Monthly Archives: June 2012

Dragon Breath

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One of the “life skills” we’re working on around here with both kidlets, but most especially with Sweetboy,  is to consistently brush their fangs in the morning.  Without the aid of so much toothpaste and so little actual brushing, my Sweetchildren have some major dragon breath.  I suppose all kiddos do; but it sure makes it extra challenging, with jimmies on top, to kiss and snuggle little people with said dragon breath, doesn’t it?  Especially at 5:50 in the morning.

You know it’s gotten bad when the smallest, youngest, most inexperienced in the ways of the world’s hygiene habits informs her brother of the following: “Ewww, brudder, you got stinky breath. Don’t kiss me!”  This causes much distress for the brother, as he adores his little sister and would smother her with dragon-breath kisses if someone didn’t intervene.  What causes this former teacher distress is that I can’t seem to get Sweetgirl to shake the word “got” in inappropriate places; as in, ‘You got…”,  “I got to go….”.  Alas…

It goes without saying, then, that I really do hope they catch this sooner rather than later.  The potency of their unbrushed fangs can about knock a mama out!  Oh, yes indeedy, it can.  Heaven help me if I’m ever found passed out in my home and I have to give Dragon Breath as an explanation for why I needed smelling salts.

So, what do you do to teach your little dragons to brush their fangs?  Any games you use?  Any special “equipment” (props)? Do tell, please!

Hopping Toward Thankful

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Sweetboy’s stim is hopping; and he’s done more than his fair share of it lately.  We assume it’s anxiety over the transition as we end the current school-year. And, frankly, we’re a little concerned that we’re going to wake up one morning and find that this kid has sprouted long ears and a fuzzy bunny tail.  Sir-Hops-A-Lot frequently tells us that his legs or feet hurt, but he insists that “It’s NOT because of the hopping”.  It’s a veritable conundrum wrapped in a quandary.

This is another one of those moments where I’m torn in emotion. No, that’s not right.  My emotions feel shredded like so many ribbons tonight.  Why did God give us a child who can trample all over my heart with a few errant hops?  And then again, why the hell am I so ungrateful for the pure unadulterated beauty that this child brings into our lives?  I’m sorry.  Crass. I know.  I’m feeling some pent-up angst.  I blame it on the rain.  And now, I have that stinkin’ song in my head.  It’s entirely possible that you do, too.  I’m not sorry for that.  Someone should share the agony of having a Milli Vanilli song planted in their head with me.  Misery loves company and all that jazz.

But now? Now, I’ve written some of the vitriol out and it feels better.  And instead of pretending that I didn’t feel raw enough to write about it, I’m going to leave it right here.  Right where I can find it when I need to be reminded that, “Ah, yes, I’ve felt this way before. And I lived to feel like that again.”  Or even better, so that I can be reminded the next time that there most certainly is sun after rain.  It’s usually in his hug. Or his gorgeous guffaw.  And I’ll remind myself anew that I live under an umbrella of grace that is bigger than any emotional tirade on my part.  And I will be thankful.  Oh, yes indeed.  I will be thankful.

Captain Ahab’s Daughter: Part 2

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Growing up, my family would caravan with a couple of other families, by boat, to the Bahamas for about three weeks every summer. I wrote about this a bit over here.  Along the way, we met with some Very High Seas, indeed.  Captain Ahab liked to call it “a little boat chop”.  Right, Nana?  And now, as an adult, I find myself understanding his comic use of understatement in those moments.  The following are some of the things I remember most from those boat trips on the way over to the islands.

It started the same way every single year. We all rolled out of bed bleary eyed bright eyed and bushy-tailed at 5:00 a.m.  Captain Ahab would head over to the beach and check the horizon;“Red sky at dawn, sailors warn. Red sky at night, sailors delight.”, and all that business.  If it was a go, he’d call the other families and say, “It’s a go.”

We almost always had chocolate milk and either frosted or chocolate “donettes” before loading up on the boats.  Sometimes, the Captain would make an early run to the donut shop and we’d get fresh-baked, far healthier donuts.

I believe our three or four families single-handedly kept Coppertone in business.

We drank a lot of Coca-Colas and ate a lot of Cheezits.

Anytime someone spotted a Dolphin (the “Flipper” variety), they’d get on the “horn” (radio) and announce to the entire marine community that, “There’s a dolphin! Right over there! Look!!”; because, surely, wherever in the great Atlantic ocean any other boaters were, they, too, could see our dolphin.

Keeping count of how many Flying Fish you saw was akin to the licence plate game on road trips.

We drank a lot of Dr. Peppers and ate a lot of Oreos.

Once we were old enough to do so, the adults and smallest kids would caravan in the first two or three boats (read that, the bigger boats), and they’d let us three or four oldest kids take the “dingy”. Now, this dingy was a 13′ Boston Whaler.  It wasn’t a canoe.  But when you are facing 2-4 foot seas, for three hours, it’s a bit daunting.  There were moments where we would be cresting a wave and that little boat would dip down into a crevice and I would almost swear that The Parents were all watching, a little too intently, to see if the next wave was going to slam the oblivion out of us, or if we’d make it out.  Alive. My Sweetbrother would yell “YEEHAW!” at the top of his lungs and just forge ahead through those waves like they were so many flowers in a field and he was a lawn mower.  But some of us, (me), would be holding on for dear life and wondering what in the Sam Hill we (I) did to deserve this torture?

As we became older and more stupid adventurous, we took some risks that make me shudder as a parent.  If it was a flat calm ride over, we would stop in the middle of the inky-blue 1,000-plus foot deep seas and water ski for a bit.  Yes,  water ski.  Halfway between South Florida and the Bahamas.  In the midst of the Bermuda Triangle. There.  With water skis.  And Stupidity. And, just for the record, guess what movie was number one at the box office back then?  Yup… Jaws.

One year, one of Ahab’s oldest friends, (who happened to be one of the country’s top Navy Underwater Research Diver’s at the time), and his wife, accompanied us on our yearly trip.  This poor guy’s wife was so seasick the entire trip over. The adults gave him such a hard time, cracking jokes about how “Aqua-Man” ended up with a seasick wife; only, as it turned out, the poor thing was pregnant.  So, in an act of mercy, the adults flew her back on a Chalk’s Seaplane.  So she’d be comfortable.  Because Lord knows, there’s nothing more comfortable, for a first-trimester pregnancy, than a ride on a seaplane.

When we finally arrived, the kids waited while the adults cleared everyone through customs.  And, it’s a miracle that the Bahamian authorities kept letting us come back every year.  I’m fairly certain they hurried us through customs just to stop all the caterwauling.  Or broke out the Rum as soon as they spied our boats entering their waters.  I know the parents did.

And here we are twenty-some-odd years later, and I get it.  Once again, I see the wisdom in letting kids have an “adventure” once in a while, to break up the monotony.  I now understand that teaching children games to play while on boat trips car-rides is just good parent sense.  And knowing that what lies at the end of the journey will trump even a horrible journey is a gift we give to our kids. Yes indeedy!

Out of the Goodness of My Heart

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Today, I was going to write about this:   

Why? I’m sure you’re dying to find out.  But I received the following phone call from The Nana before getting a chance to sit down at the computer and, dang, you just can’t make this stuff up.

Nana: “Hi Honey. I’m going through the back bedroom bookshelves getting rid of old books.  I wanted to ask you about a few of these Danielle Steele…”

Me: “Give it away! Please!”  (And now I’m hanging my head in shame as the depth of my reading pleasure at 18 has been exposed.)

Nana: “What about these… Oh, darn it! It’s a bunch of those (famous lawyer/intrigue) novels.  I can’t give any of those stinkin’ books away.  Ahab told me, ‘Do NOT give away any of MY books.’ “

Me: “For crying out loud, give them away!  He’ll never know.  If you hadn’t asked him about them, he wouldn’t even know they’re still there!”

Nana: “Oh yes he would!  He actually went through the entire Hunting Closet last week and cleared out half of it!  I’m still in shock.”

Me: “Well, then move them around and see if he notices.  If not, donate them.”

Nana: “All I have to say is he better die before me.  Otherwise, this crap will be here forever; and then it’ll be YOUR problem!“

And that is why I don’t do clutter.  Out of the goodness of my heart, you see. I don’t want to leave any “stuff” for my Sweetman to have to wade through when I’m gone.  I’m nothing if not considerate.

Thanks For Making Me Nap

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I want my Sweetchildren to have a record of the things I am grateful for regarding their daddy.  That Sweetman puts up with more than his fair share of sass from me.  Yes indeedy.  He deserves a medal.  True story.  I don’t mean to imply it’s all sunshine and roses where he’s concerned.  It’s not.  Marriage is hard work.  Some days, I feel flat-out tired of The Work.  But not today.  Today, I was reminded of a few reasons I love this man.

I can’t sing a lick.  It’s a sad, but true, fact.  I’ve had folks at church do their level best not to turn around and see who let a sick cow into the sanctuary.  Fortunately for me, I married into a family of folks who can sing.  I mean, S.I.N.G.  My Sweetman’s brother does it For Real.  But sometimes, when I’m in the throes of a beautiful song at church, I will stop all my caterwauling and just listen as my Sweetman belts. It. Out.  He can sing.  And it’s a beautiful thing to hear.  And I’m blessed by it.

Sometimes, I take things too seriously.  Every so often, when Sweetboy gets into a lather about something-or-other, I can’t seem to distance myself enough from the behavior to see the forest through the trees.  But daddy will swoop right in with a joke the size of Montana that will diffuse the tar right of the moment.  And I’m blessed by his ability to do that.

Enabling is not usually a good thing.  But that Sweetman knows me so well that he can even decipher the meaning behind my texts.  I can type the letter “K” in response to him saying he’s on his way home and he will show up at the door with a Devil Dog.  Or a Yodel.  Or a small pint of Ben & Jerry’s therapy.   And although the scale would definitely disagree, I’m blessed for it.

And lastly, I’m stubborn.  As a mule sometimes.  Often Once in a while, I need a nap.  But I won’t take a nap.  So, Sweetman will push me upstairs, hand me my water, turn on some white noise to drown out the sounds of The Children, and retreat with them to the basement playroom.  And you know what?  We’re ALL blessed by that. Because…

And that man surely does know how to make this mama happy. Oh, yes indeedy!

A Rose By Any Other Name (Is Missindeedy)

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Everyone in the house is getting excited that it’s finally June!  The end of the school year is in plain sight; and, more importantly, only a few more weeks until we get to go visit The Nana and Captain Ahab in Florida. We’ve coined a tag phrase to indicate just how excited we all are: “Soon in June”.  We’ve clung to that little phrase for all it’s worth in moments of near-meltdown madness around here.  All of us.  Mostly me.

The Nana and I were talking the other morning.  She was asking for ideas for “something little” for Sweetboy upon our arrival in a few weeks.  Sweetgirl, you see, is “just so easy to buy for”.  Oh, how I love that Nana.  And, oh, how thankful I am to God for providing her (and me) with a sweet little girly girl, because I was not, growing up.  And it grieved The Nana so. But now, she has a pink, bejeweled, little spit-fire of a girl to buy pink, bejeweled, girly things for and with. It makes her oh-so-happy.  And that makes me oh-so-happy.

Anyhoo, I began to tell her about Sweetboy’s latest obsession with Maps.  All things map-related thrill him to no end, I said.  He now has a gargantuan map of the United States affixed to the wall above his bed, I told her.  He stares at it with glee.  He’s memorized every state, state capitol, region, and is working on deciphering the exact differences between each of the state flags now.  Did you know that this map has some other cities noted within each state, Nana?  I asked.  In fact, it has your city noted.  And, oh, how that tickles him, Nana.  I’m going somewhere with all of this, Nana, I promise, I said.

“Well, Get On With It, for crying out loud!”, she said.  “I only asked for an idea here!”

“Maps, Nana.  Anything to do with maps.” I mercifully spit out.

“Thank goodness!”, she exclaimed.  “My ear was going numb.”

Oh. My. Word. See how I do that?  I lose all track of my thought process.  I now understand full-well why everyone insists I am Rose from “The Golden Girls”, reincarnated…  Indeed!