Sticky Kisses

I got to write the lead article to our church's newsletter for January:

Our youngest child, James, the one with the fly away blonde hair and angelic face, is a pistol. He keeps me on my toes and keeps life interesting for all of us in the Jurgensen home. He’s either hot or cold, naughty or nice, and never anything in between.

James feels that one of the greatest honors he can bestow upon me is to allow me to sit by him during a meal. I’d like to clarify that sitting by a three year old actually means that our two chairs must touch and the sides of our bodies must be pasted together for the entire dining experience. He will often lean over and plant a kiss on my cheek with his sticky lips and express with all the heart and sincerity a three year old can muster, “I love you, Mommy.”

The other night James was protesting bedtime. For whatever reason, he felt that it was a gross injustice that I would make him put on his pajamas and brush his teeth. After his bedtime story, which was cut short by his weeping and gnashing of teeth, I informed him it was time to crawl into bed. He stood his little body as straight as he could and spat angrily through his tears, “If you make me go to bed…I’ll NEVER EAT SUPPER WITH YOU AGAIN!”

The whole experience got me thinking of unconditional love and relationship. Our Heavenly Father chose us before we ever even knew him. Through Christ, who was sacrificed on our behalf, we have redemption and forgiveness of sins. God took me at my most unlovable state and made me his child, as undeserving as I am. And he loves me no matter what: great offenses, bad habits, slight flaws and all. That love makes me want to give Him the privileged spot in my life. Like James sometimes gives me the “best seat” next to him at the table, I wish to “do life” with God right at my side, offering up my words and actions to his praise and glory, much like James’ sticky kisses.

And sometimes, just as James was angry at the necessity of bedtime, I get angry or impatient with God and his plan for my life. I can’t understand why some parts of the journey have to be so painful or difficult for others or for myself. And yet, I know in my heart that God IS love, and that my wisdom and understanding don’t even cast a shadow in his greatness. I hold fast to Romans 8:28: ...we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him...and that nothing, no tear or hurt, is ever wasted when the brokenness is handed over to God.

What can I take away from God anyhow? Like James removing the honor of eating with him, the only thing I can remove from God is me. And when I look honestly at that, it’s rather silly, because I’m only punishing myself. Who is going to feed me and take care of me and love me and protect me if it isn’t God?

By the next day, James had forgotten his threat to never eat with me again. He was on his stool and waiting for me to bring him his food and come sit down. It’s much harder for me to forget when I’ve put distance between God and me. I ask for his forgiveness, tell him I don’t always understand life’s events and situations, but the alternative of “doing life” without him is far more scary than snuggling up beside him and allowing him to navigate our journey, on the majestically scenic roads, the uneventfully straight and easy interstates and the even on the dark, uncertain paths.

I don’t know where each of you is at today in your journey, if you are going through hardships or enjoying bounty and goodness. Where is God in all of it? If he’s not pasted up along side you, his chair touching yours, I encourage you to have a conversation with him. You may find that in doing so, you’re drawn to inch your chair over closer and closer to his so that you can lean over and paste a sticky kiss on the face of God.

Adventures of a Parking Ramp Wanderer

Being familiar enough with Mayo Clinic, I didn't feel it necessary to head over to yesterday's appointment until I was certain I'd arrive at the appointment desk with less than a minute to spare. What I had failed to recollect is that getting to Mayo and finding parking is an experience in and of itself. Tuesday is simply not the best day to play Russian Roulette with Mayo appointment times.

I was running too late to park in my free space, so I went for the nearest ramp, which was full. I waited in line for several minutes to get into the alternative ramp, which is located nearly as far away as my free parking. After what felt like forever, I finally found a spot and then power-walked to the elevator and through the subway to arrive at my appointment nearly 10 minutes late. It all worked out just perfectly, because I was the next patient to be called and only had to sit in the waiting area for about thirty seconds. *whew!*

As I returned to the parking ramp, I realized that I never checked to see on which level I parked. I stood in the elevator a second, trying to remember something about the possible location of my van, and the best I could recall is that I wound around in that ramp for what felt like an eternity, so I picked floor seven--near the top, but not quite the roof.

I stepped out into the ramp in the -20 degree temperatures and saw that my van was indeed NOT parked on floor seven. "I must be close, though," I figured, and so I proceeded to walk through the winding ramp, down to floor six and then floor five. Still, my van was no where to be found.

I was trying my best to look like a normal person walking with purpose towards my vehicle, but the stares and rubbernecking of the passersby in their warm cars led me to believe I was failing miserably in my act. I think it may have been the goofy, smirky look on my face--a result of my gaffe and ensuing inner laughter at myself--that gave me away.

"Seriously? It has to be in here somewhere!" I exclaimed aloud while throwing my hands in the air, now boldly embracing my craziness.

I took the steps in the unheated stairwell back to the top of the ramp, in case I had somehow missed it. On each floor I'd emerge to look for my vehicle. After twenty minutes, feeling quite foolish, I found with much rejoicing, my van on level three, yes, THREE.

I want you all to know that I've taken the necessary measures to prevent this from happening again. And if you ever take a ride with me and notice the recently added sticky note on my steering wheel that says, "Where are you?" don't worry! I'm just trying to remember to keep track of my van the next time I park it.

Shut-Up and Quit Eating: A Lesson In Self-Discipline

I had the opportunity to visit Mayo Clinic this morning to see an oral surgeon. I wondered what the guy would be like because I figure anyone who chooses a profession that requires sticking one's hands and face into another's mouth to create disgusting ripping-of-teeth-from-tissue sounds along with much blood and pain, must be a real piece of work. He turned out instead to be a pretty cool guy.

The trip to the surgeon began in the Saturday blizzard. I managed to get the van stuck in the subdivision that evening, before I realized that "No Travel Advised" applied to me. I turned around before even leaving the subdivision, but still ended up stuck on the hill leading to our driveway. I was stuck for an hour, providing a fantastic window show for our cooped up neighbors, much to my humiliation.

Another neighbor was able to go around me only to get stuck in his driveway. A few of the kind and merciful neighbors, of which I was counted ONLY because I too was stuck, helped to push him out. While pushing, I leaned too far forward and therefore when my feet slipped, I was only able to stop myself from falling by smashing my face onto the ice-crusted back window. It hurt like hell, but I didn't outwardly react, not wanting to call any more attention to myself than my snow-impaired van and poor judgement already had.

Mark tried to wipe the blood off my face, thinking it was slush. I want to tell you that I reacted to his kindness like a loving, appreciative wife, but the fact of the matter is that the instant he reached for my throbbing, stinging face, I swiped and spat at him like an angry cat.

And that was it. I spent the next two days with some dull pain above my teeth and in a jaw joint, marveling at how quickly it all happened, and wondering if it was going to cost me much pain and money to fix whatever I had messed up in my mouth.

On Monday, my dentist, who looks like a perky 15 year old but is so incredibly sweet and competent that I feel guilty thinking that about her, took a look at my situation, asked if I had REALLY actually been in a bar fight, suggested my jaw could be broken and referred me to the oral surgeon.

I spent the next 23 hours trying not to be anxious about the possibility of surgery, a wired shut mouth and excessive pain. I resisted the urge to Google the possibilities and sang loudly to tune out any and all friends who tried to tell me what this could mean. "It is what it is," I reasoned, "and there's nothing I can do about any of it."

Oral Surgeon took a look and said it was some-big-medical-word-that-I-couldn't-have-repeated-even-if-I-had-written-it-down-and-practiced. Then interpreted it as "trauma to the jaw joint" that is treatable with prescription anti-inflammatory drugs and several days of no eating or talking. He acted remorseful as he broke that news to me, and I had to fight the overwhelming urge to give him a bear hug. "Well, that's painless!" I cheerfully exclaimed, romantically picturing a silent, relaxing week enjoying unlimited cups of glorious coffee.

Then I got home, where James popped Timothy in the head with his Leap Tag pen and Emily hadn't done her math homework and everyone was hungry and Mark wondered what the prognosis was. I was so hungry for a salad for lunch, and the "glorious" coffee left in the pot was stale and cold. I realized that this is not going to be easy. I'm going to have to choose my words very carefully and quit talking to myself altogether, and maybe buy some yogurt.

This is a fantastic opportunity to monitor and evaluate both what goes into, and comes out of, my mouth. I guess that a pop in the jaw by an icy car window is just what I needed!

2010: The Antics That Won't Make the Christmas Letter

Facebook status updates make for a great yearly journal of normal, daily life. I found a way to print them all to keep in our family memory box. Here are some of the events and quotes that will not make the 2010 Family Christmas letter:

February: Timothy stomped into the room wearing his angry eyes and in his tough guy voice announced, “I’m a purse man!” He then flung the pretty, glittery purse over his shoulder and stomped away.

I suspiciously walked into the kitchen where I found Timothy and James sitting on the table with my coffee cup between them. T: “We drank your coffee, Mom, because you weren’t thirsty anymore!” J: “MY COFFEE! My coffEEE! HAHAHAHA!!!”

Timothy thought that if he wore a cowboy hat and spoke in a deep voice, that maybe I wouldn’t recognize him. It’s pretty hard to fool your own mother, though.

March: A few mornings ago after Christian ate 2 waffles, 2 clementines and a huge bowl of cereal and was scavenging for more, I said to him, “Sheesh! Are you starting a growth spurt?!” He said quite seriously, “I sure hope so. Either that, or I’m going to get REALLY fat.”

I gave Timothy “the look” for standing on the arm of the sofa. He tossed his hands in the air and exclaimed, “This is my exercise, Mom!” I said, “Well, I don’t like you exercising on the arm of the sofa. Get off.” And he responded, “I don’t like you when you talk like that, Mom.”

April: I was reading Timothy a devotion and asked, “Who is your best friend in the whole wide world?” T said, “Ewijah!” (from preschool) “Uh, well, I was thinking about Jesus...” “Oookay. Can we talk about girls next?”

Nothing lets your firstborn son know you value him more than forgetting him at church after an evening meeting and not even realizing it for a good 15 minutes.

“Timmy, I wish you’d chew with your mouth shut,” said Emily. “I can’t,” said T. “I only chew with my mouth shut on Tuesdays.”

I got out of the shower this morning to see James taking floss picks out of the bag, one at a time, chewing on them, and putting them back into the bag.

Timothy: Can we [referring to he and James] just be naked? Distracted me: Yea..uh..no..what?!

Timmy and James are trying to catch ants with a butterfly net and a laser tag gun.

May: The doctor asked, “Do you go by Tim or Timothy? What should I call you?” Timothy replied, “Cowboy.”

What are you doing? Cleaning. What are you doing? Cleaning. What are you doing? I don’t know what I’m doing. Are you cleaning? Yes. Yes I am.

When I hear pounding and scraping from the area outside where the boys are playing, it’s never good.

I wonder why the boys feel the need to put up the foot rest on the recliner for the sleeping cat.

June: “T, do you think I’m pretty?” Emily asked. “Um,” said T, “I don’t want to talk about that.”

Timothy prayed at lunchtime: Come Lord Jesus, be our guest, crunch our chips, us a blessed. Amen

Today we passed a line of parked cop cars and Christian exclaimed, “It looks like a good day to rob a bank!”

“No, Timothy, you are NOT watching a movie. You are taking a nap.” “Actually, Mom, that is not a choice.” “Actually, Timothy, it is your ONLY choice.”

Between T “the monster” and me: “Knock knock.” “Who’s there?” “It’s me--the monster.” *pause* “Am I supposed to let you in?” “Yes, you let me in and then I eat you.”

July: “So, I found an ambulance on eBay for $500 [for tailgating football games].” THIS is why I should never leave my husband home alone w/Mike Tindall!!!

How To Get Out Of Washing Your Face by Timothy: “Mom, I’m just going to leave all this food on my face so that I can pretend I have a beard, ok?”

T: I’m mad at you because I wanted to wear my superhero shirt and I am NOT taking a nap because I may sleep all day and miss breakfast and be hungry. Shut my drawer! I don’t want it open one more minute...STOP LAUGHING AT ME!!!

“Mom, were the Smurfs in black and white when you were little?” “No. Jeez, Em, I’m not THAT old!”

Today I ate the first ripe tomato from Mom’s garden while standing in the warm sun. :-D

Don’t you hate it when your printer malfunctions because there’s a Lincoln log jammed inside it?

On the day of the RMH benefit ride: The smell of summer mixed with leather, the majestic scenery, the interesting people, the glorious rumble of thousands of bikes: It’s time to ride!!!

Today was the perfect, happiest day. If I could start over at 6 a.m., and live every moment over again just as it was, I would do it a hundred times.

Poor emotionally scarred Mark is mowing the lawn with a bottle of Raid close by. No more bees up the shorts for him, I guess.

August: “Where’s the principal’s office going to be?” asked soon-to-be home schooled Timothy as he painted a picture in our learning lab.

Timothy told me that when he grows up he’s going to live in Duluth and have 3 kids named James, Rooster and Chicken. He already asked Mark if he could borrow Mark’s car to get to Duluth. If we still have that car when T’s grown up, just run us over with it. Please.

September: Because doing preschool with 3rd grade isn’t enough, let’s put a table full of rice in the learning lab and underwear on the 2 year old. Bring it on!

When I put the kids to bed tonight, I’m going to lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling and listen to the silence. It’s gonna be great!

“I’m a mom,” declared James, “because I have coupons!”

T: Don’t tell James I have stickers, ok? Me: I won’t say a word to him. T: Well, you can say words to him, just don’t tell him I have stickers.

My joy moment of the day was my 2 year old sitting on the toilet with red footie pj’s slouched around his ankles asking me to take his picture.

Reason #12 that I would not make a good preschool teacher: I gave the boys a wooden letter A at rug time to touch and hold as we observed its shape, talked about the sounds it makes, etc. and then I observed aloud, “Oh, silly James is sticking his finger in the A-hole!”

October: “No, Timothy. People cannot take dead cats back to the pet store and exchange them for live ones.”

The boys fought over an INVISIBLE football in the store today. T was hogging it and James was ticked. I just tossed James a 2nd invisible football and the problem was solved. Good grief!

Serious pillow talk with T: Mom, I just can’t stay little forever. It’s too late for that because I’m going to be 5 pretty soon.

November: CD in car: “Holy, holy is our God almighty...” “Hey Mom!” exclaimed James, “They’re singin’ about Harley!”

“Mom, I can drive the 4-wheeler at the farm by myself, you know," said T. “Yea..??” I said. “So, you shouldn't make me go to time-out anymore when I’m naughty.”

December: Timothy came in with a Noah’s ark ornament from the Christmas tree. “Can I play with this in some water, Mom?” “No.” “But it’s a boat!” “No, it’s an ornament shaped like a boat. It’s not sea worthy.” “Awww!!!”

Christian’s most recent text to me: pick me up at 4 pleez and we can’t stop anywhere cuz I have butterbraids that can explode.
My reply: they won’t explode. they just tell you that so u deliver them before they expire.

James finished his milk at lunch and said, "I want some barf water, please!" *perplexed pause* "Do you mean 7-up, James?" "Yea!"

Today Emily, Timothy and Jacob learned that if you use dog bones to make a snowman's face, the dog will eat the snowman's face.

I sat down at the table with my breakfast-eating boys. James glared at me and said, "HEY! Jesus is sitting in that chair! You are sitting on my Jesus!"

‎"What do you think I got you for Christmas, Timothy?" said Em. "Hmm...I don't want to guess. Ask me when I'm a little taller," said T.

Timothy suggested that if we squeezed the bolus, the fluids would enter Christian much faster. He also nearly gave Christian a bump of morphine. I'm thinking he should at least complete kindergarten before pursuing a medical career.

Timmy said, "I'm still hungry--I'm ALWAYS hungry." "Well, eat the rest of the food on your plate!" "Why? I'll still be hungry." "We'll address that after you finish your food--IF it's still a problem." "*sigh* It's just so hard being alive."

Nothing makes me drop to the ground and want to cry like an infant more than stepping barefoot on a little plastic Davy Crockett in the middle of the night.

Timothy, depositor of Davy Crockett on my bedroom floor, mess-maker supreme, ran into and fell over a huge container of cat litter I had set inside the door moments before, then glared at me and preached, "You see?! This is why you should take care of your stuff!"

Curse you, Wii Fit!

We have a Wii Fit that I have deliberately neglected for about a year. Part of the reason for that is because I usually have a limited time in which to get in a workout and I'd rather do something mindless like run or do some circuits that cause a healthy amount of physical and mental pain--all for the greater good, of course. The Fit doesn't cut it for me. The other reason I've neglected the Fit is because it's just plain condescending, and although I seem to think I can handle the brutal truth, I don't find a whole lot of motivation in condescension.

I decided to put some batteries in it and fire it up last week. I have been kicking off a pound here and there and wanted to see how I measured up since the last time I used it. I was encouraged when it said my BMI and weight were notably lower than the last time. But then it said something to the effect of, "Bummer! You failed to achieve the goal you set for yourself. Maybe you should set more realistic goals."

I don't remember ever telling the Wii I had a goal. I wonder what it was anyhow. I mean, did I miss it by a pound or two, or twenty? Stupid Wii Fit.

Then it broke the news to me that although my BMI is within the "normal" range, it should be one point lower. Fine!

I set a new goal, an easy, fake goal, because my real goal is loftier, but I'll never confide that in the Wii. It would probably laugh and say, "You suck!" I wonder what it will say when I reach my fake goal. I'm sure it will have some smart comment and probably recommend that I take the next step and become anorexic.

I took the body test next, hoping that despite its assaults, it would tell me that my Wii Fit age is 25. Hey, a girl can dream! I would have been wise to just walk away at this point.

I was excited that my balance was just a hair off centered; I thought I did well. Fit pointed out that I could improve. Then it gave me some agility test where I'm supposed to sway around and try to make the dot on the screen knock out the boxes. I didn't have my best score and the Fit said agility was obviously not my strong point.

"I'm agile, you bitch! What does agility have to do with dots and boxes?" I was escalating-- yelling at my TV like a drunken football fanatic.

Then Wii Fit was ready to announce my Wii Fit age: 39.

"THIRTY-NINE?!"

I turned everything off and laid down on the floor next to the insolent plastic board and looked at it. I can run a few miles and shimmy the garage shelves to the ceiling and haul two preschoolers through grocery stores and beat my husband at arm wrestling and fold myself in half and I'm 39?! Did it secretly scan all the wrinkles on my face too?! I was paralyzed with discouragement and stayed there on the floor for a good ten minutes, just staring at the ceiling, trying to remember why only moments before I had been all happy and optimistic.

Stupid Wii Fit. It knows nothing my scale can't tell me with one mute, red number. I withdrew my batteries from the board, deeming it unworthy of the energy it requires to exist with any consequence, and shoved it back under the entertainment center.

I haven't written off the Fit completely. I'm working on growing some thicker skin and will be sure to wear my emotional armor the next time I step on that board. Perhaps with thicker skin and emotional armor, I can tell it I'm wearing "Heavy" clothes, before it assesses my BMI.

I don't know what I was thinking--going to an inanimate object for encouragement and motivation. The next time I need a pep talk, I'm calling my running buddy.

The Tooth Fairy Failure

"Oh, Mom?" Emily said as she passed me in the hallway upstairs one recent Sunday morning, "The tooth fairy forgot to come get my tooth...again."

She was disappearing down the steps and just out of ear shot as I turned away, wincing and whispering, "OH DAMN IT!" through clenched teeth. I had failed my tooth fairy duty AGAIN!

I then called to her cheerfully, "Em, honey, the Easter bunny is the only one of those characters who consistently works on Sundays. The tooth fairy probably had today off."

"Or," she said, not bothering to hide her sarcasm, "You forgot to email her." With that, she hopped down the remaining steps and joyfully began her day.

We've never done Santa or or the Easter bunny with our kids, but they suffer not on these holidays. The kids get plenty for Christmas and probably fair better than most on Easter. Emily knew from the first lost tooth that there wasn't really a tooth fairy, even though I never explicitly told her so.

Maybe it's because of the lack of Santa and the Easter bunny in our lives, or maybe it was because even from the first tooth, the tooth fairy at our home has never been able to get it quite right. At least she showed up with the money for the first lost tooth, but even then, she forgot to take the lost tooth from under the pillow.

And you can't blame me...I mean, "her". I can't stand loose teeth or freshly fallen out teeth! They make my knees weak and my head swim. Even so, when a child comes to show me how her bloodied tooth is hanging from her gums with one stringy piece of tissue, I exclaim, "Oh my goodness! That is so exciting!" But don't EVER ask me to pull it out or to touch it, or to gaze at it for more than a half second. *Blech* The whole tooth losing process is absolutely gross. I even make my kids put their lost teeth in Ziploc baggies so that I don't have to touch them when making the money/tooth exchange.

I have had some impressive excuses for why the tooth fairy hasn't shown up. Then I learned a trick that Grandma R. used to do. She had five kids and couldn't possibly keep all those missing teeth straight. She'd hear the announcement the next morning that the tooth fairy didn't come take the tooth and leave money. She'd tell her kids she didn't believe it and would have to see for herself. She'd grab a couple coins and go back to the room, lift up the pillow to look under it, and then reach into the pillow to feel around inside. She'd release the coins so they would jingle a bit, then grab them up and pull them out.

I tried that the "tooth before last" and it worked beautifully. Emily had come into my room and woke me that morning and said, "Mom! You forgot to leave money for my tooth AGAIN!"

"What?" I asked, confused. "I thought I heard the tooth fairy in there last night. Are you sure?"

"Mom, I KNOW the tooth fairy is really you and you forgot AGAIN."

I just couldn't stand being such an epic tooth fairy failure. "Just a minute, Em. Let me throw on a sweatshirt and have a look myself." While finding a sweatshirt in my closet, I conveniently grabbed a secretive fistful of quarters and followed her back to her room where I pulled the "Grandma R." trick.

"Oh," said a relieved Emily, "Well, I didn't think to look INSIDE the pillow. You're supposed to leave the money UNDER the pillow, you know."

"The tooth fairy probably didn't want the money to fall behind your bed," I explained.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you left the money, Mom."

"I forgive you, Em," I said, feeling simultaneously vindicated and guiltily fraudulent.

As a mom, there are some areas where I excel, and others where I fall short. I'll never be the tooth fairy that childhood dreams are made of. This is an area where I will most likely, despite my best efforts and intent, be one of history's greatest tooth fairy failures. Nevertheless, I believe I'm giving my children a true gift. One day they will get to tell their children about the horrible tooth fairy of their youth; and oh, the stories they will be able to tell!

The Dog Barf Spatula

I love Thanksgiving. It's the one holiday we always plan to spend with my husband's family in rural Nebraska. This year, the celebration was held at Mark's parents' home, where we stay when we go "home" to Nebraska.

I like it when Dave and Nancy, my in-laws, host Thanksgiving because I get to be very involved in the meal preparation and I enjoy it. Thursday was no different. Nancy started some of the food early that morning while I was doing my workout and getting myself ready for the day. Dave took his precious black labrador, Molly, a Thanksgiving feast of her own: a huge bowl of turkey fat that Nancy had skimmed from the drippings while making gravy.

By the time I entered the kitchen, Nancy was ready to take a bit of a break, so I poured myself some coffee and took over the food preparation. Dave, Mark, and a couple of the kids were busy getting the garage area warmed and ready. This was where our feast would take place since it is clean and large enough to fit the entire Jurgensen family.

Emily came in and announced that Molly had puked all over the sidewalk. I must admit that I didn't collapse in shock or anything since upon learning that Dave had fed his dog all that fat, I quietly predicted an outcome similiar to this. I was just glad that it wasn't my problem to fix.

Dave then came into the kitchen and helped himself to one of Nancy's Pampered Chef spatulas, the type used to scrape remaining bits of food out of a bowl.

"What do you think you're doing with that?!" Nancy inquired.

"I need to scrape the puke off the sidewalk. I was thinking a spatula would work well for that."

"Oh no you don't! Not my good spatula. Take an old worn one and do NOT bring it back. It can be used for that sort of thing and kept with your stuff outside."

Nancy handed Dave an older, worn spatula, the type used to serve food from a pan, and he went on his way.

A few minutes later I was doing dishes and was hardly aware that somebody had dropped something into my dish water. I reached into the sink to fish out the next item to be washed and found myself holding up a spatula. It looked as though it had been used to serve lasagna, but, well, we hadn't had any lasagna.

I stood frozen in the moment with my hand holding the spatula in front of my face, my mind racing, my breathing completely halted.

"DAVE!" I shouted.

I didn't even have the awareness or control to make my voice quiet and for the first time in the entire eleven years I've known my father-in-law, I was yelling at him, "WHAT?....IS THIS...DID YOU..." I couldn't even make a sentence I was so miffed.

"Yea, Jen," he said calmly. "Just wash it up."

"But, I'm washing dishes that...they contained food...people eat food from those dishes! This is DOG BARF!" I said incredulously as I held the spatula before him.

He stood there, and couldn't hide his irritation with me as he said firmly, "Just don't think about it, Jen. Wash it up. It's no matter, it's fine."

After a hesitation where I was trying to regain my composure, trying to make my brain think coherently again, trying to find a way to be respectful, I said, "Okay. It's okay; I've got it."

For those who don't speak the language of Dave/Jen, this meant, "I will deal with this in a mutually satisfactory manner and you need to leave my presence--right now."

Dave turned and left.

I sat the spatula on the dishwasher door carefully and looked up at Nancy with desperate eyes. I threw up my arms, motioned at the spatula, shook my head and looked at her.

"I know! This is what I have to put up with all the time," she empathized.

"But I was about to wash my coffee mug! I am not washing my coffee mug in dog barf water!" I exclaimed.

The spatula remained on the dishwasher door as I contemplated its fate. I emptied the sink, sanitized the sink, put the dish rag I was using in the dirty laundry basket, and started over fresh and new with the dishes I had left. When I was done, I gave the dog barf spatula a swish in the dish water, emptied and cleaned the sink again, and put the spatula in it's own section of the almost-empty dishwasher. I set the dishwasher to "Heated Wash" and "Sanitize" and "Heated Dry" in an attempt to kill anything and everything on that spatula. When it came out clean, I stashed it back behind some stuff on the counter.

And I'm praying that Dave never finds that spatula, because if he does, I know he will put it back into general kitchen use. I'll realize, in a future visit, as I'm serving lasagna onto plates for a family meal, that the spatula I'm using, is indeed, the Dog Barf Spatula.

The Penguin Thief

Last night Mark and I met up with some very dear friends of ours for an evening that consisted of test-firing a couple of pistols, enjoying some wine, experiencing the trendy atmosphere of The Pour House, and an aerobic marathon session of intense laughter and epic stories. This evening will be a much-treasured memory for the remainder of my life.

Our friends, Karl and Becky, told the best "parenting adventure" story of all time that involved a mutual acquaintance:

My husband's high school classmate and his wife had taken their kids to the Henry Doorly Zoo in Omaha this past summer. The three year old wore his very own back pack so he could tote his water bottle and various other things a young boy would find to be important. He enjoyed all the animal exhibits, especially the outdoor pond where some small penguins frolicked. The fence was low so he could easily see them play in and around the water. The penguins were one of the last things they looked at before leaving the zoo and making the two hour trip back home to Friend.

When the boy got home, he headed upstairs to his bathroom. From downstairs his parents heard him run some water. This was followed by the sounds of three year old giggles and laughter.

Curious, his parents went upstairs to see what their son was doing. They opened the bathroom door to see a penguin swimming around in the bathtub! Apparently the boy picked up a little penguin and put him in his backpack and brought him home. And somehow, his parents had missed the whole thing.

What would you say if your child stole a penguin? What would you do? I know one thing for certain: the next time we take our kids to the zoo, we will conduct thorough backpack searches before leaving the premises!

Blue Toilet Water

I had two sets of coupons that somehow allowed me to get four boxes of Vanish Drop-Ins at Target for free. These are the tablets that are supposed to be placed in the toilet tank to keep things all clean and nice. I've never before possessed a Drop In or used a Drop In, but decided to give them a try after reading on the back of the box that it wouldn't harm my cat, who likes to drink out of the toilet, or my children, all of whom have thankfully quit drinking from the toilet.

A couple days ago after cleaning our bathrooms, I put one in each of the two toilets that are notorious for being left in undesirable states: the basement bathroom, aka: Christian's bathroom, and the kids' bathroom upstairs. Being simultaneously optimistic and skeptical, I was hopeful that this would solve all my toilet-cleaning problems. Time would tell.

It immediately made the water an electrifying, bright blue color and reeked of toxic bathroom cleaner.

"Perfect," I thought, "I feel like one of those middle-aged housewives from the 1980's."

I wondered if previous usage of this product was the reason why some of the old women in church have blue hair.


Emily used the upstairs bathroom first. "MOM! The toilet water is blue!"

"That's because you don't flush the toilet after you use it!" I said.

What I meant was that I chose to put a Drop In in that toilet because she doesn't always flush it. What she heard was, "Because you never flush the toilet, the water has turned that obnoxious shade of blue."

"What do I do?!" Emily asked, somewhat alarmed.

"Flush it." I advised.

"If I always remember to flush it, will the water turn back to its normal color?"

Then, realizing what she was thinking, I paused to consider my options. I should have clarified why the water was blue, but it was much more fun to just assure her, "Yes. It will return to its normal color over time if you flush it after every use."


Although I didn't see it, I imagine Christian went into his bathroom, lifted the lid, caught sight of the blue water and froze for a moment before grabbing his phone and texting me.

"can i pee in the blue toilet?"

"of course. and u can flush it too."

"k just checkin kinda scared me"

I don't know much about effectiveness of the cleaning agents in Vanish Drop Ins, but I wonder if the secret cleaning power is actually in the color. I think both my kids have experienced the Blue Shock Effect that will motivate them to actually flush the toilet every time they use it. Imagine that!

To Nap Or Not To Nap

If I ever write that memoir that I threaten to title, Driven To Drink, I'm going to include a chapter on naps...or the lack thereof. Every mom has been there: A busy morning spills into a busy afternoon and nap time gets pushed dangerously late. One of the two scenarios then plays out:


1. The kids get a nap and Mom gets a desperately needed break. She then needs to decide if she wants to awaken the sleeping children early so they hopefully go to bed on time for the night, or let them sleep as long as they wish.


If she wakes them early, there will be much crying and clinging that can carry on for almost the length of the taken nap. I'd advise a mom in this situation to go ahead and open a bottle of wine so she can calmly deal with all the whine.

She can also choose to let them sleep until dusk, feed them a late supper laced with barbiturates and hope for the best. In this case, I'd prescribe a pot of coffee, because she could be in for a long night.

2. Mom takes the delayed gratification option of skipping naps completely and holds out for an early bedtime.


This was the option I chose today when 3:00 rolled around and the kids were still up. "Only 4.5 hours till I can kiss their darling heads good night. I can endure those few short hours for the reward of a quiet evening to myself," I reasoned.

And so, much weeping and howling and bickering and physical assault ensued among my little darlings.

James hit Timothy full swing with a Playskool bus and knocked him flat out. He has an egg-shaped bruise square between the eyes to prove it.

Emily slapped, kicked and punched her oldest brother and her cousin because they smirked at her angry face that was induced by a movie selection she disapproved of. She then went into full melt down mode that left her eyes nearly swollen shut.


James deceptively stole the rocking horse from Timothy who then bulldozed James right off of it and into the recliner.

Timothy had the better spot on my lap, so James elbowed and pinched him off. Timothy then spanked James who then tried to rip out Timothy's hair. (I was doing the best I could to stop this all the while holding and trying to protect my infant niece from the pandemonium.)

This all happened by 3:30 and I was beginning to question my decision, "Not To Nap". I was feeling fatigued and fatigue makes me want to fuel...with chocolate. I keep a box of Special K Chocolate Delight on hand for these desperate situations, but was all out. I substituted with a bowl of Life cereal with a Hershey bar broken into it, which has only led to hours of regret and self-loathing.

Then the dreaded side effect of "Option 2: Not To Nap" kicked in and James fell asleep on the sofa while watching his eldest brother bravely kill fierce, wild creatures on the Wii. It was only a minute he was asleep, but the damage was done and the child cried all through the preparation of supper. He cried until bribed with a smoothie. Bedtime was now in peril. Even that short minute of sleep could keep James from falling asleep at bedtime.

Suppertime became a commotion of slap-happy boys trying to make the silliest face and the crudest noise. At least the shrieks and howls were ones of tired, yet happy, hysterics.

The kids are all in bed now. I lucked out and even James conked out right away. I had great plans to watch a movie or meet up with a friend, but the desire to do so is long gone. The Delayed Gratification: Not To Nap option has left me utterly exhausted.

Tomorrow, I'm going to need a nap.