You're Not A Whore If You Do It For Free

"I'm hoping to get published someday." I said to the grocery clerk scanning my produce.

"Oh? Well, have you entered writing contests?" She didn't even look at me. She's scanning and scanning and can have whole conversations without taking her eyes off the register screen. Amazing.
"Well, yes." I said.

"And how is that working out for you?"  She just double scanned my cilantro and is now clicking away on the screen taking that second charge off.

"Well, I haven't won anything yet."

"Have you got a writer's agent?"  

"Uh, no, you .. it's sorta a chicken and egg thing-- you get an agent after someone wants to publish you, but you can't get published without an agent." 

She looks at me, nonplussed. She blows a bubble with her gum.  I read her badge. Audrey: Employee since 2009.  She looks like she was born in 2007; how does she know everything about being a writer?

"And have you sent your stuff to magazines?" 

"Uh, no." I reply. She raises a beautifully sculpted eyebrow. You know the kind-- the kind only 15-year old girls have time to do, and that's only because they wake up at 5 to start getting ready for school at 9. Of course, even when I was 15, I didn't do that.  But, I wasn't "cool" and for the record, I do remember getting up to do my bangs every morning. It was the 80s. Meh.

"What about a blog? Do you have a blog?"  I'm starting to get annoyed. Why is she telling me all this stuff that I could be doing if I actually wanted to get published? I just wanted her to hear that I'm going to get published one day and then have her oooh and aaaah all about it so I could go home and continue to not do anything to help myself. Duh. 

Or, on the flipside, I'd like her to hear I want to be published and then have her say, "My parents are publishers at a giant publishing house, and they have me working here so I might meet their next big thing. You, my dear, are that next. Big. Thing."  

But either way, she's mentioned blogging and now ... now she's done it. She's hit something with the blog question, a nerve if you will, and now that she's done scanning all my coupons, I'm gonna give it to her straight. 

"Well, here's the thing about a blog-- I feel like it's giving my stuff away for free. Like it's as though I'm pretending I'm some 16-year old prom date trying to be cool, when I'm actually a 30-year old professional dance teacher that came to prom to show the boy she always loved that she's awesome, and that boy happens to be a teacher at the school where the prom is."  

"What?"

"I don't know. I'm just not into giving shit away for free. That's all. A person needs to be paid for the stuff they're doing. You're getting paid, right?"

"Yeah." 

"Well, you pay the girl that gets you booze every Friday, right?"

The girl looks from side to side and tries to decide whether I'm a narc or not. 

"Yeaah."

"Well, everyone does stuff for money. That's how come I can buy these groceries, with or without the amazing amount of coupons I use."  

"Right. So? Fifty-three, forty-nine. Debit?"

"Yep. Well, like if you write a blog, it's just putting your writing out there, into the world, into time and space, for free. There's no one that has to pay you for what you're writing."

"Ok. But doesn't it get you exposure and shit?"  Oh! Exposure, eh?  

"I don't think so. I mean, if I'm a reader, there's no way I'm sitting in front of the computer thinking, "Geez! I wish I could read all these same stories but pay for them instead and have some stupid heavy book to lug around with me every time I move."  Nope. And it's not like publishers just put "super funny blog about motherhood that I would make money publishing" in the google search. Nope. People read blogs, think they're funny and that's that."

"Oh.  Do you need help bagging?"  Audrey's looking more sympathetic.

The woman behind me is getting irritated with all the chatter. "Oh you two! Who wants to be a writer anyway? You only make, like, 11 cents for every copy of your book you sell. You'd have to be the next Atwood to make more than a few bucks anyway. Now bag your stuff and let me get home to watch "Grey's Anatomy.""

I grab my stuff, and my kids (who I think have squirrelled away some Kinder Eggs in their pockets while Mommy was distracted), and head back to the car.  We have dinner, Daddy puts stuff away or puts the kids to bed, I can't quite remember how the rest of that night played out because I'm flabbergasted that I've never stopped to think about how little money I'd make as an author. No wonder Stephen King writes blockbusters. And the Clancy guy and who's the one that writes those Chicken Soup books? 

You have to be the Jennifer Lopez of writing if you hope to feed your family. You can't just be the Daniel Day Lewis artiste who makes movies for their merit and to broaden an acting horizon. Unless you are the ... say, Tom Hanks or Ron Howard of literature, who makes stuff and gets a great reputation, does some super popular stuff whenever a kid goes to college but otherwise sticks to legit works. Yeah. I could be the Tom Hanks of writing. Yeah. That sounds kinda cool. 

Gaga's head is attached to your gold lamé covered boob tassels. No credit, no money, nothing but "exposure" that doesn't make anyone watching think, "Hey, I've GOT to pay that body double to come do Swan Lake at the Sydney Opera House.  

Nope. I've said it once, I'll say it again, I'll never write a blog. 

Oh. 

Well, this isn't a like, real blog. Blogs are like, online journals, where this is more like a bunch of highly crafted stories. This is much closer to art than a slutty blog. 

Oh. 

Well, maybe there is some merit to exposure. 

I mean, uh, Bieber put his stuff out there for free on Youtube and now he's pretending to kiss Selena Gomez or someone else young and beautiful. Maybe there is something to be said if you actually, really have talent and actually, really have the drive to make it. I mean, what if Ellen Degeneres is reading my blog and waiting for the right moment to have me on her show (any time is good, by the way, Ellen, baby. I'll clear my schedule for you.). 

Ok. I'll start a blog. It'll be about like, being a mom, since that's what I know best (lately) and we'll see what pops up in the search engines. In the meantime, if you happen to know a publisher wanting to make piles and piles of money, send this along.  Well, maybe not this link. It's not my best work. Well, I mean, unless you think it's amazing, then yes, it's my best work. Gosh, I'm talking like a Hollywood starlet already! Blogging is great!

** in the meantime, before the royalty cheques come rolling in, feel free to click the Pay-Your-Pal logo and support my whoring ways. 

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Life Is Like a Baltic Amber Teething Necklace, You Never Know What You're Gonna Get

Kiddo #2, now completely and utterly mobile, has begun leaving trails of snot, saliva and fluids I dare not consider lest I wretch all over the computer, all over the house. Before, when he was just crawling, the slime was left in pools on the floor.  These pools were like invisible banana peels; if you hit one while walking with, say, a tray of crystal vases, there was a very high probability that you, the tray and all that glass were going to end up sliding down the hallway and crashing into a wall with sound effects that Super Grover would envy.

Now that he's walking, the trail is at hip level, and dripping. I think it must be like living in a bee hive in July; the whole world around you seems to be melty and slippery, but you are powerless to stop it.  What a buzz kill.

Anyway, he's been teething since he was like, 3 months old, despite his resounding lack of teeth.  Not wanting to medicate my child 24-7, I began searching for Hyland's Teething Tabs. I used these puppies on my daughter and MAN were they awesome. Put one of the little tabs on her tongue (they were about the size of a pencil lead and dissolved on contact, literally) and she'd go from screaming, bawling, hysterical to sleeping happily in seconds. Homoeopathic medicine! Woo hoo!

And, because they worked so well, they were taken off the market. Frickin' great.   So I asked around to see what friends were using instead and it is Camillia-- another homoeopathic remedy for teething. This one, not yet banned (haha) uses Chamomile tea extracts (I think? I can't remember now and am too tired and lazy to look it up again, even though I am clearly at the computer typing this.) to make baby feel better.

The Camillia worked for a few teeth, but pretty much lost its effectiveness after month 9.  So I tried a natural company out of Winnipeg that makes all their own products (what else have they got to do once the Winter hits?). The Teething Gel worked wonderfully, but it's not super portable because the cap kinda opens in your purse. I still use it at night for teething, but, I hesitated to bring it places because I'd end up smelling like cloves and cinnamon (like I said, it's great and natural). 

So I was investigating some alternatives when I happened upon Amber Teething Necklaces.  These things are made from Amber found in Russia (Baltic Amber) and because they're not a stone but made of resin, they heat up when they're against your skin and something magic happens that soothes inflammation and can really reduce drooling.  Look it up if you're excited about it, but when I read that, I nearly reached through my computer to hand over my wallet for a necklace, right then and there. 

Then, as though fate had been watching, the very next day I was at the park and two little boys were wearing those dang necklaces! I talked to his (visibly) hippie parents about the amber -- the mother got them online but swears they helped their first son a ton and the second son hasn't ever been without the necklace so it must be working, too.  Plus, she has a bad knee and when she wears one (as a bracelet) the swelling in her knee is gone.  I thought the website was great, and this testimonial was almost enough to make me open up an Amber Necklace shop.  Almost. 

(The mother's dreadlocks were phenomenal, by the way. I always thought I wanted dreadlocks, but I couldn't ever commit to shaving my head once I was bored of them, so I never did it.)

I found a few places that sell them online, but I wasn't really willing to wait for shipping from out West, out East or from America. I wanted my baby to stop making my home an aquarium, now.

So, I posted "Hey, who knows where I can find an Amber Teething Necklace?" on Facebook.  A few friends replied that they knew where I could get one a couple of hours from home, but I didn't want to spend more on driving there than I would on shipping.  

Instead, I headed out to the cute, posh baby store.  I asked the cute, posh baby store owner if she had the necklaces. 

Without blinking she said, "Why not try the Vitamin Store?"

It seemed like a possible, plausible place to find them-- that's where I'd originally found the Hyland's Teething Tabs with Kiddo #1, so why not?  

I drove over, parked beside a Hummer (which is odd for my little town-- although it made me feel less like a gas-guzzling carnivore so I didn't complain) and walked inside. 

There's a smell to wellness and vitamin stores that is similar to my spice rack at home, but with a more ... earthy scent to it. You know what I mean if you've ever been in one. It doesn't smell like a Dr's or a Supermarket, but somewhere in between.  At any rate, I asked the vitamin store owner if she had the necklaces. 

Without blinking, she said she'd never heard of them.  Then she wanted to talk to me about my water filter needs and bee pollen. It was strange, but I really wanted a lead on the necklaces so I listened. Then, when she reached behind the counter to get a flier about the filters, I said, "Where do you think I might find those necklaces here in our county?" 

She said, "Well, you could try the Crystal Healer's."  

She told me where to find the store. I thanked her but then she wanted to sell me Oregano pills before they're taken off the market, too, so I said, "Hey, guy with the Hummer-- you left your car running."  

I've never seen a wellness store employee tackle a guy carrying a 5 gallon jug of water before. It was pretty awesome, really.  As I stepped over the struggling pair, all I could hear was "Carbon footprint! Fossil fuels!" and "... just trying to get ... filtered water..." and "Detox the earth!" 

It was nice, though, to know that my house wasn't the only aquarium. 5 gallons of purified, filtered water in a vitamin store makes quite a sloshy mess. 

I put Kiddo #2 back in his car seat (with an cloth diaper on the verge of explosion-- but I hadn't expected to be gone for 2 hours so I hadn't brought a change with me) and hoped there weren't 5 gallons of pee in his diaper. 

Now, some people, after witnessing the chaos at the Wellness Store, might have called it a day.  Some people, after realizing that Kiddo #2 was seconds from a cloth diaper explosion and that there wasn't a diaper to change him into, might have just given up and gone home.  Some people would have just driven to the park, looked up an Amber Teething Necklace website on her phone and ordered one of them then.

But those people aren't me. (although I did go to the park and try to order a necklace from America, but PayPal was acting up and the smell of dirty diaper was suffocating, so I stopped the transaction and drove over to the Cyrstal Healer's with hope in my heart and urine in my nostrils.)

I pulled up and noticed an amazing assortment of random wood carvings and stone creatures.  I got out with my baby who was wet, but happy (how?) and went to the door. The Open sign wasn't on and neither were the lights, but I could hear someone rustling about in the back room so I entered. If it had been overcast or closer to Halloween, I might have convinced myself that the sounds were werewolves in the back room, but it was September and sunshiny, so I went in.

Smelling different than the wellness store-- much more ... organic ...-- I called out towards the rustling a firm, "Oo-oo-ooh?"  Yes. I really made that old-European-lady sound, in the dark. 

The craziest guy came out, but not what I was expecting. 

I was expecting some stereo-typical lanky, hippie guy in tie-dye shirt with long hair, possibly with a bandanna and peace signs, hemp necklace and whatever other thing a cartoon hippie would have.  Truth be told, I was also kinda expecting a woman-- a woman with crazy hair and a long skirt.  

What I got was a middle aged, super clean-cut, plump guy wearing loafers and dockers and a button down shirt.  He giggled a lot when he spoke, which reminded me more of the Pilsbury Dough Boy than Shaggy.  Seriously, this is the guy I would have picked out for investment fraud or tax evasion, not as a crystal healer.

Whatever. Clearly we shouldn't judge a book by its cover. So, I said, hopefully, "Do you have Amber Teething Necklaces?"   

He said, without blinking, that he'd never heard of it. Seriously, if I hadn't stopped at the park to find a website that sells them, I would have taken this as A Sign From Russia that I am not to own a Baltic Amber necklace for my son's teething issues.

We chit chatted about the healing properties of several crystals, and he talked to me about Amber with queen bees captured inside it. Finally, when I could stand the wet jeans of my son on my arm no longer, I told him I'd look online and see if I could find it there.  He told me he'd talk to his amber dealer, too, but I think we both knew our friendship was ending there.

So, after a full morning of tooting around, I returned home and ordered a necklace from a place in Cambridge, which is a few hours away. In fact, if I had just driven there instead of driving all over my wee city, I would have had the necklace that same day and only used a bit more gas.  But I think only the Wellness store clerk is keeping score.  Rather, I'm unsure how exactly to figure out my carbon footprint, and like before, I am too lazy to bother looking it up even though I'm clearly at the computer and have easy access to google.  

The necklace arrived today and looks really cute on Kiddo #2. It appears to have cut back on his drooling already, but only time will tell of its efficacy. I'm hopeful. Mostly, though, I'm just glad this exists for real. Because as each person I was referred to got progressively more ... out of my personal comfort zone, I started to wonder if I was the crazy one. After all, I was the nutter asking for something even these guys didn't  know about.  

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It's The Final Countdown

Monday.  

8:10

"Kiddo #1, it's time to eat so you won't be late for the bus." I try to use my sing song voice, the one that Disney princesses use when they're chiding forest animals for being mean to their stepmothers, or the local witch, or whatever. The voice where butterflies and glitter comes out of your mouth while you speak. I try to use that one because it's the morning (a) and I need everything to be harmonious and happy in the morning, but also, b) because it makes me feel like we have all the time in the world, so there's no need to panic about catching the bus. Can't you just hear the glitter?

Kiddo #1 appears. She's dressed, teeth brushed, hair in pigtails. She quickly stomps down the hallway, but she's not angry, she just walks and runs like a herd of elephants. 

In the kitchen sits her brother (which is worth noting since he's not one for being immobile for very long), singing and eating Chocolate Cheerios (best.invention.ever.) when Kiddo #1 rounds the corner. She sits at the table and begins eating.  A fawn walks up to our kitchen window and eats some grass that we grow there especially for forest wildlife. Gnomes are outside, busily building little homes out of cute mushrooms while the Faeries flit about changing Summer to Autumn.  It's a beautiful, calm, September morning.  There is no way we won't catch the bus today.  Smug, I go into my bathroom to quickly put on the bare minimum, bus stop Momma make-up.

Seconds later, I return to the kitchen to find it's now 8:43.

WHAT? How? Was the infant playing with the kitchen clock?

"Kiddo #1! We're gonna miss the bus! GET YOUR SHOES ON AND GRAB YOUR BAG!!"  The calm kitchen is thrown into screaming chaos with me running over Kiddo #1 to get Kiddo #2 and toss him into the stroller. Kiddo #1, crying because she can't find her shoes, grabs her book bag, determined to catch the bus-- shoes be damned.  I turn around.
"Where are your SHOES?"
"(bawling) Momma. I can't find them! I'll just go to school without them. I have indoor sneakers I can wear."

"What? That's crazy. Find your shoes!"

Kiddo #2, squirming in my insane grip, just. won't. stay. put. and I don't want two screaming kids because I pinched him with the seat belt thing.  Kiddo #2 returns.

"I can't find my shoes. (wailing, bawling, unable to breathe)"

The bus rolls on by, oblivious to our plight.  Frickin' nice.

Tuesday 

8:03

""Kiddo #1, it's time to eat so you won't be late for the bus."  I smile while I talk because, well, everyone can tell if you're smiling when you talk (or not) and I want my little angel to feel happy and calm this morning. We're getting to the kitchen earlier today so that we don't have a repeat of yesterday's unpleasant, chaotic mess. My blood pressure is already a little elevated at the thought, so we're just going to change the routine a bit and be fine.

I sit the kiddos down at the table. Kiddo #1 is dressed, but teeth aren't brushed and hair is still rather tornado-esque.  Kiddo #2 is in his diaper and both are happily eating Chocolate Cheerios. I head into my bathroom and put on my bus stop Momma make-up (which includes: moisturizer, mascara, eyebrows and lip gloss) and return to the kitchen.   Ha! 8:18.  Life is great.

I sit down and begin eating my Chocolate Cheerios. The three of us chit chat about Kiddo #1's ballet class with Miss Britt, who has been Kiddo #1's teacher for the last two years, so we feel like she's a part of our family. It's cool since she's a positive, caring person that all kiddos should have in their lives. You don't always get so lucky when your kids start into sports. 

WHAT THE FRICK?!? 

8:41? How did this happen?

"Kiddo #1! We're gonna miss the bus! GET YOUR SHOES ON AND GRAB YOUR BAG!!"  

I run out to the garage and open the door to (somehow) show the bus driver that we're alive and trying to get to the bus stop. Leaping over not one, but two different baby gate-hurdles, I grab Kiddo #2 and Kiddo #1's book bag and run out the front door.  I call, "Kiddo #1-- get your shoes I've got your bag!" over my shoulder but it's too late. Kiddo #1 is yelling that she can't find her book bag, and I can hear her because the front door is open. And because the front door is open, the frickin' dog is now galloping around the driveway like Charlie Sheen at Hugh Hefner's house after finding the Coke room. Winning.

The bus rolls on by. I look to the sky. It begins to rain. 

Wednesday

8:15

Kiddo #1 is done eating. She is dressed, she has her shoes on. She has brushed her hair and her teeth, possibly with the same brush-- I wasn't going to interfere because I have too many things going on in the morning to be able to monitor that minor detail.  But both her mouth and her bangs have the same minty freshness, so you be the judge.

Kiddo #1 is sitting on the front porch with her book bag in front of her, but down the steps.  Kiddo #2 is in his jammies but at least a new diaper, and is also sitting on the front stoop. He's eating Chocolate Cheerios out of a canvas baggie and every time he takes one, the Velcro closes like a bank vault. Kiddo #1 is helping him open it, without losing the rest of his breakfast in the meantime.

I return. Miracle of miracles, it's only 8:31.  We, triumphant, walk to the bus stop. We, jubilant, get there first of all the other kids.  We, delirious with joy, wait for the bus. 8:41. 8:45. 8:54. At 8:57, the bus rolls up and Kiddo #1 gets on, still as excited as ever.  The other mom looks at me and says, "Wow. It's never here this late."  Of course not. Of course.

Thursday

8:41

What? How? Where did the 8:12 time go? I didn't even look at the clock this morning. Fantastic. We've already missed the bus and both kids are still in their jammies. WHY CAN I NOT GET MY CHILD TO THE BUS ON TIME?!? 

The doorbell rings.  It's my mother. How is that possible? She lives an hour and a half away. Why would she be here at my house at 8:41 in the morning?

"Hi! Oh! Goodness! Everyone is rushing around! Here, let me help."

We divided and conquered the children. I took the infant, she took the kid. Hair brushed, teeth clean, outfit on, book bag packed, shoes on, ready to go. 8:45. How did my mother, in 4 minutes, do what I clearly couldn't get done in over an hour the last four days? Must be the magic of Grandma.

I get the infant out of his (gross) diaper and into his new one.  I put him in the car seat, essentially naked.  Grandma, without audibly judging, removes him, dresses him and returns him to his car seat again in 4 minutes. Kiddo #1 sits quietly in the car awaiting me. I can't even get ME dressed in 4 minutes. How the frick?

Grandma takes the children to school in the car. I, abandoned at home, put on my extended make-up (bus stop make-up is the bare minimum, extended make-up usually happens after Kiddo #2 goes down for his morning nap) and wait for their return.  

"So, why are you here this morning?"

"Oh, I had a feeling you needed a little help."  Really? She had a feeling at like, 5am that by 8:30 I would be up shit's creek without a paddle. Nice. She should use this skill for lottery tickets and the Super bowl.

"Thanks." I say.

Friday

8:58

Dear Teacher,

I regretfully inform you that the morning bus pick-up will henceforth be cancelled.  Kiddo #1 seems more than able to catch the bus, however, I clearly cannot get my stuff together that early in the morning.  

Yes, I understand that this is only the second week of school, but my heart cannot take much more of this stress. 

I fully appreciate that you get her to the bus every day after school; I cannot imagine how hard that must be with 20 kids in your class, but then again, none of those kids is me.  

With much respect and admiration,

Elizabeth 

Monday

8:12

The doorbell rings. Expecting my mother again, I answer the door in my bra and jeans. It is not my mother. Fantastic. Oh, look, it's Kiddo #1's teacher. 

"Hi. Uh. Did you get my note?"  I twirl away from the door and grab the first thing I could reach, which happens to be my vest with the broken zipper. This is not helping.

"Note? Uh, just a sec." I discreetly (haha that's hilarious) maneuver to my bedroom where I put on my pajama top. My pajama top missing the important buttons. Frickin' seriously? Why do none of my boob-hiding shirts seem within my grasp? I flounder around and throw on a sundress. Over my jeans. Wonderful. Height of fashion here.

I return to the kitchen, where I left my children and a teacher, to find nothing. In fact, the breakfast has been put away, the dishwasher is running-- she did NOT have time to vacuum? What?  There's a note on the counter. It's dated from last Friday. 

Dear Elizabeth,

I will come on Monday and see what I can do to help. Catching the bus is great, and I know we can do it!

Sincerely,

Mrs. Sweetie Pie

I look out the window to watch my eldest getting on the bus while the teacher is holding Kiddo #2, waving. 

Tuesday

6:57

I'm not messing around here. Kiddo #1 will ride the bus today come Hell or high water. I am crouched down in the kitchen wearing my Lulu Lemon headband like Rambo, and Kiddo #1's long strands of play pearls are draped across my front like so much munition. I've done my make-up, am dressed and await the gentle sound of the alarm clock to start the day.

I made Kiddo #1 wear her clothes for today as her jammies last night. I figured that step would save us at least 15 minutes-- the obligatory negotiation of what she'll wear, whether she likes her panty selection and whether or not she needs socks/tights/shoes was all done last night.  Smiling silently, I watch the sun rise and listen to the alarm clock begin buzzing. 

Kiddo #2 begins chattering away.  I couldn't pre-dress him. He has a tenancy to over flow all types and styles of diapers, so I figured there wasn't much point.  I ninja my way to his bedroom (that is to say I jumped, somersaulted, hid behind plants and scaled walls to get to his bedroom) and change his (disgusting) diaper speedily.

7:22.  Husband gets into the shower. Kiddo #1 is now roaming the house in the zig-zag pattern that comes from walking with her eyes still shut. I get her to the kitchen and put cereal in front of her.  She eats.

It's now 8:02.  Yes. Right on schedule.  Kiddo #2 is eating. Kiddo #1 is brushing her teeth.  I am dressed. 

8:12.  Yes. This will happen. I can feel it.

8:30, we calmly walk out to the bus stop. It's raining, and we don't have an umbrella. We pick up the pace and stand under a tree about 15 paces from the bus stop. The other children of the bus stop stand with us. 

The bus pulls up at 8:43.  The boys run to the door and pile in. Kiddo #1 is still standing beside me.  "What are you doing? Get going!"  She then tries to lift her roller-book bag up by the handle and carry it in front of her. She looks more than awkward, and she's tripping over her feet. And we're in front of a driveway and the owner of the driveway is trying to pull in off the street.  I grab the book bag and begin to pull it behind me, which ends up running over Kiddo #1's heels and taking off one of her shoes, in the middle of that driveway.  The last couple kids are getting on the bus and we're at least 10 paces away. Frick!

"Mom! I lost my shoe!"  I snort like an angry bull. I swallow the urge to scream "SUCK IT UP BUTTERCUP!" and instead take a deep breath and say (as sweetly as humanly possible) "Honey, you're about to get run over. Fix your shoe on the bus."  But she's four and doesn't know how to walk with one shoe on and one shoe off.  And then, as I stoop down to fix her shoe, the bus driver shuts the doors and pulls in the flashing Stop sign. WHAT? We're right frickin' here! The other bus parent starts waving to the bus driver and actually bangs on the door but he pulls away but the rain picks up and the torrential downpour is much louder than the hand on a bus door.  

The bus pulls away, oblivious to our plight.  

I need a personal assistant.


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He Man And The Master Of The Universe

"Remember, Kevin, this is for the family. Straighten your tie and stand up tall and proud-- not everyone gets sold in exchange for two tickets to Hallowbash. Remember, Kevin, this is a very important thing you're doing-- sacrificing yourself so that your father and I can go to the rockin'est, funnest, fundraiser in our city. Remember, Kevin, (pause) stop crying. I'm sure your new family will love you and all that."

"Kevin, age 14." was called onstage.  I pushed my first born son out into the spotlight, knowing that with his good looks and smarts, he was sure to win us two tickets to Hallowbash.  "Do I hear $50?"  

The silence was deafening. Crickets were even afraid to chirp. What? I ran out to the crowd in my random old lady costume and said, in my awesome old lady voice, "What's that? $50 for that fine young buck? Why I take it, and raise it to $100!"  I then pulled off my wig, and rolled up my boobs (grapefruit in a pair of nylons under my dress, if you must know), ran to the other side of the crowd, and shouted in my Man voice, "$100? I'll take that! He looks strong and smart! Explain the Quadratic Equation, Kevin!"  Kevin, not realizing it was his mother all along, obliged and began writing out the explanation (or something that looked like it-- I'm not a big math person, whatever.) while the crowd marvelled. Usually the kids sold for Hallowbash tickets were the useless ones-- the kids that were super lazy and only wanted to play video games. Or the ones that had extra toes or no finger nails. Not a finely bred, smart, good looking specimen like Kevin.  In fact, I stage-whispered all this to the crowd immediately around me and a man with a hunchback shouted, "Yeah! I'll bid $110!"

I jumped over to the other side of the crowd and said, while holding a lollipop and a balloon and standing on my knees, "He'd be a great big brother!"

Two more paddles shot to the air and, finally, the bidding was off to a great start. In fact, I was able to win not just the two Hallowbash tickets I was hoping for, but four more tickets.  Kevin ended up going for the most ticket money all night!  I was both proud that Kevin was the biggest seller and happy to have 6 tickets to Hallowbash in my hands. I felt a twinge of guilt that I'd just sold my child for one night of fun and frivolity, until I remembered that Kevin had been talking about becoming a Doctor, which is expensive, especially if he gets into one of those big schools in the States, and the guilt went away.  I gave him a high-five as he was ushered off to his new family (who seemed fine by the way. Who doesn't want 21 brothers and sisters? They were even talking about changing his name to Jevin or something else that starts with a 'J' and he's gonna be on some reality TV show I think? I don't know. I wasn't really listening, I was caught up in the glisten of the 6 golden tickets to Hallowbash!)

Now feeling all-powerful, holding 4 extra tickets, I wave my son onto the bus in which his new family travels.  

I head home mentally going through the list of people I'd like to have owe me things in the future and sell the other four tickets quickly.  

The next week is spent tallying things needed for two super-deluxe He-Man: Masters of the Universe costumes. I thought, for a minute, that I would be She-Ra to Husband's He-Man, but then I remembered that She-Ra is the separated-at-birth twin sister of He-Man, and if Husband and I ever decided to make out at the party, it would've been  scandalous. So I decided to go with The Sorceress from He-Man, instead. She is the one that gave both He-Man and She-Ra their swords of power. Plus she has magical mind-reading powers, which (let's face it) are handy to have. 

I ordered only the best fabrics from all over the world to create our costumes. I paid more for express shipping, even though I had lots of time to get the costumes made; I just wanted to spend more money to ensure we'd win the costume contest.  

I began collecting the correct bits and pieces and  I fashioned an exact replica of the Castle Greyskull sword out of some melted down dry-cleaning hangers and my soldering gun. 

Once the most difficult part was done, I began making the muscle suit. I had husband put on a long sleeved shirt and jogging pants. I then covered him with duct tape, cut him out of the clothing and pulled the clothing, very carefully, away from the body imprint I'd made with the duct tape. Here's where things got interesting:  I then procured some latex and began layering it onto the duct tape to create the muscular physique of He-Man. After it was mostly right, I airbrushed it to a tanned Caucasian skin tone (like Husband's). Then I airbrushed, in a darker brown, the shadows around the pecks, abs, arms, back, the whole nine yards.

Truthfully, this took me the better part of 3 weeks. This is the first time I've ever made a latex suit, let alone used an airbrushing machine, but I figured everyone has to learn to use both at some point, so why not on the same project.  The end result was pretty phenomenal. When Husband donned his suit, he looked exactly like He-man from the neck down. And once I put the crappy $3.99 wig on, he looked perfect. I gave him his sword and he was ready. 

I donned my Sorceress costume (which used significantly less latex and was therefore much less time-consuming to make) and the two of us headed back up from the basement to get the kids and bring them to my mother-in-law's house for the night. When Husband rounded the corner, he raised his sword above his head and said, "By The Power of Greyskull!" Then he held the sword in front of him and grabbed the "sharp part" (yes, I'm quoting myself here) with his other hand and yelled, "I have the power!"  It was even more epic because he did it in our living room with the tall, echo-y ceilings.  Kiddo #1 laughed, and Kiddo #2, mildly terrified, filled his diaper to the point of a wonderful flood in the middle of  the floor.  

I held out my arms (like the picture) and closed my eyes. I called for help from He-Man, telepathically, like The Sorceress did in the shows. Did you know that telepathically asking your Husband to change your child out of a pee accident  is about as effective as ... well, as telepathically asking him to do any thing at all? 

Had I realized how very little The Sorceress actually did in the show, I probably would've picked Teela or Evil-Lyn instead. I mean really, she telepathically tells He-Man to come to Castle Greyskull to save her. Seriously? That's it? Pretty much. Evil-Lyn just held Skeletor's hand and laughed wickedly and Teela ran like a linebacker, occasionally doing a tuck and roll to keep Skeletor from firing some laser at her. 

There were no good female roles in He-Man. That's why they had to invent She-Ra in the first place-- girls were holding their Sorceress action figure while He-Man and Man-At-Arms did all the fighting wondering what on earth to do next. 

And then the doorbell rang. 

"Jevin? Is that you? It's been so long-- almost 3 weeks!"  Jevin, looking ragged and a little out of sorts, pushed passed us and into the house. 

"Listen. I can't live there any more. They're all so damn happy all the time. With their giant bus and 7 dozen eggs a day. And the singing? I can't take it anymore!" he broke down sobbing all over my Sorceress outfit.  Mildly annoyed, I patted his back and told him to calm down.

"Jevin? Listen, Mommy can't help you. I needed these Hallowbash tickets, and I've sold the other 4 you earned, so you're gonna have to work it out with that other family.  Hey, how did you escape the reality TV cameras?"

Jevin looked around cautiously for any renegade video cameras, and recounted how he'd cut the power at the house the night before the family trip to Paris. Then, when the airport bus arrived and woke everyone up, he made sure a neighbour kid was playing in and around the bus, so that the kid got counted and Jevin did not. "Really? The old Home Alone trick actually works?"  Jevin nodded and followed up with, "Yeah, well, I didn't stick around to see if the Wet Bandits were gonna show up while they were all gone."  

I stroked his hair while he cried in my lap.  I scoured my brain trying to figure out what I was going to do to get him back and then it hit me like a ton of bricks: my winnings from the Hallowbash Costume Contest would more than pay for our costumes, and with a little left over, I could trade that to the J-Family for First Kiddo #1. 

I checked my watch. The contest was just about to start. Grabbing He-Man, we climbed aboard Battle Cat and roared off into the night to have the most powerful costumes in Etheria. Or something like that.

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Don't Cut Onions While Driving

I had to pay extra to get an alarm clock that starts buzzing softly and then gets louder and louder as time passes. I have to awaken gently, or I experience what I can only assume is the beginnings of a heart attack from the stress of jolting out of slumber to 10 000 pissed off bee-crows.  The sound of alarm clocks on TV and radio ads also sends my heart racing. Truly, I think this is why I'm not a jogger. I get regular cardio from being startled into heart 'episodes.' daily.

So, when the ever so soft buzz started at 6:45 I hit the snooze, tapped my husband and laid there thinking that this is Kiddo #1's first day of school. First day. 

I ticked off the invisible list in my head: lunch, snacks, water bottle, book bag with random essentials (including: eraser, but no pencils, Kleenex, 3 boxes of plastic spoons and 6 gallon sized Ziploc bags). I thought about what Kiddo #1 would wear and how I would do her hair and considered leaping from bed to make some waffle batter so she could eat something special on her first day of school.

I pulled up duvet and the blast of not-as-snuggly air on my legs reminded me that if I make her waffles today, she might expect them every day, or in the very least, every first day of school, and I'm not willing to commit to that, so I pulled the covers back down like a cocoon around me. 

The alarm began softly buzzing again, so I rolled to the left to hit the snooze and to the right to hit Husband. "Honey, c'mon. It's time to get up." I said softly.  It's funny that he can hear me when I say that, but he can sleep soundly while the baby screams at 3am. But who's counting?

Husband pads off to the shower and I get my slippers on and head down the hall to Kiddo #1's room. I gently nudge her and say, "Kiddo #1, this is it! It's your first day of school! Time to get up."  She, like her father at 3am, rolls away from my quiet plea and continues sleeping.

I hear the baby stir in his room, so I get to the kitchen and start on a bottle. Wait. I go to the kitchen and begin making him a bottle. While it IS the first day of school for Kiddo #1, it's a touch early for me to "start on a bottle" myself.  Ha.

I change the baby and get him eating and call back into Kiddo #1. The shower stops and Husband appears in the hallway in his towel. I implore him to try and get Kiddo #1 out of bed. He hobbles down the hallway toward her bedroom to awaken the girl. 

"Honey, are you still limping from Old Man Soccer on Sunday?" He snorts. He groans. He says, "Yes. But, it's like, my calf from where I was kicked." Yes. Clearly.

I hear Kiddo #1 get up and start brushing her teeth. Good work, Husband-- I'd forgotten to put that on my mental list. He's more than just a hot husband, let me tell you. 

Kiddo #1 comes pounding down the hallway like a heard of elephants announcing, "Momma! Today's the day I go to school!" She jumps up and down in one place while Kiddo #2 laughs his head off.  I get dressed, get the boy dressed and lay out the girl's new school outfit. She looks at it and says, "But Momma, can I wear my Curious George t-shirt?" 

I blink once. Twice. Three times. But, Kiddo #1, I made that new twirly, whirly skirt for you, and picked out the matching girlie shirt to go with it. And the Curious George shirt doesn't match the skirt.  I blink again.

"Um. Yes. Sure. What do you want to wear for pants?" 

"I want to wear the new skirt." 

"Well, it doesn't match, though."

"What about one of my other skirts?"

I pull out the skirt that sorta matches the new t-shirt and we put it on her. It's the first twirly, whirly skirt I ever made her. She's probably worn it 10 thousand times and, as far as I'm concerned, you can tell that it's been worn 10 thousand times. I take a deep breath. Ok. I'm not having a fight about a skirt right now. She needs to be comfortable and confident. She needs to match.

We put it on her and I do her hair.  She heads to the kitchen and begins eating breakfast. I can't stop thinking about how she was supposed to wear her new skirt and now she's wearing some old skirt and how this day is really just not going how I'd imagined it.

I look at the clock and it's time to start heading to the bus. She puts on her old, ratty flip flops (her new, pretty ones broke and the replacements haven't arrived yet, sigh) and I smile. I go to put Kiddo #2 in his stroller so we can walk to the bus together and she says, "Um. Momma. I think you need to know that you can't walk me to the bus."  

I thought you were 4, not 14.  What?

"Well, it's just that I need to walk there all by myself and stand with my friends by myself, so that I can get on the bus." 

"Well, since it's your first day, though, maybe we can walk to the bus stop together?"

She taps her chin while contemplating this very important decision. I mean really. Husband, chuckling, says, "Honey, what if we all walked to the bus together? I think it would be nice."

Gug-gug, gug-gug, gug-gug-- this kid is walking so quickly it's hard for us to even get the walking-away-to-school pictures! 

We get to the bus stop and wait. "Momma. Um. I think you should practice jumping behind this bush."

"Why?" I questioned, wishing I'd now brought my sneakers if I'm going to be jumping and hiding and crap.

"Well, when the bus comes you're going to have to hide so that the bus driver doesn't think you should get on the bus, too. Because it's just me going to school today."  Ah yes. 

While we wait, a family of boys arrives. Their mother and I chat about first days of school. Husband stands there until I give him the "For GOD'S SAKE take pictures while I'm chatting and trying to remain calm or I won't have anything to scrapbook later and it will be ALL YOUR FAULT!" look.  Ding, ding, ding goes the camera. 

The school bus pulls up. Kiddo #1 is first in line. She tells her name to the bus driver  and puts her foot up on the stair. Then she stops. She turns around and comes back down. She runs over and gives me a big hug and kiss. She runs to her Poppa and gives him a big hug and kiss and she kisses brother on the top of the head. She runs back to the bus, gets on and waves from the first seat. 

Choking back sobs, I wave back. I don't even know if those other kids even got on the bus for the anguish my heart was going through. 

As the bus pulls away, I'm really wishing for my shoes instead of flip flops now-- I'm booking it home to put the baby in the car and drive like Hell to school so I can covertly watch Kiddo #1 get off the bus.

I snap some pictures and wave at a little girl who can't see me, anyway, and get back into the car. 

Oh thank heaven. The baby is screaming. The second most heart-attack inducing sound in the world keeps me from sobbing all the way home. 

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Basketball and Other Skills

"Daddy, will you get me a drink?"

"Sure. But I need some snuggles first."

"No. I just want a drink."  said Kiddo #1, acting so much like her Mommy.  Husband, being the man he is, takes it upon himself to bestow the lesson entitled "The Art of Negotiation" upon Kiddo #1.  Husband, having just finished watching "The Negotiator" (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0120768/)  figures himself a little bit Kevin Spacey's character Chris Sabian.  He looks at Kiddo #1 and says, "Look. Kiddo #1, you want a drink. I want some snuggles. If you give me some snuggles, I'll get you a drink. See how that works? We both want something, and by giving me what I want, you get what you want.  It's called Making A Deal."

Kiddo #1 thinks it over for a minute.  She sits down, taps her chin like a Kung Fu Master, squints her eyes ever so little and says, "I know! I have a deal for you Dad.  Why don't you go get me a drink, and then YOU get your OWN snuggles."

She starts Junior Kindergarten this year. She's so incredibly excited to go to school, "like Emily and Ethan," the neighbour kids. It's been chilly here for the last few nights, but the sunsets have been extraordinary-- all pinks and purples.  So, on our way home from Daddy's soccer game tonight, we looked up in the sky marveling about the colours and clouds. Then she said, "Momma, I think the sky is this pretty because I'm going to start school and everyone is very happy about it, even the sky."  I said I thought so, too and then remembered that we don't have any dog food left for tonight's supper (for the dog) so I turned the car in the direction of the store.

When we pulled up I heard, "P-p-p-p, eh-eh-eh,t-t-t-t,sssss,mmmm,ahhh,r-r-r,t-t-t.  pppeett sssmrrt. ppetsmaaart. Pet Smart. Is this Pet Smart, Momma?"  And all I could think is: "Damnit! Now Husband and I can't say, "Hey, let's have s-e-x tonight" anymore!"  

I speak French, too, and have been speaking French to her since she was 6 months old. It came about because some friends of ours were pregnant, too, and the father, a basketball fanatic, was so excited to meet his baby so he could teach him or her basketball. And I thought, "Wow! That's cool! That's so cool that he wants to teach his baby how to do the thing he loves doing and the two of them can play together and maybe the baby will end up in the NBA or WNBA (they didn't know what they were having at the time) and it'll be because his/her Dad instilled both a love of and skills for basketball from day one."

By the time I got home from the dinner visit I was both very excited for the wee bambino on the way for my friends, and anxiously reviewing the skill set that I might impart on my child.  I don't play basketball, I've never played soccer. I can figure skate, but the town in which we lived didn't have an arena (which is unheard of in Canada, but more of a norm in the States where we lived at the time), so that was scratched. I'm no great cook or ... yeah, this might go on all night. Let's just end this and announce my skill set included one thing: French.  So I said, "Ok. French it is."  

That's how Kiddo #1 ended up in a French First Language program here, although you don't have to speak French (as parents) to want your child in that program.  I'm speaking French to Kiddo #2, too, mostly because I wasn't savvy enough to pick up Basketball in the last four years. That game is just so hard to figure out-- running and bouncing a ball, but not too many times or that infernal whistle blows. Plus, I have a real disadvantage, I found out, with my hand size.  

This is my real hand, inside the real hand of local basketball hopeful, L'Arnold Biloxi.  You might notice the gigantic basketball that appears to be softball-sized in the giant hand. And you might notice my wee, child-like hand making those other two things appear to be the size of small cars or planets.  Yes. You might also wonder what the squiggly lines are to the left and right of my arm in this picture. That high school senior, for a young man with Homer Simpson-coloured skin, has incredibly hairy arms. 

Oh, but it's not like I didn't TRY to learn Basketball. 

In fact, I got this picture after a week long visit with my friend, L'Arnold Biloxi.

(Do parents know from the get-go that their kids will become great basketball stars or do kids change their names to something more flashy once they show aptitude for the tall-person's sport? Seems like a chicken and egg issue to me.)

I called him, mostly because, well, Larry Bird and Michael Jordan were both busy. And expensive. But L'Arnold is still a teenager, so I just pretended to be a scout from UCLA (I googled "good basketball university in USA") and I brought my camcorder and said, "Labia, show me some moves."  

After I woke up and put some raw meat on my swollen black eye (if things don't work out in Basketball, he could really get somewhere with boxing), I said, "What? No one's ever called you that? La-Bi? It's like Brangelina or J-Lo, only you're one person and not crazy.  And it's not like it takes a rocket scientist to take La-Bi to the next step."   

Since I was potentially his ticket to school, he smiled and fake laughed and I took it because, hey, I needed a crash course in how to play Basketball.  So, he showed me his best moves, I taped them and pretended to erase the tape so he'd have to show me 100 times how to do each move. Free throws, dribbling, that jumpy-dunky-basket thing. Yep. Everything. I got it all, from every angle imaginable. And at night, I'd put the DVD into the player and watch the heck outta that thing. I watched that footage so many times I could even mimic the grunts and other weird sounds he made while playing. 

Then I put the footage into Movie Maker and, over the next 6 months, I spliced footage of me playing basketball, with L'Arnold Biloxi's.  The results were astounding-- I'll can't quite figure out how to put a still from the footage into this blog, but suffice it to say it was pretty incredible.  Anyone I showed the film to would immediately surrender all monies bet on games of Donkey and 21, instead of actually playing me!  

And, since I was winning all this money on the regular, I earned enough to be able to go to one of those big schools in the States. The ones with Ivy on the walls or whatever. So, I sent out my tape to Harvard, Cornell, Brown, Darthmouth, Princeton, UPenn and uh, that other one.  The offers came rolling in and I picked my school of choice-- I'd watched my video enough times by now, that surely my skills would truly be as great as I conveyed. 

When I suited up for my first game, all eyes were on me. When Coach put me in, I said, "Well, I need a drink." (I was suddenly rather thirsty from the excitement of the game and all) and by the time I got back, the match had ended. But we won, so we all went out to the local French bistro for some celebrating. And, since I speak French, I was also able to translate the menu and order delicacies for our entire team. "I play ball as well as I speak French, you know." I murmured to another tall woman on the team. I'm not sure what position she played (I still didn't really know how the game is set up, truth be told), but she was impressed at both my amazing skills. 

And, before the next game, a tragedy occurred: I fell down the stairs at the library. I was checking out "Practical Modern Basketball" by John Wooden (to read how to actually play) when I tripped over some nerd's heavy backpack. It must've weighed at least 50 pounds -- the damn thing was twice the size of the nerd that owned it!  And, just as I began somersaulting down the stairs, I was able to twist around and get a picture of the woman whose bag ended my Basketball career, on my phone. Sucka!

I didn't have to quit the team when I limped in on crutches; everyone knew the devastating truth. The entire team began sobbing. It was quite the sight, but understandable since I WAS the star and all.  I left them with some parting words that I'd lifted from Wooden's biography, "Wooden On Leadership."  Crying and wailing, several teammates vowed to name their children after me ("Just like George Foreman, only my kids will be Elizabeth 1-9. Even the boys!").  I packed up my things and headed home.

But, like I said, I never really learned how to PLAY basketball, so when it came time to have Kiddo #2, I looked over my list of skills and, once again, had French at the top. Le top, actually. (That's French humour for you-- it's subtle and sophisticated, so you might not get it.)

And, I ran into L'Arnold Biloxi at McDonalds the other day!  He took my order, astonished to see me again, and frantically asked me what happened and why hadn't he heard from me, and could he possibly re-try out for UCLA and did I want fries with that?

I said, "Look, Labia, you want to get into UCLA, and I want my kids' meal. This sounds like a negotiation to me."  Labia looked me in the eyes and said, "If you get me a basketball scholarship to UCLA, I will buy you one kids' meal a day for the rest of your life."  Realizing that much fast-food would surely take 30 years off my life, in the first 30 days, I said, "No dice. But I'll tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna pay for this kids' meal and I'll send your tape to some smaller schools in the US."  L'Arnold, with tears of joy in his eyes, even snuck an extra toy into the bag and, like my old teammates, waved a bittersweet, but hopeful goodbye as I left.  

And that, my friends, is the art of negotiation: I needed that second toy for Kiddo #2 and I wasn't gonna pay $3.50 for a frickin' plastic Smurf. When I got home, I found the DVD of L'Arnold Biloxi, dusted it off, wrote "Watch me" on the front and slid it into an envelope marked "Urgent Draft Prospect" and sent it off to none other than Wooden himself. He'd know if Biloxi had potential after a few seconds. When the envelope came back "Return to Sender" I took it as a sign that Biloxi didn't have a chance and burned the whole thing lest it ruin his dreams.  I went back to McDonalds and told him he had to make his own luck, that I'd tried and there was some interest, just nothing that fit for this year.  Biloxi hugged me and said I was an inspiration.  

You know, for all the crying and hugging and "You're an inspiration" stuff, it seems to me that Basketball players are SUPER emotional. Maybe it's a good thing I never learned how to play after all.

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A Camping We Will Go

Sitting in the middle of our campground, I feel peaceful. I look around, the sun is shining, but it's not oppressive. The breeze is blowing, but not gale-force quantity. The smell of lake water is in the air, children are giggling and getting swimsuits on, Husband is blowing up water wings and other non-flotation device, devices. It's Labor Day weekend, the last official weekend before school starts, and it's our first real camping trip as a family.

Husband and I pack a picnic lunch in our tote and the four of us head over to the river like a family of cereal Toucans (we follow our noses, haha). The children play in the rocks and sand and flit in and out of the water with ease.  Husband and I looking lovingly at each other knowing we're teaching our children a love of nature and The Earth in a way no one else can. 

And then, I kill my first mosquito.  I look out to the children in the water and realize the river is full of germs and disease that isn't naturally purified by salt water, since rivers aren't frickin' oceans. And then I see a black snake heading toward the children, only to be attacked and eaten by a giant snapping turtle. Oh yeah, thank heaven the giant-baby-sized snapping turtle stopped the snake from getting the kids.  I throw-up a little in my mouth just in time to scream for the children to come.  They float in and run to me panicked from my tone. Oh, look! Leeches. And, what's that? Oh, lovely, their neck glands are already big and full of bacteria-- it looks like they've both swallowed a pencil sideways, but whatever. Camping is great!

Then we hot foot it back to the campsite-- I have to find the cancer-free sunscreens and bug sprays; the kids need to get gargling warm salt-water as soon as possible.  We each step in the same warm, muddy puddle giving each one of us a soaker through our boots and woolen socks (people who camp wear gear like this, not simple flip-flops, silly non-camper) that begins to chafe our toes. 

When we finally get to our site, it looks like a crime scene. Why is the? How did that? Yes. Something wild has been here eating our garbage (that we forgot to string up in the tree in our haste to get to the water), food stuffs (which we also didn't return to the safety of our trunk) and now that drunk teenager that saluted us and said, "Cheers, man!" makes more sense. The empty bottles of OUR beer lead from that kid directly back to our campsite. Frickin' wonderful--I was going to put the cold bottles against the screaming mosquito bites to take out the itch. Nice. 

As the welts are rising on each of my children, I have to (wryly) commend the determined mosquitoes that managed to bite the same area two or three times leaving huge, softball sized mountains on my arms and back. Kudos, to you, you buzzy wonders.  Husband, who donned his beekeeper's suit like a flash after he heard the first slap of my hand against my arm, is safe, provided there isn't a mosquito already in there feasting on the smorgasbord for one.  

For now, I've placed our children in the back of the truck with the air-conditioning going.  I've doused them in Afterbite.  Kiddo #1's eye is swelling shut from a well placed bite on her eyelid (no Afterbite there, of course).  Kiddo #2 is miserable with a giant lip. He can't get his mouth around the bottle well enough to suck because of the gigantic bug bite.  Have you seen this kid? He will power through just about anything to get his feed-on, so he's more miserable than you can ever imagine.

I fold up our brand new, 10-sleeper tent like a giant, nylon towel, crispy from drying on the clothesline. The crispy sounds are the sounds of me snapping the poles in two or three to get the folding done faster, faster, faster. Not fast enough. The heavens open up. Seriously? 

There wasn't a cloud in the sky when we were at the beach. Are mosquitoes early radar for an approaching storm or something? Maybe if I'd read my waterproof camping handbook better I'd already know this. 

Either way, Husband's bee suit is keeping him dry and happy (except for the soaker we all have in our hiking boots). He's not the least bit panicked or worried that we need to get home before the children turn into Violet Beauregard from Charlie and The Chocolate Factory, only skin-toned instead of blueberry. Benedryl vitamins anyone?

I scream, "Just leave it! Leave it! For the love of all things holy, get in the CAR!" to Husband. He can hardly hear me over the pounding rain, I'm sure, but my wild eyes are glowing through the torrent and my arms may signal a way through the river, had I two stone tablets and a team of wanderers behind me.  I sit in the car with our two little sausages in the backseat. 

The benedryl has worked its magic by relieving the itch and also knocking them out.  Lightening flashes, thunder cracks almost immediately and Husband appears to be conducting a symphony. I glance one more time in the backseat and decide it's time for Action.  I honk the horn twice more before moving over to the diver's seat and counting to ten. When Husband didn't appear, I did what I had to do.  I threw the car in reverse and amidst grass and mud flinging, I floored it to the main road, crashing over a ditch like the Dukes of Hazzard. Yee Haw.

I pulled up to the nearest house and slam on the brakes.  Judging from the putrid stench coming from the backseat, it seems possible the crazy fishtailing action had caused one or more of my children to poop their pants, while sleeping, in the backseat.  I looked at the diaper bag. Full of dirty cloth diapers. Ok, the smell could also be coming from there. Good lord. 

Maybe I was crying because I left my husband for dead back at our campsite, maybe it was a gut reaction to the smell of the inside of that car, I don't know. But my eyes were leaking and something had to be done about it. 

I pulled out the sleeping baby. Oh yes, it was definitely his issue. 

I amble up to the front door and knock loudly.  After a minute, my mother-in-law answers the door. "Helluva a storm out there, eh? Aren't you glad you decided to camp in our back 40? Can you imagine what it would be like trying to get out of a campsite in this?"  Mother-In-law takes in a deep breathe only to take 5 big steps away from me. 

I squish inside the front door with Kiddo #2, who is now awake. "Mother-In-Law, I'm soaked to the bone and my kids are full of river water.  I left Husband down there in his beekeeper suit because he didn't tear down our site fast enough.  But none of that matters now. All that matters is that you have a diaper here that I can change him into for our trip home. All our cloth ones are used and he ... needs one."

Mother-In-Law laughs heartily and brings us into Grandmother Room-- that room that all grandmothers have, filled with high chairs, pack and plays, toys galore, and a change table equipped with 10 different sized diapers and wet wipes that are probably dry.  Grandmother Room often looks like a baby garage sale exploded in there, although there are always items that each Grandmother refuses to buy used. And these items vary from Grandmother to Grandmother.  

So, here we are, squishing down the hallway to Grandmother Room.  She turns on the light and we head over to the change table.  She pulls out the wicker basket under the table and begins rummaging for a diaper; I begin stripping Kiddo #2.  As a seasoned professional, it is worth it to mention that I gagged when the front of that diaper opened. I don't know what he got into during our camping trip, but I think he trapped it, killed it, skinned it, roasted it on a fire he prepared himself, and ate it all while the rest of us were setting up the tent. It smelled of man and death.  Trust me.

After I finished hosing him off in the shower, and then disinfecting the shower, I returned the wee caveman to Grandmother Room to find Mother-In-Law frantically still searching for a diaper.  "It's ok, I can use a bigger one if you can't find whatever size he is."  The beauty of cloth diapers is that you have NO idea what size diaper your kiddo will wear in the disposable emergencies.  Handy, non?

Mother-In-Law held up a preemie diaper and winced.  "Um. This is the only one I seem to have. I think Kiddo #1 used the rest on her dollies." Preemie? This thing would hardly fit an American Girl doll, let alone my Brutus The Barber Baby-cake.  Nonetheless, I tried it on him.  It was the closest thing to an infant Speedo as I dare to imagine.  

I almost left the mini diaper, too, figuring home isn't that far from here, until Kiddo #2 peed and the thing came flying off like a napkin at the end of a fire hose. Nice. I looked frantically at my Mother-In-Law for expertise. 

She said, "Hand me the baby and stand back."  She came back with two towels, three safety pins and a bar of soap.  She put the towel down and folded it like origami.  She then laid Kiddo #2 down on top and swoop, swoop, swoosh, he was wrapped in the toga-diaper.  She then said, "Put two of the safety pins in the bar of soap and then give them to me."  I stuck them in and passed them to her while they were still in the soap, mostly because I was quite befuddled. 

She opened the third pin and demonstrated how hard she was having to push to get the pin through the second towel. "See how I'm pushing really hard here? It won't go through because the pin isn't slippery. I can't tell you how many times I've had a safety pin in to the bone of my thumb, trying to get it into the diaper without skewering the baby.  Then we learned the soap trick. The soap lubricates the pin so it (swoop, swoop) glides in without so much as a fuss."  My cloth diapers close with Velcro. This is quite cool to know. Huh. I guess Pioneer Women didn't have Velcro, eh? Guess I hadn't thought of that. 

I looked at my happy, stink-less baby with a diaper that looked like a toga and realized two things: a) camping is NOT my bag and 2) I'm not as hard core as I thought I was-- I might cloth diaper, but I use the all-in-ones that are basically like using disposables that you wash.  Yes, I have to wash them, so I feel pretty smug at my hardcore centre, but when push came to shove, I didn't know how to do the towel trick.  This made my peanut in the middle feel more like caramel, ooey, gooey and soft.  

But before I could wallow in my soft core reality, Husband squished himself in the front door yelling and carrying on.  The three of us ran around the corner to find Husband ripping off his beekeeper suit and screaming. 

Ah-ha. It turns out the music he was conducting was actually him, trying to kill a couple dozen black flies that made a nest in the helmet part of his suit during the off season. It seems ramming the yellow suit on quickly simply awoke the hungry family.  The good news is there were carcasses for at least four of the critters in the cinched pant leg.  Well, and the other good news was that I could make him a handy toga diaper to wear home, since he'd ripped his whole outfit off in a fit of pain and rage.  And, really, it was cute watching those two guys amble off into the car with their matching towel diapers, where Kiddo #1 slept blissfully unaware of anything. Oh, to be a kid again!

PS, The teenager that we ran into coming up from the river to our campsite, turned out to be none other than my brother-in-law.  He's home for the summer from University and has decided to grow a beard (is this some twenty-something right of passage?) so we didn't recognize him at first.  I can't even be mad that he drank all our beer-- he's a starving (parched?) student. Sigh. 

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