Where's Waldo?

This is my daughters cat, Tuxedo (Tux for short), wearing his Christmas Sweater. Thing 1 thinks he looks very dapper and quite festive in this little ensemble ... kind of like a walking candy cane! Personally, I think he looks like ”Where’s Waldo?”.

Every time I see him wearing this, I’m tempted to put him in a room full of candy canes and brightly wrapped Christmas packages, take his picture, and submit it for use in one of those “I SPY” books!

Don’t let the scholarly look of the sweater or the contemplative expression fool you ... Tux is, bar none, THE dumbest cat in the world. The kids love him, but they acknowledge that this particular cat is severely lacking in intellectual and social skills. But, what he lacks in brains, he more than makes up for in energy.

We’ve had other cats before ... Mr. Whiskers and Maggie ... so we know what normal cats are like ... and Tux is undoubtedly not normal. Mr. Whiskers was a very wise cat, much like Mufasa from the Lion King ... and Maggie was just plain sweet. Mr. Whiskers and Maggie didn’t have their own wardrobe like Tux does, but that doesn’t mean they were immune to this particular fetish of their young human captors. The girls had an extensive wardrobe of baby doll clothes, many of which fit the cats quite well!

When Mr. Whiskers was just a kitten, Thing 1 was in her room having a tea party with him, and, of course, he was dressed for the occasion. In her defense, at the time we thought he was “Lilly”, which somehow justified her dressing him in frilly, ruffley party dresses. Mr. Whiskers/Lilly didn’t seem to mind (too much). He loved Thing 1 so much he would have worn a pink tutu to make her happy! And if we had one, I have no doubt he would have! After their tea party they went outside. Mr. Whiskers/Lilly must have had all the ”fun” he could take, and he ran into the woods. Fortunately for him, his outfit caught on the fence and he was able to free himself and flee naked! I couldn’t help but chuckle when thinking of what would have happened had the clothing stayed on ... can you imagine sitting on your deck, having a nice dinner with your family, when a kitty cat wearing a fancy party dress sashays by?

Even as a kitten Mr. Whiskers fancied himself the Alpha Male. And while he didn’t mind cross-dressing to please Thing 1 in the privacy of her home, I’m not sure his fragile psyche could have handled the trauma of the other animals in the woods seeing him in that sassy little number! 

Mr. Whiskers and Maggie were really good cats. Much to my chagrin, however, neither of them were very good mousers. Oh, they liked to catch them and play with them, but they just never seemed to have the heart of a killer.

Tux, however, is not a really good cat. I’m not sure what he is. It’s my humble opinion that he’s just barely a cat. Aside from looking like a cat, the only thing that distinguishes Tux from a gerbil or grasshopper or parakeet (and I mean no disrespect to gerbils, grasshoppers or parakeets!) is the fact that he enjoys catching mice. I must admit, he is actually a pretty good mouser. It’s his one and only redeeming quality.

Contrast this to Mr. Whisker and Maggie: One Saturday evening I was in the bathroom getting ready for church. Mr. Whiskers and Maggie were in the bathroom with me, staring at their litter box in the corner. ”That’s odd,” I thought, but didn’t think much more about it. They were, after all, cats ... and they had done stranger things! I finished getting ready and headed off to church. After church I went out to eat before returning home. When I got back, the cats were still in the bathroom ... and still staring at their litter box. I was quite militant in keeping the litter box clean, so I was relatively certain they weren’t trying to tell me I’d been derelict in my duties ... so what were they staring at?

Uh, oh!

Fear crept up my spine as the truth dawned on me ... I'll bet there's a mouse in the corner! I turned on the bathroom light and cautiously peeked into corner ... and there it was! A mouse! And it was waving at me!! Okay, it didn’t really wave, but I could swear it was sticking its out tongue at me!

”How dare he,” I thought indignantly! Here he was, a guest in my home, albeit uninvited, eating the food my sloppy children left lying about! He shouldn’t be sticking his tongue out at me ... he should be writing me thank you notes for raising such lazy, careless kids! That ungrateful mouse was thumbing his nose at the smorgasbord my children set before him. He had it as easy as Santa finding cookies on Christmas Eve! Anywhere else and he’d have to find the food on his own ... there would be no midnight buffet or late morning brunch laid out for his dining enjoyment! That lazy ingrate!!

Mr. Whiskers and Maggie, having nothing better to do, seemed more than happy to sit in the bathroom waiting for the mouse to surrender. I, however, was not. It was time to show that thankless mouse who was boss! I shut the bathroom door to keep the mouse in the field of play, climbed up on top the toilet and I picked up the big metal spoon I used to clean the litter box. I put one foot on the vanity and leaned around the toilet alcove, holding onto the wall for balance, and with the spoon, I scooped up the handle of the litter box and pulled it away from the corner.

The cats ran in for the kill. Unfortunately, the mouse was gone when they got there. To my horror, it had scurried along the wall and took refuge behind the toilet ... upon which I was standing!

Okay, I hadn’t anticipated that! Then a frightening thought occurred to me ... what if it shimmied up the trash can, or the toilet brush, or the plunger ... and got up on the toilet ... with ME?!! I quickly grabbed everything and sat it on the vanity. 

Feeling a little safer, and breathing a little easier, and pretty much trapped on top of the toilet, I stood there waiting for someone to make a move.

And I waited ... and waited ... and waited ... and waited.

The cats seemed perfectly content to sit and watch the mouse, apparently all night if necessary ... and the mouse seemed to be counting on the cats getting bored and walking away (fat chance) ... or looking away long enough for it to make a run for safety. I, on the other hand, really didn’t want to stand on the toilet all night. I was still holding the spoon, so I swung it towards the mouse. I had no intention of touching it in any way, shape, or form ... I was too afraid it might run up the spoon and onto my arm (shudder!) ... I just wanted it to think I was attacking it. And it did. It made a beeline over to the wall opposite the door, somehow bypassing the cats. There was nothing for it to hide behind, so it just stood there near the wall.

”Okay, guys,” I thought to myself, ”It’s out in the open; you can get it now.”

I expected the cats to pounce, but they just simply adjusted their bodies to orient themselves to the mouse’s new location. So there I was ... still standing on the toilet ... still trapped ... and still waiting for someone to make a move.

So once again, I waited ... and waited ... and waited ... and (yawn) waited.

After a considerable amount of time had passed, my nerves were shot. I couldn’t take the suspense anymore. ”Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I exclaimed aloud. ”If you’re not going to kill it, I am.”

I summoned all my courage ... praying that disgusting, disease-carrying varmint didn’t somehow figure out a way to touch me ... I once again put one foot on the vanity and leaned around the toilet alcove, holding onto the wall for balance. Holding the big metal spoon in my free hand, I whacked the mouse as hard as I could.

I stared at the mouse as my stomach threatened to purge its contents, my face twisted in a grotesque mixture of panic and revulsion. This had not gone as expected.

One of two things was supposed to have happened: (1) I would deliver an immediate, fatal blow, or (2) I would knock the nasty thing unconscious ... long enough to scoop it into a dust pan and get rid of it ... into the woods or someplace far, far away ... and to do so before it regained consciousness and ran up my arm!! Neither of those things happened.

To my horror, all I had succeeded in doing was wedging that disgusting thing's head and shoulders between the slats of the heating vent, it's body perpendicular to the floor! All four of its legs were airborne, kicking and wiggling.

I expected the cats to pounce! Their prey was hopelessly trapped and completely helpless. ”Get it,” I urged them hysterically! I was exhausted and on the verge of tears!

But they both just stood there looking back and forth, from the mouse to me, with a “What the ----?” look on their faces!

Sweet, submissive little Maggie, always deferring the decisions to the learned Mr. Whiskers, looked at him, awaiting instruction. Mr. Whiskers looked at the young, innocent Maggie and shrugged his shoulders and shook his head as if to say, ”I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything quite like this before.” 

I debated on what to do. Should I hit it again? No ... I'd likely only shove it clean through the slats, and into the duct work ... where it could make its way to MY room! Okay, so that wasn’t an option.

Its butt was facing the ceiling; I could have grabbed it by the tail ... but there was NO WAY I could force myself to touch that filthy thing. My body convulsed at the mere thought of it!

I stood on the toilet a long while, watching the mouse kick and wiggle in an effort to extricate himself, but it appeared hopeless. I was thirsty ... and tired ... and I was out of ideas. With no other recourse, I cautiously stepped down from my perch and hastily made my way to the door, breathing an audible sigh of relief when I stepped into the relative safety of the hallway.

The cats turned to look at me; and in my most somber and authoritative voice, I left my furry little executioners with these words ...

”Okay, guys, I’ve done all I can. The rest is up to you. Please don’t pull it out and play with it. Please kill it and dispose of the body. I don’t care how ... just as long as I never have to see it again. And I trust you’ll do this by the time I get up in the morning.”

I’m sure I saw Mr. Whiskers nod in agreement ... he understood the gravity of the situation. And, being a gentleman, I was sure, too, that he would spare my sweet, little Maggie, and do the dirty deed himself.

When I came downstairs the next morning, the mouse was gone. I didn’t ask the cats for any details, and they never offered any. It was better that way ... the less I knew, the better. I don’t really know what happened after I went to bed, but I sleep better at night by telling myself they did, indeed, kill it.

That’s not a conversation I’d ever have to have with Tux. He has no problem killing mice. Oh, he’s cat enough to enjoy a good game of “cat and mouse” (no pun intended), he just doesn’t seem to understand the game is over when the mouse is dead! He loves carrying around a dead mouse, dropping it, batting it with his paw in an effort to resurrect it so that he can chase it and catch it ... and kill it ... again. It makes my skin crawl!

Tux’s mousing abilities are not the only differences between him and our other cats. Mr. Whiskers and Maggie “talked” to us. Tux is fairly quiet ... unless you step on him ... which happens all the time because he’s too stupid to ever learn you cannot walk exactly where someone is going to step without getting stepped on in the process. 

And, he makes noises I’ve never heard before when the kids are trying to stuff him into one of his outfits. While Mr. Whiskers and Maggie were more than willing to humble themselves and suffer this indignity to placate the kids, Tux prefers to run wild and natural ... a naked savage ... and he's very verbal with his protests. 

But he’s the most vocal when you try to take a dead mouse away from him! I’ve never personally done that ... I make my daughters boyfriend do it! Poor kid. The girls and I huddle together ... always at a safe distance ... like pioneer women during a stagecoach heist ... shrieking in fear when necessary, alternately looking and shielding our eyes. Tux growls and carries on like a Mama bear defending her cubs! Eventually, “we” humans prevail and the carcass is retrieved and disposed of in a matter befitting a creature of such a lowly and despised status.

The kids really love Tux, and I have no idea why. He’s mean. He bites. He lunges and attacks with no provocation. You can’t hold him. You can’t cuddle with him, and you can’t let him sleep with you ... unless you don’t mind getting mauled in the middle of the night for no reason! None the less, the kids seem to think he’s a pretty cool cat ... (even though he’s not!).

I don’t believe in reincarnation, but just in case it’s true, and just in case you find yourself as a cat in your next life ... take this warning to heart: If you see one of my children walking towards you ... RUN! ... or you just might show up in the next “Where’s Waldo?” book ... 

Root Beer

I’ve never been a fan of root beer. I wasn’t aware it even existed until I was in Kindergarten. All the tables in my Kindergarten room had a nursery rhyme name. I sat at the “Jack & Jill” table, presumably because my name is Jackie. I say that because my older sister, Jill, also had the dubious honor of sitting at the table of her namesake. That has nothing to do with my root beer story ... I threw that one in for free!

Yes, my name is Jackie and my next oldest sibling is named Jill ... and kids seem to pick up on that pretty fast. I’m just glad my name wasn’t George (who kissed the girls and made them cry), or Peter (the pumpkin eater). And, in all reality, it could have been worse ... much worse. I could have been a boy ... and I was supposed to be a boy. By the time I was born, they had two boys and three girls. I guess they wanted to even things out, you know, Brady Bunch style ... except The Brady Bunch hadn’t been conceived yet. And, besides that, we weren’t born in the proper boy/girl/boy/girl Brady Bunch order, either. 

Anyway, they wanted a boy, so much so that they didn’t have a girls name picked out. They were going to name me John, but they were going to call me Jack. How’s THAT for cruel? (I thank God every day that I wasn’t born a boy!) So, when I popped out ... a girl ... and with no name other than John/Jack to choose from (apparently it had to be some derivation of them), I became Jacquelyn. This was at the height of the Kennedy fame. My mother couldn’t stand Jacqueline Kennedy (she never said why and I never asked), but she specifically spelled my name differently so that people didn’t think I was named after her. 

I guess Mama showed her, huh?!

I didn’t mind the Jack and Jill stuff, but my sister Jill STILL throws a temper tantrum if you so much as hum a few bars of that annoying little tune! Being the mischievous little sister that I am, I sometimes do ... just for the perverse pleasure of watching a grown woman throw a tantrum like a child! That has nothing to do with the root beer story, either!

Okay, back to root beer and Kindergarten. 

Mrs. Holtz was my teacher and I was scared to death of her. She wasn’t like the sweet, young, energetic teachers on those wholesome family sit-coms ... the ones who love their students so much that you can almost see little hearts floating out of them. Quite the contrary. Given the sheer volume of wrinkles on that decrepit old woman, I suspect that Mrs. Holtz had quite possibly come over on the Mayflower ... as an adult. And although there is no way to know with any certainly ... and keep in mind I’m making this assumption without the benefit of any scientific data ... but I think she might have actually been allergic to children! She certainly acted like it! I don’t think I ever saw her smile or display any emotion that even looked even remotely pleasurable. 

She had several helpers in the room with her, but I can’t recall any of their names. The asstants were always really nice, but I never paid much attention to them ... I was too busy keeping my eye out for Mrs. Holtz ... who was keeping her eye out for misbehaving children! I was terribly worried about being punished for doing something I wasn’t supposed to do even though I’d never been told I couldn’t do it. Back then, I guess, they must have just assumed we knew already the rules ... like whether or not we could go to the bathroom with our painting jacket on. Quite frankly, I had no idea what the rules were.

I was painfully shy, and learned the rules of acceptability by watching the other children to see what they got in trouble for. I’d seen one of the helpers give a kid permission to go to the bathroom with their painting jacket on, only to see that kid to get in trouble from Mrs. Holtz when they came out of the bathroom with their painting jacket on! Another time a kid got in trouble for taking her painting jacket off before going to the bathroom. 

Can we or can we NOT go to the bathroom with our painting jacket on?! 

I didn’t know! (I still don’t know!) 

It was a very confusing time for me. Mrs. Holtz could have cleared up the whole perplexing issue if I’d just had the courage to ask her ... but, sadly, I was never brave enough.

So anyway, I’m sitting at the Jack & Jill table, quiet as a church mouse, when the helpers come by with tiny little Dixie cups (like you have in the bathroom to rinse after brushing). One helper gave us a cup, and another came behind her and poured Double Cola from a bottle. At least, I thought it was Double Cola. It was dark brown and bubbley. 

”Yea! Coke!!” I thought happily. At home, us kids only got half a soda every Friday night after Mama came back from the grocery story. We got a whole coke when The Wizard of Oz or Cinderella came on tv ... but that only happened once a year. Soda for no reason was a treat! I had no idea what the special occasion was that merited the honor of having soda pop in the middle of the week, but I didn’t care!

I took a huge drink ... and quickly realized I’d make a collosal mistake! What in the world was this stuff, I wondered? My friend Rocky would know, but she was on the other side of the room at the Mary Had A Little Lamb table! 

Help!

There was NO way I could swallow it. None. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada. I had no idea what was in my mouth, but I knew one thing for certain ... it was not coke and it was most certainly not a treat! Unable to hold it in my mouth any longer, and getting queasy at the thought of swallowing it, I did the only thing I could do ... I spit it back into the cup.

And then the panic set in.

At home, if you didn’t want what was set in front of you, well then, you went hungry. But I didn’t know the rules at school!! Were you expected to eat or drink whatever they set before you? On tv they did, but this was real life ... were the rules the same? I didn’t know! My mind was racing. What was I going to do? If they came back around and saw that I hadn’t drunk it, I just knew I’d get in trouble! I had to get rid of the stuff ... but how? ... and where? I didn’t know if I was allowed to get up and go to the bathroom during snack time (that scenario had yet to present itself). And, even if that was allowed, would I get in trouble for taking my cup with me? 

Would somebody PLEASE tell me the rules?! 

That’s when it hit me. There was only one way to get rid of it. I knew what I had to do.

I poured it under the table.

Setting the now empty cup on the Jack & Jill table, I felt the enormous burden of my predicament being lifted off my tiny, fragile shoulders. There, I sighed with relief, it’s over now. I watched in disgust as my classmates downed their glasses of that whatever-it-was then lick their lips. Despite this nauseating display, I was smiling inside, and quite pleased with my ingenuity and problem-solving skills!

One of the helpers made her way to our table. Oh, no! Had she seen me? What would be my fate? She was smiling ... that was a good sign, right? She noticed my empty cup. ”Oh, you drank it all! Here’s some more,” she said, reaching for my cup. 

“No, thank you,” I said politely. "I don’t want anymore.”

”Oh, don’t be silly!" she said, filling my cup. "We’ve got plenty!” 

I wanted to cry! With my heart racing, and with no other options, I waited for her to leave and reached for the cup ... and with trembling hands, I dumped the second glass under the table.

I don’t know how many times she came by and filled my cup. I tried to tell her I didn’t want any, but she kept filling it up! ”You must really like this, huh?!” she said on more than one occasion.

My stomach was really beginning to hurt. When they realized what I had done ... and they would ... what would they do to me? I’d never gotten away with anything in my entire life. I was going to get in BIG trouble. It would probably go on my permanent record and haunt me for the rest of my life. Could I get into the college of my choice with this scarlet letter on my chest? Would this one foolish act lead to a lifetime of dead-end, menial, minimum wage jobs? My mind was reeling with the ramifications of what this one act of defiance would have on my entire life!

I sunk further and further into despair with every glass I poured out. I sat at the Jack & Jill table, mulling over my fate, and the bright future I had undoubtedly ruined. My spirit sunk to an all-time low. I was going to get yelled at in front of the entire class. But I was a good girl! I never got in trouble at school! I nearly passed out from the fear. I was literally beginning to lose consciousness when the bell rang, signaling for us to line up by the door.

I summoned all my strength, prayed my wobblely legs would hold my weight, and raced to join the line of children in an effort to get out of that room as quickly as possible. They would surely discover what I had done. There were only six kids at the Jack & Jill table ... and all the root beer was in front of one chair ... Jackie’s chair. I was sure to be caught. But, already excelling in procrastination despite my tender age, I knew I could worry about that tomorrow.

I slept fitfully that night, and came to school the next afternoon absolutely terrified, and fully prepared for whatever punishment would be meted out, and ... nothing. Not a word! No one said anything about it. As far as I could tell, my Jack & Jill table-mates were oblivious to the fact that there was a criminal in their midst. No one treated me any differently. No one looked at me with a disapproving frown or a head-shaking ”I’m very disappointed in you” look on their face.

Dare I dream? Could it be true? Was I really going to get away with it?

As the day wore on, the truth began to sink in ... they didn’t know! I wasn’t going to be punished! I wasn’t going to be ostracized from society! This wouldn’t be an albatross around my neck for the rest of my life!

My heart felt lighter and I felt years younger when I left school that day. I felt like the Grinch after the true meaning of Christmas came through ... when his heart didn’t feel quite so tight and he whizzed with his load through the bright morning light!

Hallelujah!! It was true! I had gotten away with it! 

That was, however, pretty much the first, and last, thing I’ve ever gotten away with. I’ve not only gotten caught for everything I ever did, I got caught ... and punished ... for everything my sister Jill ever did!! But, that’s fodder for another blog and it has nothing to do with my root beer story!

Babies

I know several young married couples expecting their first baby, and I’m reminded of myself when I was expecting for the first time. I would daydream about the baby and what life would be like after the baby was born. I would stand in front of the crib, one hand on my belly, the other lying where my baby would one day sleep. Was it a boy or a girl? What would it look like? What would it sound like? I knew my life would change; I just couldn’t comprehend how ... or how much. Put it into perspective ... the kid is what, maybe 9” x 21”, and they sleep most of the time (hahahahahahaha ... oops, sorry), so how much trouble can something that little be? 

Oh, if I had only known!

I saw a baby card one time that said “Babies are God’s way of telling you you’re getting too much sleep.” I thought it was funny at the time. I didn’t know it was true. I’m sure I pushed myself too hard after I had my baby, which didn’t help my sleep deprivation, but I think that’s typical of most wives and mothers. Your husband goes to work, leaving you with a shoebox-sized poop machine that eats every four hours. It takes what, fifteen to thirty minutes or so to feed it, right? I figure he’s guessing I’ve got an hour or two tied up in that screaming bundle of joy in a days time ... that leaves me roughly six or seven hours to clean the house to a blinding shine, whip up all his favorite meals, look beautiful when he comes home, and be rested, amorous and attentive when we go to bed. Not only that, with all my free time, he surmises, I can take care of all of those pesky projects I never had time to do when I was “working”. “Working”, by the way, is a lot easier than caring for a newborn! 

I had my first child in September of 1990, the second in October of 1992, and the third in June of 1994. I didn’t get more than four or five hours of uninterrupted sleep again until the turn of the century!

I did what I thought was expected of me. The house was always clean. The laundry was always done and dinner was always on the table. And I was a zombie. I was back into my “real” clothes in record time, and everyone marveled at how I did it. My secret, you ask? I was too tired to eat! Oh, I made sure to eat as well as I could, and I made sure my family had hot, nutritious meals, but by the time I got everything ready, I was exhausted ... and after dinner I had to clean the kitchen, pay attention to everyone, and whatever else was on my plate that night ... all while holding a screaming infant. I was simply too tired to eat any more than I did ... and everything I ate went straight into making milk and keeping me alive!

Aside from requisite feedings and diaper changes, you want to hold your baby (which really eats into those six or seven “housecleaning” hours). You want to hold her when she’s sleeping and watch her make silly faces. You want to hold her when she’s awake and try to coax some sign of recognition out of her that “Yes, I know you’re my Mommy and I love you.” After a couple of months of waiting for that smile, however, you do get it ... and you’re so deliriously happy you momentarily forget you haven’t slept since the Eisenhower administration!

Babies also don’t sleep “half the time”. For those of you who don’t know, that’s an urban legend. I don’t think my first baby slept more than a few hours total the entire first year of her life ... and when she was awake, she was either eating or crying. Being a new mother, I wondered what I was doing wrong. Was she hungry? Wasn’t I eating enough to make good, nutritious, filling milk? Should I supplement her feedings with formula? Did she have a dirty diaper? No. Did she have diaper rash? No. She didn’t have a fever, she was soiling the required number of diapers and gaining weight, so she wasn’t sick ... so what was it? What was I doing wrong? (New mothers always assume it’s something they’re doing wrong).

She was what they used to call a “fussy baby”, then the more politically correct “high-need baby”. High need my butt! She was more like a diva on steroids!! Fortunately, she eventually grew out of it. (“Eventually” being the key word here.)

When you finally get that mini-vacation from the baby ... i.e., a trip to the grocerystore ... you discover yet another joy of a breastfeeding mother of a newborn. As you’re happily shopping ... alone (do I hear angels singing?), you look down and discover your milk has let down, and you’re sporting two wet targets on your breasts. At those times, you will never have any bra pads with you, and it will never happen in a shirt with a print that could perhaps hide it somewhat. It’s always in a solid color, thin shirt ... and unless its winter and you’ve brought a jacket or coat, there’s nothing you can do to hide it. So, your mini-vacation is cut short, you whiz through the store buying only what you absolutely have to have and race home ... only to find your husband in the driveway, pacing with a crying infant he can’t pacify. This is, however, one of the few times you don’t have to ask him to carry in the groceries!

You can’t describe how much work it is to be a mother, and even if you could, no one would believe you ... nor would they be discouraged from following you down the path to parenthood. My little sister, Bonnie, used to baby-sit my three kids while I ran to the store, or needed (wanted) to do something without the kids in tow. After she married she desperately wanted a child. She had to have an operation AND used fertility drugs to accomplish this. After watching my kids, I would have gone home and given myself a hysterectomy with a butter knife ... yet she voluntarily went to extremes to create one! I know what it is ... every childless person looks at someone else’s destructive, spoiled, bratty, temper-tantrum-throwing child and thinks “My child will never act like that.” 

Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Honey!

When Bonnie first moved back here, she lived with me until she found a job and an apartment. She was very vocal on what I did wrong as a mother. Bonnie had no children, so her opinion and advice went in one ear and out the other. She nagged me day in and day out ... and I didn’t skip a beat ... it was just background noise. She had a baby of her own in 2003. It wasn’t too terribly long before she came to me apologizing profusely . “How could you stand me, Jackie? I would have thrown me out!!”  I told her it was okay ... mothers seldom take child-rearing advice from the childless! 

Remember the Goldie Hawn movie “Private Benjamin”, where she tells her sergeant that there’s been some kind of mistake, that she signed up for the Army that had the condo’s, pool, spa, and golf resort (or something like that)? That’s how I felt ... "Uh, I signed up for the motherhood with the sleeping, happy infant that only cries when it’s hungry and the smell of it’s poop doesn’t cause lung damage.”

I’m with Bill Cosby ... babies are false advertising. I’m not sure what God does to a baby, but it’s kind of like getting into a new car. The smell sucks you in and lures you right to the finance office. By the time you come down from your new-car-smell-high, you’ve committed the next few years of your life to paying for it. 

Okay, I’m exaggerating (I’ve been known to do that), but that doesn’t change the fact that those sweet, young, pregnant women are going to feel like they’ve been hit by a Mack truck in a few months! They’ll not only long for sleep, but they’ll dream of taking a shower ... and when they do get to take a shower, they'll try to remember a time when they took a shower without sticking their head out every few seconds to see if the baby is crying. They’ll long for the day when they don’t have to step over baby gates to enter and exit every room (those ones at the top of the steps are particularly tricky!). And they’ll yearn for the day they can put out their nice things again ... that is, the few that weren’t destroyed before they finally broke down and conceded that their child really was just like everyone else's ... and that's because all those destructive, bratty, spoiled, tantrum-throwing kids weren’t all necessarily bratty or spoiled ... they were just being kids.

You know they’ve crossed over when they can sing all the songs AND do all the hand motions and dances along with Barney and his friends ... or whoever is on public television these days ... and they’re beyond redemption when Barney no longer annoys them.

I can’t wait to go to my kids houses at 3:00 in the afternoon, only to find them (still in their pajamas!) knee-deep in toys, clutter, laundry, and dirty dishes. They’ll look at me with the same fear-filled, helpless look they did when they were little and climbed too high in the tree and needed me to rescue them ... and I will. I will rescue them. I’ll take the baby, send them to the shower, clean the house, and fix them a snack.

They’ll emerge clean and refreshed, thanking me profusely, and exclaiming how amazing I am. I’ll smile and nod in selfless agreement.

I love my kids and I can’t imagine my world without them. They have triggered the extreme of every emotion possible ... pride, anger, joy, fear, frustration, confusion, exhaustion, depression ... and most of all ... love. Is it more work than I thought it would be? Unequivocally. But ... is it worth it? Yes, it is.

Would I do it all over again? In a heartbest ... but I would worry less, enabling myself to enjoy everything more. I think that's why everyone loves being a grandparent so much ... you get all the fun and only a few hours of the work. You get to enjoy them more because you're worrying less. That's my biggest regret in life ... that I didn't enjoy being a Mommy as much as I could (or should) have because I was just too busy being a mother.

Raccoons

I’m a city girl, born and bred. I like the country and appreciate the solitude, but I like having neighbors close ... not too close, but close enough to hear the gunshots if someone were to break in. (Okay, that’s a bit morbid, but it’s also true.)

Having been raised in the city, I was completely unprepared to deal with the raccoons that live in the small woods behind us when we moved into this house ten years ago. Raccoons? In the city? I was flabbergasted! Raccoons are supposed to live out in the country!

Sick of the raccoons getting into my trash cans and making a general mess of things, I took to the internet to research how to kill them. I didn’t want them to suffer ... well, actually I didn’t care if they suffered, but I figured that wasn’t a very Christian-like attitude, so I thought I should find a way to ensure their demise in a humane manner.

Every website I found had a warning prominently displayed ... “It is unlawful to kill a raccoon out of season”. Not only did website after website warn me of this, I couldn’t find even ONE with advice on how to kill them!

The internet hosts a wealth of websites I find offensive. Someone can find out how to build a bomb, how to cook meth, and download all the child pornography they can choke on ... but apparently it’s wrong to kill a raccoon!

I toyed with finding a website on how to build bombs. I mean, these people certainly don't care if a person dies a slow and agonizing death ... surely they wouldn't have any qualms about killing a raccoon ... even if it is out of season. But, I really didn’t want to go to a website like that, so I called the Humane Society and rented a nice trap that captures them alive and unharmed. The cage works by closing the door when they step on a piece of metal at the opposite end of the door.

The first night I threw a piece of old pizza in the cage. The next morning the pizza was gone ... and so was the raccoon.

Not to be outsmarted by a raccoon, the next night I took some floral wire and wired the pizza to the bottom of the cage. That critter might get the pizza, but by George, he was going to have to work for it and he was going to step on that trap door thing to do it!!

Sure enough, there was a tired, angry raccoon in the cage the next morning. I called Animal Control and they picked it up. Every day, for the next couple of weeks, I caught another raccoon. It got to the point that I no longer had to give them my address ... I just told them who I was and that I had another raccoon! After the fourteenth day I didn’t catch any more raccoons, so I took the cage back to the Humane Society.

That evening I skipped through my backyard, whistling happily, as I deposited a couple of bags into the trash can, making sure to securely fasten the lid. The next morning, trash was strewn all over the place! Fed up, and unable to kill them out of season, I went to Lowe’s and bought two dumpster-type trash cans that they can’t get the lid off of ... for $75 each! Fortunately, $150 worth of trash cans has solved my raccoon problem.

It boggles my mind, though, to think of all the filth available on the web. There seems to be no regard for the safety of children or respect for human life ... yet there seems to be a line even the lowest of the low will not cross ... it's simply wrong to kill a raccoon!

Mrs. Beasley

When I was a little girl, nine years old or so, I wanted a toy sewing machine and a Mrs. Beasley doll for Christmas. My little sister wanted a Barbie.

We weren't allowed in my parent's bedroom, and I never went in there, so I don't know why I did one winter afternoon, or why I looked in their closet. To my recollection, I had never looked in their closet before nor have I since. I believed in Santa, so I wasn't searching for presents. But there they were ... all of our Christmas presents ... unwrapped!

There was my little sisters Barbie, and my sewing machine! Oh, the beautiful creations I would make with that! And there she was ... the Holy Grail ... Mrs. Beasley. She was smiling at me through the box, begging me to hold her, but I didn't. And I didn't look in the closet again, either. I guess I was afraid I'd only dreamt it and that Mrs. Beasley wasn't really in there ... waiting for all the bike rides and picnics I had planned! I fell asleep, feigning blissful ignorance at what would be waiting for me under the tree!

Time seemed to almost stand still as I waited for the blessed day to arrive. Then, finally ... it was Christmas Eve! I come from a family of eight kids, plus my parents, so you can imagine the pile of debris we had when all of our presents were unwrapped! We had a long, rectangular living room. I was in the corner by the front door, ripping through my presents. I got everything I wanted, even presents I didn't want ... like some stupid Barbie ... but where was Mrs. Beasley??

Had I overlooked her somehow? Frantically, I looked around. No, there were no more presents for me! What happened to Mrs. Beasley? Had it been just a dream? Then I saw it. As I watched the horrror unfold, the color drained from my face, and it felt like the air was sucked from the room. I could barely draw a breathe! There ... in the opposite corner of the living room ... the farthest from me ... the worst travesty of justice was playing out before my very eyes ... my little sister was pulling Mrs. Beasley out of her box!

Overcome with confusion and disbelief, I grabbed Barbie and made my way (in slow motion) across the room towards my sister. I swam through wrapping paper up to my chin, and pushed away the boxes that tore at my flesh ... but I didn't care! I was desperate!! I had to get there before she hugged Mrs. Beasley!

Somehow I made it to her, only slightly dizzy from the loss of blood, but it was worth it ... Mrs. Beasley was almost in my grasp! Hiding my desperation behind the cheeriest smile I could muster, I held Barbie by her legs and pushed her towards my sister. "Trade ya," I said, doing my best Vanna White to emphasize the prize that could be hers.

I held my breath. "Please don't hug her," I prayed inwardly. If she hugged that doll, it would be over! I had to get my hands on that doll before she hugged her!! I was sweating by this point.

My sister looked at the beautiful, shapely Barbie in her fancy clothes, then looked down at the frumpy doll. Her big blue eyes stared out from her square glasses. Her body was blue with white polka dots, and she wore a matching collar and apron with yellow rick-rack trim. She looked from the homely doll to the glamorous Barbie, then back again ... and nodded. I almost cried with euphoria!! I'd done it! I'd gotten to her in time! "Hand her over, sister. Hand her over now!" I silently pleaded.

Then, she did the unthinkable. She hugged Mrs. Beasley. It was over. I knew I'd lost her even before my sister shook her head no. I dropped my arm to my side and hung my head in defeat. I felt like I'd been kicked in the gut. I felt like a bride left at the altar. Everything I had ever wanted had been at the tip of my fingers ... dangled before me like the proverbial carrot ... then it was cruelly ripped away!

No picnics at the Tot Lot down the street. No bike rides with Mrs. Beasley riding in my flowered basket, the wind whipping our hair in the blessed sunshine of summer.

I made several appeals to my mother to correct the horrible mistake she had made. My sister hadn't asked for Mrs. Beasley, I had! Apparently, Mama loved my sister more than she loved me ... because she took her side.

It was over. I had lost. I never did get a Mrs. Beasley doll.

I've relayed this story to more than a few people during my life, and they'd laugh. Although the pain has never quite healed, I do see the humor in it. It's a funny story ... almost like a romantic comedy with a sad ending that leaves movie-goers weeping in their seats.

I told this story to my boyfriend ... and he's the first person to hear the gut wrenching pain of unrequited love in my voice.

Tonight, we opened up our Christmas. After everything was unwrapped and the kids were surveying their loot, he asked one of the kids to hand him one last box, which he then handed to me.

It was a large box, but it was very light. He said it was totally frivolous ... to which I replied that was the best kind of present. (Who wants a vacuum cleaner for Christmas?!!)

And there she was ... Mrs. Beasley!!!

She was smiling that cheery smile of hers. She knew she was finally home, and she as happy to be in my arms as I was to have her there!! And it wasn't one of the new ones ... it was a real Mrs. Beasley from the 60's. I hugged that ridiculously ugly doll, then I hugged him. I'm sure he thought it was the silliest gift he's ever bought ... but it's not! It's the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me!! As odd as it may sound, I actually found it ... romantic.

I pulled her string and she said "I do think you're the nicest little friend I've ever had."

I knew it!

Mrs. Beasley loved me more than she loved my sister ... she had just told me so! Like Superman flying backwards to turn back time, my sweetie put right what once went wrong!

I had to call my sister and rub it in that I now had a Mrs. Beasley ... a real Mrs. Beasley ... and that she liked me better:)

Mrs. Beasley was so happy, she cut out a heart, grabbed a Sharpie, wrote a sweet note, and had me take her picture. I know she loves me, but you should see the sappy way she looks my boyfriend ... I think she might have a crush on him:)

I'd Hate To Be A Bug

I'm not sure how much a bug really thinks about its surrounding, so maybe they don't look at our houses and marvel at the ingenuity of humans, or ponder how much different their lives would be if they had opposable thumbs ... but surely they wonder about us ... don't they?

Imagine what bees must talk about when they are sent from the hive each morning. Do they complain about that Prima Donna queen bee, too fat to move? Do they ever say "Why can't she go get her own pollen?", or "Why doesn't she ever have to help make the honey?" 

Imagine what it must be like for bugs when we cut the grass. There they are, sitting on a dandelion, minding their own business, when this monster wind comes along and whirls them bug-miles away! And, that's the lucky ones ... the ones who aren't turned into mulch. Do they name these storms like we do hurricanes?

If lawnmowers are the bug equivalent to hurricanes, then gardening would be their earthquakes. Countless humans are willing to live along volatile fault lines in California for the great weather and scenic views, so I guess we can't fault (no pun intended) the worms who choose to live in the nutrient rich soil of our gardens. When the earth churns, watching your best worm friend severed in two with a shovel has to be traumatic ... and I don't have the stomach to go into what happens when a little boy gets a hold of a worm.

If I were a bug, I'd want to be one that flies. Bugs with wings have options. If they want to fly across the street and check out the flowers over there, they can. If you're a ground-bound bug, crossing the street is almost-certain suicide. And let's face it ... if you can't fly, getting from the front yard to the back is the bug equivalent of the Oregon Trail.

In the human world, if someone eats you, they'll be hunted down and punished. Not so for bugs. And I doubt there is counseling available for the bug kids who watch their mom get stepped on, right before their eyes.

Yes, bugs, being at the absolute bottom of the food chain, live a thankless, often futile, existence. 

Whenever my kids say "That's not fair!" , I give you my word ... I can hear bugs laughing.

I Have Three Teenagers Now

Gone are the days when one Happy Meal could feed all three of them ... with leftovers. I now spend a great deal of time and a good chunk of my income at the grocery store. They eat like bears preparing for hibernation ... and they are never full.

Regardless of how often I shop, or how much I spend, according to them, there is never anything to eat at my house. That's not entirely true. There's plenty of food ... if I fix it ... because anything that can be eaten right out of the box disappears between the time I take it out of the sack and set it on the pantry shelf. They've never gone more than a few hours between feedings, but they attack food like newly-liberated POW's.

I should cook more. I used to cook more. In my defense, half the time I figure they won't eat if I do prepare something. By the time they get home from school, it's been two or three hours since they've last eaten ... so they're starving. They eat from the time they get home until I get home. Often, they'll be sitting at the table easting when they ask "What's for dinner?". They can't be hungry, can they? Between running them to karate lessons, theater practice, ball games, movies, work, and everything else that fill their lives, it's hard to find the time to cook a nice dinner, let alone vacuum.

Well, that's not entirely true, either, but I'd rather watch a test pattern on TV than vacuum. For those of you who don't know what a test pattern is, it's ... oh, never mind. It would take too long to explain ... and then you'd just laugh at me for being old and living in pre-cable days when all three of our television channels went off the air at or before midnight. 

Correction ... four. We had four channels if you counted PBS ... which we generally didn’t. The reception was so bad on PBS that the rabbit ears couldn't pick up a signal unless someone actually held onto them and became a human extension of the antennae. And that's only after you had to get up and walk across the room to even change the channel ... one channel at a time. Remote controls didn’t exist and there was no going straight from channel 14 to channel 25. You turned the knob to fifteen, then sixteen, and so on and so forth.

We were lucky ... we had a color television (Daddy wanted to watch the Wizard of Oz in color). Both the Wizard of Oz and Cinderella were highly anticipated events for kids of my generation ... falling in line after Christmas (toys), your birthday (the only other time of year your parents bought you toys), Halloween (free candy), and Easter (more free candy). 

The Wizard of Oz and Cinderella only came on once a year. Video tapes hadn't been invented yet, so you watched whatever movie the TV executives wanted you to watch. When the Wizard of Oz or Cinderella came on, my parents would let us have a whole coke. We got half a coke every Friday after Mama got home from the grocery store. But when the Wizard of Oz came on (in color at my house!), we got a whole coke. The challenge was trying to make it to the end of the movie before taking the final sip.

I guess I am old, but I prefer to think I'm not old, I'm simply older than I was. I don't really mind getting older, although I wouldn't mind having my flat stomach back, or having smooth, pretty skin once again. And it would be nice to color my hair because I want to rather than because I don't want to look like my Grandma. 

But I can honestly say I'm happier now. More content. A friend and I were discussing this not too long ago. Neither of us enjoyed ourselves like we should have when we were young.

I spent my youth (and by “youth”, I mean anything younger than 40) shy and insecure. I spent my youth being responsible ... too afraid to step out of my comfort zone ... too afraid of what people thought of me. I spent my youth afraid of making mistakes or looking silly. I spent my youth trying to find happiness by trying to be what I thought everyone wanted me to be ... somehow unaware of the fact that I couldn't be everything to everyone.

I pretty much wasted my youth. I didn't realize that in trying to be what everyone else wanted me to be, I was just making myself miserable. I didn't understand that if you aren’t happy with yourself ... if you don't like yourself ... you will never be happy.

It took over 40 years to realize the secret of true happiness is looking at what you have and accepting it as enough. It's coming to terms with your shortcomings, accepting them, and realizing everyone has problems of their own, skeletons in their closet, and demons they can't exorcise. The secret of happiness lies in not comparing yourself to others. As a wise preacher once said, "Contentment is ruined by comparison."

How true.

My life hasn't been the fairytale I dreamt of as a child. I've had to let go of some dreams, but I've replaced them with others. I've made some horrendous mistakes and I've paid the price. My life isn't perfect, but it's good. I have everything I need and a lot of what I want. It took a lot of pain and a lot of tears to reach this point, and though I wouldn't want to go through it all again, it's made me who I am. I'm not perfect, but who is? 

I am, however, hungry. I wonder if there's anything to eat here. 

Christmas Shopping

This year, I get to be one of those people I've always hated. I secretly envied them, but I still hated them. You know the ones I'm talking about ... those people who have their Christmas shopping done and gift-wrapped before Thanksgiving.

For the first time in my life, I get to be the one of those annoying people who casually flip my hair and say, "Oh, I'm done with my shopping", and then look at them with an oh-so-innocent stare, pretending I don't know that they are secretly plotting my demise. And I know they are. I always did when confronted with those obnoxious non-procrastinators. However, being civilized people, they swallow the bile rising in their throats, smile as politely as they can, and say (through gritted teeth) "Well, good for you", or "Isn't that nice".

I didn't intend to get my Christmas shopping done so early. I figured I'd do it the weekend before Christmas, just like always. You know that weekend don't you? The one where the only thing left on the shelves at Wal-mart is a few cans of asparagus and brussel sprouts, some hemorrhoid pads, and a couple bags of cough drops ... and not the good kind that taste like candy. The only ones left are the kind my mother always bought ... the ones that taste like a combination of Ben-Gay and Pine-Sol. "If you're really sick," my mother would say, "You'll eat one of these." And trust me ... you had to be really sick to actually take one.

Yup ... those late-night, last-minute shopping sprees right before Christmas sure make for some spectacular stocking stuffers.

"Oh, Davy! Santa brought walnuts ... and still in the shell! You'll really like these after you grow teeth!"

"Ooooo, Jana! Pickled pigs feet! You must have been a very good girl this year!"

"Wow, Tara! A whole case of lima beans! I'll get some butter and the Easy-Bake Oven!"

Okay, so I exaggerated ... a little.

I started early this year ... in August. I had to. One present required parts and pieces from several places. I had to find places that even sold some of the things I needed. I had to find the best prices, order them or pick them up, then assemble them once I had everything I needed. While searching for things for that one particular gift, I kept finding things for others on my list. And before I knew it, I was done!

I still remember the moment I realized my shopping was complete. I was sitting at my computer updating my Christmas Spreadsheet ... deleting the items purchased from the "Ideas" worksheet, transferring them and their corresponding prices to the "Purchased" worksheet, then copying and pasting the unpurchased ideas list items and syncing it to my Treo (I know ... I know ... I can't help it). Anyway, that's when I noticed I was within a few dollars of my limit on each person.

I must say, it was a truly euphoric moment. I wanted to call someone and share the joy. Together, we could bask in the glory of my accomplishment! It wasn't long before I realized the only bad thing about getting your Christmas shopping done early is that there is no one with which to celebrate. I guess it's hard to be happy for someone when all you can think of is wrapping your hands around their scrawny little neck until that smug I-finished-my-Christmas-shopping-in-October smile disappears.

Having never shopped so early, I was amazed at how much easier it was! I could take my time and pick out the perfect present for everyone on my list. I had time to search for the best price. Subsequently, I ended up getting more of the things everyone wanted.

I'm hoping to start my Christmas shopping early again next year, but then, I always say that ... and with the sole exception of this year ... I never do.

Don't worry, though ... in case I slip back into my old habits ....I still have that Easy Bake Oven :)

Spreadsheets

I love spreadsheets. I was introduced to them by ... as so often happens ... another user. I still remember her saying "Once you use spreadsheets, you're hooked."

"Maybe you," I naively thought, "but not ME. I have tremendous self control. I'll only use them at work."

But, the simplicity of lining up items in a column and the ease with which I could add numbers lured me in. And like so many innocents before me, I found I couldn't quit. I stop short of saying I'm addicted, but that's probably just denial on my part.

I have spreadsheets for everything. For many years I have kept my monthly bills on a spreadsheet, making a veritable plethora of information available to me with only a few simple clicks of the mouse! For instance, I can tell you what I paid for water in October of 1999 ($33.08). And I can tell you when I paid off my daughters flute (February 6, 2003).

I keep all my lists on spreadsheets ... grocery lists, packing lists for vacations and business trips, wish lists, to-do lists, etc. It's a sickness, I suppose, bordering on obsession ... and I'm helpless to stop. I've tried using other programs and systems, but they left me feeling incomplete ... empty ... unsatisfied. To my shame, I no longer even attempt to write out lists by hand or add numbers in my head.

When the kids were little, I used to spend different amounts on them at Christmas. They didn't know, of course, as I made sure it looked like I spent the same amount. At that time, they were more interested in quantity than quality. As they got older, and as the monetary value of their gifts grew, I made sure to spend the exact same amount on each one. And how better to do that?

Yes! You see my point!! A spreadsheet!!!

My children, to their horror, are now aware of my spreadsheet disease.

A few days ago, Tara walked into my office at home and I quickly shooed her out. "You can't come in here," I pronounced, holding up my hand to halt her advance. "I have the Christmas spreadsheet open."

"Well," she said, rolling her eyes as she retreated. "That's not geeky."

Their suspicions now confirmed, I have found the kids in a conspiratorial huddle, wringing their hands, and speaking in muffled whispers. When I walk into the room, they slowly turn to me ... and they know I know they know. Their big brown eyes open wide and they freeze like deer caught in headlights. They exchange guilty looks, and then scatter like roaches exposed to the light.

I'm afraid they might be planning an intervention.

My idiosyncrasies drive my kids nuts at times. But I think what scares them most of all ... and what robs their sleep at night ... is the fact that they know they've inherited many of them. 

Sometimes I Miss The Kids Being Little

When the kids were little, they liked helping me clean the house. They would literally cry if I didn't let them help. And I, being the wonderful mother than I am, would let them (insert selfless pat on the back here). Letting the kids help was actually more work than doing it by myself ... they never actually removed any dirt or mess ... they just rearranged it ... but I figured they would get better in time.

I was wrong.

By the time they were old enough to be of any real assistance, the ecstasy of our weekly"National Cleaning Day" had long since worn off. Whatever thrill they once felt at being helpful has since been replaced with "it looks okay to me".

Hence, "National Cleaning Day" is just as much work for me as ever ... maybe even more so, as I know have to ride herd to keep my cleaning-impaired children on task.

When the kids were little, changing from daylight savings time to standard time had definite perks. By the time I got off work, it would be dark. If the kids were particularly trying in the evening, I could proclaim "Bedtime" whenever I wanted! It was dark outside and they couldn't tell time, so the poor things fell for it. I didn't abuse my power very often, but I do remember one Saturday when I'd had about all I could take by 5:30 or 6:00, and in my most authoritative voice, and with as much energy as I could muster, I declared "BEDTIME". And, like birds with a blanket thrown over their cage, they slept until the first light of dawn ... and I do mean the first light of dawn.

When the kids were little, I could get them to eat almost anything ... simply by changing its name. This assumes, of course, that it didn't have any obvious vegetable-like shape or look particularly nutritious (leafy greens are next to impossible to disguise). I love tomato soup. The kids turned a pale shade of nauseous at the mere mention of it. So, I prepared "porridge", called the three little bears to dinner ... and they gobbled it up. Apparently, it was just right:)

There are things I don't miss about them being little, though ... like searching the backyard for enough silverware for dinner, and I can honestly say I do not miss Barney or Baby Bop.

But I do miss them running ... literally running ... to my bed each morning to give me a hug and kiss and cuddle. I miss them bringing me dandelions from the backyard to grace our dinner table (sometimes with a dirt clod attached, and sometimes with no stem at all). The dandelions would sit in a tiny vase, bought for just such an occasion, until they went to seed.

I miss them crawling into my arms to be held and rocking them to sleep.

And now, my oldest, Tara, is on the brink of adulthood. She'll be in college next year. Jana and Dave will both be in high school. Gone are the days when I was their whole world, when a cookie and a kiss fixed anything. Gone are the days when I, alone, could make everything better.

I will never be mentioned in history books. No monuments will be built in my honor, and no buildings or roads will be named after me. My only legacy will be my children. I may never do anything worthy of notice to anyone but them, but that's okay, because how they remember is me is what matters most.

As Jacqueline Kennedy once said "If you mess up your children, nothing else you do really matters." I still have dreams and aspirations, but my goal isn't to become rich and famous ... it's to make sure I don't mess up my kids.