 30-something year-old women, to unclogging the vacuum cleaner hose by blowing in it. And it won't be long now, before we're both there together.

Thank you to my loyal and faithful readers, and to the ones who have recently come on board, for your continuous and genuine support. And thank you, as well, for forgiving me my imperfections.

Mom of the Year I am Not

Mom of the Year I am not, but please don't talk about me behind my back. Okay, so that does sound a little paranoid. Still, I know how people are, making comparisons between themselves and those of us parents who are, by nature, less than perfect.

Thursday, like a good mother should, I attended my 12 year-old son's middle school soccer match. His team played like the brainy-acks that they are. They lost. It didn't matter. I sat on the uncomfortable metal bleachers. I yelled. I cheered. I tried to keep up with my three other children who took the opportunity to get into mischief during my distraction. I patted the boys on the back after the game and gave them words of encouragement.

Then I snapped up my son, hustled all the kids to the car, and drove down the interstate like a blue-hair on Quaaludes. We had four more team practices to make that evening and my husband, the coach of two of the squads, kept calling to check my ETA.

In a ten minute break between pick-up/drop-off stints, I pulled out my calendar to check scheduling conflicts for the following day. My heart immediately plummeted like a rock kicked off the cliffs of the Grand Canyon. I forgot to provide drinks after the game for the my oldest son's team. Weeks before, I had promised the team mother I would do it and gushed about how thrilled I was to have the opportunity to support the boys in their athletic efforts. I had written the note to myself in my calendar in bright green.

Later that evening, I apologized to my son. "It's okay," he said. "We had drinks after the game. One of the parents realized there weren't any and bought some at the concession stand." Air whistled past my heart hurtling down toward the canyon crags.

"Who," I wanted to know. But being a boy, and 12, he didn't care or remember who.

My husband comforted me, "No one but the team mom would know it was you that forgot. Call her tomorrow and see if you can take care of drinks for another game." But my self-centered, inner voice, that thinks the eyes of humanity are upon me at all times, especially when I screw up, kept telling me that while I perched in the stands hooting and hollering, the other parents clustered together chattering about my parental deficiencies.

Again, to stop my ruminations, my husband reassured, "They didn't know it was you. They would have reminded you so you could go buy the Gatorade. Get over it."

The next day, Friday, I e-mailed my apology to the coach and asked if he could tell me who supplied the drinks, so I could make things right. It turns out, the team mom, who sat in the bleachers with that group of parents, and with me, noted my omission and rallied assistance from the other adults, but never said a word to me.

My heart splattered on the rocky riverbank of the Colorado. My inner voice rambled on about all my other flaws exposed to the world. And my confidence leaked like melted ice from a cooler drain.

Okay, I know. Mom of the year I am not, but paranoid, maybe.