Ciao, 2013!

Tags

2013, photo recap, pics by the month, year in review

Is anyone else in as much shock as I am that 2013 is over?  I mean, we just got it started, right?  2012 flew by for us in uncertainty and anticipation.  2013 was supposed to creep.  Creeeeeeeeeeeeeep, I say!

But it didn’t.  It’s over.  Gone.  Just like that.  Poof!  Our first year in the new house, our first (and only) year of both kids in middle school, a quiet and peaceful year.  The year that was supposed to settle in, get comfy and stay a while slipped out like a welcome house-guest, leaving the borrowed blankets folded neatly on the sofa.  We hate to see that sweet guest go, but are grateful for the memories it left behind.

January:  Aaron’s first Social Studies project.  He’s more a Science Fair kinda guy.  But he had fun with this.

February: We finally finished building the fence.  Whew!!!!        March: Victoria’s birthday party, of course!!

April: Lady, my Father-in-law’s yellow lab, decided she wanted to help Dom mow the yard.  As you see, she’s all in!

May: The kiddos, hanging out and being sweet to each other.  (Cue collective awwwwww!)

June: You know there’s always at least one month with no notable pictures to speak of.  This is the one for 2013.  As I attempted to re-upholster the wing-back chair myself, this is one of the wounds I suffered.  I know, I know…big whoop.

July: Mabel is a food thief.  Here she has absconded with a hoagie roll that Aaron had made into a ham sandwich.  The entire hoagie, minus these two inches you see, is in her big fat mouth.

August: For the first time in Caddo Parish history, three Mainiero children are at the same school.  I had to document it.

September: Some mornings the sun shines just right through our front door and casts a rainbow on everything in its path.

October: This one deserves the video.  It just does.  We told Mabel that this is what happens to animals who steal food off of my kitchen counter.

November: I felt like the Grinch decorating his dog.  Except I think Mabel and Mason wear their antlers cuter than Max.  😉

December: The frosty, sunlit view from the deer stand. It was prettier in person.  The best part was watching the cardinals play as the sun came up.  You know, since the deer didn’t feel like coming out…

May your New Year’s celebrations be fun and safe.  And may 2014 bring you peace and joy.

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Bad Santa

Tags

FedEx, gifts, guitar case, lost Christmas gifts, motherly madness, Santa

It all started on Christmas Eve, right about the time that I was congratulating myself for not stressing out over anything, for putting the joy of the season ahead of the tasks.  I really enjoyed Advent this year.  I even took a picture of the last lighting of the Advent wreath and bid the season a fond farewell on the afternoon of the 24^th, just moments before FedEx called me.

I almost didn’t answer the phone because I didn’t recognize the number.  Except that it was a 504-area code, meaning the New Orleans area and possibly the other half of my brain (aka Stacey) simply calling from a number I didn’t have on file.  So I answered with a cheerful, “Hellooooooo!”

That’s when I quasi-met a FedEx rep who was in communication with a driver in my area.  Jackpot!!  The last gift to arrive was finally en route to my door!  It was a gift for Aaron – some fancy Lord of the Rings posters that will look awesome in his room.  (You can’t beat a map of Middle Earth.  You just can’t.)   The voice on the other end of the phone proceeded to tell me that the driver had information that I had moved.

Uhhh, like a year ago, dude.  Let it go already.

I politely asked what address they had on file, half-impressed that they would even know my address from over a year ago.  But he pulled a mind scrambler on me when he rattled off my current address.  “No, we haven’t moved,” I assured him.  “In fact, I’m standing in the kitchen of that address right now.  Tell the driver to come on out!”  And with that we wished each other a merry Christmas and hung up.

Four days later, I have replayed that conversation a million times in my head.  I wish I had asked all the logical questions, like: Can the driver find us on a GPS?  Can he find my neighbors’ (in-laws’) address instead? Why exactly does he think we moved? How can FedEx not find me when UPS has been here every day for the past two weeks?  If he doesn’t make it to my house, where can I go to retrieve my package?  Oh, hindsight, curse you and your practicality.

I was not surprised when FedEx did not show before we left for Mass.  I was disappointed when they had not come by the time we returned.  I decided to tell Aaron all about the posters and how cool they were going to be when we received them on the day after Christmas, and how we would hang them up together and make his room look awesome.  He jumped up and hugged me with a huge smile.  Totally worth it.

Fast forward five hours.  We returned from the in-laws’ where we had our Christmas Eve celebration and I proceeded to pull out the last of the kids’ gifts to put under the tree.  They’re cool with me being Santa and all, but I still like Christmas morning to hold some surprises.  So my plan was to put the two largest gifts unwrapped and under the tree after they went to bed.  Vic was getting a zebra-striped gym bag and Aaron was getting a carrying case for his electric guitar.  I reached into the upper cabinet of the utility room where I had stashed the gym bag and looked for the guitar case.  No case.  No problem.  It must be in another cabinet.

Thirty cabinets, six rooms and two hours later I was still looking for the damn guitar case, and getting quite frantic in the process.  How could I lose something that is almost as tall as I am?  I had my hands on it earlier in the day when I pulled guitar picks out of the bag to decorate another package with.  What.  The.  Hell????

I looked in every possible hiding place three times, a fact that later made my father question my sanity. “If it wasn’t there the first time, what made you think….??”  Because when you realize that of five gifts, three of your son’s are ABSENT from Christmas morning, you panic and do irrational things.  Like cry in the hallway at 1am and accidentally wake up your daughter, who gets up to make sure you’re okay and then stays awake another half hour retracing your own steps in an effort to help.  Oh, sweet child.

Needless to say, Christmas morning came and went without those three gifts.  Aaron graciously opened up his other two gifts while I served myself a steaming cup of shame-on-me and profusely apologized for losing his biggest present.  While I focused on the mishap internally, it seems no one else did, for we continued our Christmas morning with the spirit in which it was meant to be celebrated.  And I went back to the guitar shop and bought another case on Friday, with the express understanding that if I find the lost one anytime soon I can easily return it.  That’s right, people.  I have rolled up my Christmas sweater sleeves and taken measures to right the wrongs.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go throw down with FedEx.  I think I’ll offer an exchange…they give me my map of Middle Earth, and I’ll give them a map of Shreveport!!

The Vaulted Files: Treasured Ornament

Tags

Christmas, Christmas decorations, keepsakes, loss, memory, ornaments

The Vaulted Files is a series of writings I am finding as I weed through years of unpublished posts stored on my computer.  This one was originally written in January 2011. 

I set out yesterday morning with one goal in mind: it was time to put away the Christmas decorations.  Sadly, the joyous season is over, but we have the blessing of preparing for a new year, new weather, and new adventures in life.

It took most of the day, but the whole family was instrumental in packing away the décor and putting the house back into its former state.  The last remaining task left to complete yesterday evening was the packing and storing of all my china ornaments which had hung this season on a tall gold-metal rotating tree loaned to me by my mom.  As I disassembled it and packed away my most prized ornaments, Victoria appeared beside me ready to help.

Since many of the ornaments are in fact hers, I said she could help pack them away, but they were all very special and had to be placed back into their original boxes in very particular fashion.  Victoria is a pro at packing stuff away, and with a small squeal of delight she began plucking ornaments.  We would talk about each one, or make some comment about a particular set of ornaments as we worked.

When all the ornaments were placed back into their respective boxes, Vic began asking about the ornaments that didn’t come out this year.  There are very few ornaments in my “special” box that I do not display, but there is one particular ornament that I have not removed from its original gift bag since I received it in 2003.  Victoria spied the ornament inside the bag and anxiously exclaimed, “Mommy!  Mommy! There’s a pretty blue one in here!  You didn’t take it out!! Can I see it????”

I drew a deep breath and reached into the bag, feeling the familiar Limoges ornament that had only been opened one other time.  “This one is from Aunt Maxine, Mimi’s sister,” I explained.  And then I simply couldn’t say anything more.

There is something so stirring about this ornament that it brings me to tears just thinking about it.  Dominic’s Aunt Maxine passed away during the first week of December in 2003.  On Christmas Eve of that year, my Mother-in-Law handed me a small gift bag, the same one Victoria excitedly peered into last night.  As I reached into the bag and unlocked the ornament on Christmas Eve 2003, there was a tiny circle of paper inside that read “With Love from Aunt Maxine.  December 2003.”  Maxine’s daughter, Maggie, had been responsible for making sure all of Maxine’s gifts got delivered to their intended recipients that year.  I cried the night I received it, and I cried again last night.

Update:

I neglected to properly conclude the post back in early 2011, but I recall Victoria insisting that the ornament needed to be displayed.  And she’s right.  Her statement reminded me of my maternal grandmother’s conviction that even our nicest things were to be used and enjoyed regularly, not kept hidden away in boxes.  Since that conversation, the ornament given to me from Aunt Maxine hangs proudly on the Christmas tree with my other treasured keepsakes.  The small paper circle remains inside reminding me of the love Aunt Maxine had for her family.

 

It Takes a Village

Our son, Aaron, decided not long ago that he would like to try his hand at being an altar server at our church.  Training was scheduled for a recent Saturday morning and eagerly anticipated.  The night before the training, Dom asked Victoria (once again) to please consider being an altar server too.  Dom really wanted both kids to participate.  Victoria was adamant about not participating in this particular activity because, as she said, she would be “way too nervous and everyone would be watching” her.  Dom and I assured her that no, everyone would not be looking at her unless she was fidgeting with her ponytail or some other such distracting nonsense.  My advice was something along the lines of, “Keep your hands in your lap and fade into the background. People will be looking at the priest, not at you.”  When this did not satisfy her and she still refused to be trained, I let it go.  Dom, on the other hand, could not.

And this is where I had to just step back and let him be Daddy.  Having grown up Baptist, I had no experience with altar serving as a child, and no substantial encouragement to impart.  I was glad one of my children wanted to participate more actively in the Mass, and perfectly content with the other one wanting to stay in the pew.  I had no tools at my disposal with which to convince Victoria that she needed to serve, or even that serving would be fulfilling for her.  We are all called in different ways, I reasoned, and I was happy to leave it at that.  But when Dom’s gaze burned through me with that determined look as he said, “Let me talk to her; she needs to do this,” I sat my momma-bear-butt down and handed him the cub.

It took an hour and a half of talking, persuading, cajoling and reasoning, but before bedtime that night Victoria was on board with training alongside Aaron, provided that when she served, she would serve only with Aaron, to keep her nervousness to a minimum.  Reasonable enough.  The following morning, both of my children were trained to be altar servers.  And they both came home ecstatic about the thrill of serving, so much so that they have made certain to wear proper attire to Mass every weekend since, just in case a scheduled server is absent and one can take his or her place.  Aaron got the chance to step in for another server a couple of weeks before he was scheduled.  Vic was chomping at the bit.

Victoria was officially on the schedule for the first time this past weekend.  She was to serve alongside Mr. B., an adult member of our parish who would guide her through the Mass and help her with anything she might forget.    Right before Mass, though, Mr. B. suggested it would be a good idea for Aaron to take his place and the two siblings serve together, since Aaron had already had a “practice run” with Mr. B. by his side.  My kids were thrilled, if not a little bit nervous, while I practically turned to jelly in my anxiety for Victoria.  Aaron seems so unflustered by being in front of a crowd; he is at ease anywhere, and often wants to participate in things that my wallflower-self would have found daunting at his age.  Victoria, for all her extroversion, shies away from being anywhere near the center of attention.  My children are enigmas to me.

Several people gathering for Mass promised to help both kids with cues if they got stuck or confused about anything.  I heard repeated promises of, “If you’re not sure what to do next, look at me and I’ll give you hand signals.”  I loved that my church family was reaching out to help my babies serve.   During the Mass, Aaron and Vic had no fewer than five people scattered throughout the church giving them silent cues to what came next and offering smiles of reassurance.  I could tell by her expression that Victoria was hesitant and unsure at times, and I saw her frequently look to Aaron for cues, and then out into the crowd for extra validation.  Beside me, Dom was sideline coaching from our pew where our kids could not see us. I thought he was going to hurt himself whispering under his breath, “Ring the bell!  Ring the bell!!” before Victoria finally rang the bell firmly and perfectly.

At the end of Mass Father Francis publicly thanked Aaron and Victoria for being new altar servers and for doing such a fine job.  Our church family applauded and Aaron and Victoria smiled wide.  And my heart nearly burst open from being so full.

Duck, Duck, Dog

Tags

animal healing, dog attacks, ducks, Easter, memories of pets, St. Bernard

“Mom, there’s a kid in my class named Doodle,” Victoria explained as she downed a glass of milk right before dinner last night.

“How tragic. Is his mother a comedian?” I asked.

“It’s a her, and it’s a nickname,” came the exasperated response.

“It’s a she,” I corrected in my best grammar-snob tone.

I got a look from her that very clearly said Oh. What. Ever! And since I could tell my education on Doodle was soon to end, I launched into my own Doodle story:

When I was nine my grandparents (more likely my grandmother, conveniently and “innocently” without permission from my grandfather, but I’m speculating here) bought me four tiny, adorable yellow ducks for Easter. I loved them. I do not recall all four names, but I do recall naming two of them Donald and Duckie.

“Duckie, Mom? Really?” Vic interrupted during my verbal retelling of the story.

“Yes, really. Despite being an only child, I was apparently not very imaginative. Their names all started with D. Can I continue now?”

“Was one of them named Dominic?”

It was my turn to give her The Look.

My four ducks would live in my grandparents’ back yard on the lake where I could come visit them on weekends. I had my own tree house in the back yard, and the adults fastened chicken wire around the support posts of the tree house so the ducks could play and roam the ground underneath. They were so cuuuuuuute!!

Posing with the Four D’s at my grandmother’s patio fountain. Wasn’t I a fashion plate?

But cute met a tragic end one night during a dog attack. My grandmother says it was the next-door neighbor’s dog, although Mom and I remember blaming the Mafia dogs. Yes, Mafia. Scary people at the top of the hill who had two guard booths in the front yard, six black Rolls Royces in the driveway and twelve massive St. Bernards running the property. TWELVE SAINT BERNARDS. Now, I’m all about large-breed dogs, and my favorite critters on earth are those who have to grow into their oversized paws and ears, but C’MON!!! Whatever dog(s) came for the attack, they busted through the chicken wire with little effort. And maybe if it had been a dozen dogs, no duck would have escaped. Still, we blamed the pack. The next morning, there was nothing but feathers…and Duckie. Miraculously, he had survived the attack. I don’t recall his injuries, as I’m sure he suffered a few. My grandmother was so upset that three-quarters of my Easter present had been eaten that she promptly bought me four more ducklings. They grew fast, and Duckie grew too. His yellow fluff gave way to pristine white feathers and he stood above the crowd as he honked orders at his tiny charges. Easter having passed and the pet shop’s supply of cuteness obviously dwindling, the newbies were not all yellow. One was a motley mix of varying shades of grey and brown. He looked like someone had taken a pen and doodled all over him. So Doodle he became. Again, I don’t recall the other ducks’ names. And again, the dog(s) came calling.

True, my thirty-year old memories may deceive me. I have photos of Duckie and Doodle swimming in the lake water together, but no other ducks. So I’m not sure if three of the second batch met a tragic end, meaning Duckie and Doodle would have survived a second attack. Or if my memories and photos of Doodle and Duckie together conveniently omit the other three ducks as easily as they omit their names.

Duckie and Doodle on an evening swim

The “cage” had been fortified after the first attack, but it wasn’t enough. We must have been visiting during the final attack, or else my grandmother was very graphic in describing the scene, because I have an image burned in my mind of Duckie’s white feathers covering almost every inch of the area underneath the tree house and trailing through my grandmother’s yard. Duckie was gone and Doodle was just barely alive.

Doodle’s back had been ripped apart, exposing meat and crawling with maggots and infection. My grandmother kept him protected and doctored him every single day until all the nastiness of rotting flesh was banished for good and his wounds healed. She took him down to the water’s edge where he hid beneath the foliage of her green bean garden. She fed him every day and nursed him back to health. Often, a paddling of ducks would swim by and quack at Doodle. Sometimes he would quack back. One day, he just swam away with them.

Doodle would come back to visit periodically, either to beg for bread crumbs or just say hi to the old homestead. My grandmother says he waddled with a slight limp, so she always knew it was him. Over the next few years I would stand on my grandmother’s dock whenever I heard ducks and I would spy Doodle swimming across the lake with his new family. He was fairly easy to spot among the pretty Mallards with his odd markings and plain brown head. He was happy, he was healthy and he was free.

“Aww, Mom. I want some baby ducks,” Victoria pleaded when my story was finished. I smiled at my daughter and slipped a sideways glance at our feisty Labrador, Mabel.

“Hell no.”

Duckie and Doodle at sunset, Lake Palestine 1981

Countrified

Tags

bugs, country girls, country living, frogs, terrariums

Some relatives of ours recently asked me how I like living in the country.  “Except for the bugs, it’s great,” I replied.  And it’s true.  While mosquitoes and spiders don’t creep me out and send me running and screaming, they are annoying as hell.  Oh, and horse flies.  I really hate horse flies.

But I have to admit – I’ll take a horse fly over a cockroach any day.  (I just picked my feet up off the floor as I typed the word cockroach.  Even the word freaks me out.)  Fortunately, I have seen absolutely NONE of those little critters in my home.  No, we just have spiders, mosquitoes and mosquito hawks.  On the inside, that is.  (Inside, because we have to hold the door open for-EV-er while Mason ambles his old bones back and forth over the threshold.)  The outside?  As we say in the South, that’s a whole ‘nother story…

I suppose I am getting used to “the country,” although I don’t feel like we are really that far removed.  We are less than a mile outside the city limits, but we do have brighter stars, different night chirps, and various neighbors with goats, chickens and ducks.  Oh, and a rooster, who I haven’t heard crow in a while, but I suspect was silenced on purpose since he was apt to crow four and five different times a day.  In addition to the farm animals, my mother-in-law who lives next door walked out of her garage to find a baby raccoon snoozing in a lawn chair.  She woke it up and watched it run off toward our house.   Thanks, Mom.

While I don’t consider myself a country girl – I know enough real country girls to know that I do not qualify with my high heels and hairspray – I like to think that the country has grown on me a bit.  Granted, I have tried to citify my little acre, but I believe we have changed each other equally.   The land has given in to my decorative whims, and I…well, I have surprisingly learned to tolerate bugs and squirmy critters.

In the middle of mowing the yard recently I barely batted an eye as three grasshoppers flew up and smacked me in the head before one of them decided to perch on the front of the mower and ride for a bit.  And when a skinny black bug with legs longer than my own landed on the back of my hand, rather than ejecting myself from the lawnmower in an attempt to get as far away from the bug as possible, I merely waved him off with a flick of my wrist.  I don’t jump and scream anymore when I lean in to water the palms on my front porch and find myself face to face with the lizard who has taken up residence in one of them.  And the truly amazing thing?  I caught a frog.  And yes, there’s a story there.

I recently set up my fish tank on the back patio as a plant terrarium.  As I reached in to water the plants on Day Two of my terrarium’s existence, a host of mosquitoes began to flit about inside the tank.  Despite the fact that I had planned this terrarium for over a year, researched all the necessary components and finally purchased all the stuff to set it up, my first instinct was to disassemble the entire thing, because in no way do I want to foster an environment whose only claim to fame is breeding more blasted mosquitoes!!

I am unsure whose idea it was to put a critter-eater in the terrarium, but we all agreed that either a lizard or a frog could take care of the mosquito problem.  After all, a terrarium is supposed to be its own little eco-system, right?  And lizards and frogs are in great supply around our house.  So the kids set out on a mission to find a resident amphibian.  I would see them scouting the yard, mason jar in hand, only to saunter back to the house fifteen minutes later, shrugging their shoulders as they passed me.  On a quick trip into Petsmart, Victoria announced, “Hey mom!  I found a frog!! It’s only SIX DOLLARS!!”   To which I replied, “I am NOT going to pay six dollars for something I can get for free in my own yard!”  The Petsmart employee wiggled her eyebrow and scanned my dog food purchase.

I really wanted the kids to catch a frog or lizard for me because sometimes I think that they just need to get dirty more.  And, honestly, because I just don’t do amphibians.  But then as I was mowing the yard, getting bombarded by grasshoppers and amazing myself with my phobia control, I saw something jump and slither in the grass.  My first thought was snake! but then I thought snakes probably don’t jump, so I stilled the mower, raised the blade and peered into the grass.  It was a frog, just the perfect size for my terrarium.  And he was sitting so still that I was certain we could get him.

I jumped off of the mower and looked around for Dom or the kids.  No luck.  So I assured myself that I could grab the frog in my hands and, if I didn’t let my mind really understand what I was doing, I could run to the terrarium and dump the frog into the plants just seconds before a complete mental meltdown.  I didn’t like the plan, but it was the only one I had at the moment.  I used to catch frogs at my grandma’s house when I was young, and when I was even younger I used to catch horned toads out in the West Texas dust.  Where is that girl when I need her??

Just then I looked up toward the house one more time and saw Victoria sleepily peering out at the yard.  (The mower must have woken her up.  Pity.)  I began waving my hands to get her attention, and once she looked at me and recognized that I was trying to say something, I began pointing at the ground, shaping my hands like a jar, and miming the action of scooping something from the ground.  She had absolutely no clue what I was doing.

Note to self: If there is ever a family game night where Charades is being played, don’t let Victoria on my team.

Luckily, Dom saw my antics and stopped weed-eating long enough to tell Vic what all my wild waving and jumping meant.  (Dom can be on my Charades team any day!)  She ran into the house and back out into the yard with the mason jar that had spent so many nights by the back door.  I scooped the frog into the jar and Vic and I ran madly back to the patio, with the frog jumping against the glass and my hand the whole way.  We slid him into the terrarium and caught our breath.  Well, I did mostly, because even carrying the frog in a glass jar gave me the heebie-jeebies.  The last time I caught frogs I was 11 years old.  I put six baby frogs in a mason jar and accidentally left them on my grandmother’s patio where they sunbathed themselves to death.  I hope the fact that this frog has shade, water, and bugs to eat during his entrapment might somehow redeem me.

So, yes, let the headlines read Girly-Girl Catches Frog.  I would display a large “S” on my chest, flex my muscles and say, “Bring on the bugs!” but I really don’t mean that.  Not at all.

Blog Spawn

Watch out, folks…I have spawned two more bloggers!!

Given the fact that I have five blogs, it should come as no surprise that my children wanted their turn.  After all, they have watched me spill all the random happenings of our lives in two of my blogs for the last couple of years.  They are old enough now that 1) they need to hone their writing skills, and 2) they should have as much right to share their thoughts and experiences as I do.  And so their internet real estate has been established (in the free sub-domain kind of way) and they are both on Blogger.  Their site names cracked me up!!  No doubt you can tell who is who:

http://ThePancakeLord.blogspot.com

http://LittleGracieLooWho.blogspot.com

And, of course, we have rules.  I talked ad nauseum about the things we DO NOT do on our blogs.  (No teachers’ names, no friends’ last names, no school names, no city names, no rudeness, no criticizing of people, no hateful words.)  In short, don’t put anything on the internet that you don’t want to say straight to someone’s face…with their mamma and me standing right beside them.  That pretty much sums up the rules.

I think they are excited about having their own chance to journal in the same way that I do, and I can’t wait to see what all they write about.  (Without having read it yet, I know Vic’s first post is about food, and maybe some of the changes we are making.)

Now I gotta go get busy.  First on the list is becoming an official follower of each of their blogs.  Then I gotta rethink my own site design to accommodate the newbies.

May this venture bear worthy fruit.  🙂

God Save the Tooth Fairy!

Victoria came home Tuesday night with a very wiggly bicuspid.  Before bedtime she had already wrestled the tooth out of her mouth, a feat which gives me the heebie-jeebies.  She proudly announced that she was “gonna get some monnnnnnnnnnney!!” followed by a sing-song “uh-huhhhhhh, ohhhh yeahhhhhhh, uh-huhhhhhhh…” and hip action that could rival Elvis.

I raised my eyebrows, curious to know if she still believed in the Tooth Fairy, but not willing to let the cat entirely out of the bag if so.  “What do you have to do to get money?” I asked, the expression on my face conveying that I’d forgotten the procedure, which my kids totally believe because I’m…old.

“Put it under my pillow, of course!!  Hey, Mommy, does the Tooth Fairy get the money from yours and Daddy’s wallets?”

“That chick better NOT be grunging around in my wallet!” I declared.  Vic giggled and hurried off to bed.  Dom, the pups and I followed an hour or so later.  By that time, I had completely forgotten about the tooth.

The next morning, Dom burst into the bathroom with me and exclaimed in a panicked whisper, “You forgot the tooth!!!  She’s awake and found her tooth still under her pillow!”

I stood there, barely dried off from my shower.

“Now?  I have to address this issue NOW?!!  I don’t exactly have any cash on me at the moment.”

He mentally figured out what to do.  “Should I give her a Five?”

“Geez, honey, only if you promise she’ll never lose another tooth!  You got a simple dollar instead?”

“What about two dollars?”

“Fine.  Go get two dollars and bring me something to write on.”  Our Tooth Fairy has had to leave a lot of explanatory notes to our kids over the years – she is, after all, a tad scatterbrained.

I threw half my clothes on and went in search of note paper on my own.  On the nightstand beside my bed I saw the special pillow and tooth resting where Victoria had deposited them while she busted on the Tooth Fairy for tardiness. Crap.  This was going to be a bit more difficult.

Dom sneaked me the cash while I scrawled a note that thanked Vic for the tooth and simultaneously apologized for delayed pickup.  I thought about adding an excuse about children in Romania or India and a tooth-pulling epidemic, but my luck Vic would talk about it in class and someone would actually know a Romanian kid who could discredit my story.  I settled on, “Lots of children are losing teeth lately, and you all are keeping me incredibly busy!” I tossed the tooth into my jewelry box and streaked through the hallway to deposit the note and money on her bed.  The things we do for our kids, huh?

A few minutes later Vic was sharing with me through the bathroom door that the Tooth Fairy had totally forgotten her.  She didn’t sound upset, but had more of an I-should-have-known-this-would-happen tone to her complaint.

“Really?  That doesn’t sound like her at all,” I lied.  “I can’t imagine what might have held her up last night.”  I left it at that, and with some prodding from Dom, Vic went to look for her tooth.  She found the money and the note and returned to me.

“Mommy!  The Tooth Fairy brought me two dollars!  She left a note that said a lot of kids are losing teeth, so that’s why she was late.  But, it’s funny…I left my tooth on your nightstand, and now it’s gone, and the money was in my bed.”

“I don’t know anything about that, sweetie.  I’ve been in here the whole time.  I think I would have noticed if someone had come in. I saw nothing.”

Say nothing of my resolve to never lie to my children.  What’s done is done.

“Hmpf!” she replied as she skipped out of my room.  “Crazy Tooth Fairy.”

Crazy, indeed.

Before we donned jackets and backpack to get into the car, Vic waved an envelope at me and declared, “I’m getting Pizza by the Slice this week with my tooth money!”  Pizza by the Slice is a treat each month at school.  Kids who want to partake may bring $2 for a slice of pizza which is served after lunch.  I make my kids bust into their piggy banks if they want such extraneous things.  I’m too frugal for $2 pepperoni, and my kids understand this implicitly.

“Putting the Tooth Fairy’s money to good use, eh?”

“Yep,” she answered, and she grinned slyly at me with that wiser-than-the-ages look her eyes conveyed when she was tiny and needed no words to communicate enormous thoughts.  “Those teeth come in handy.”

Game Over: My Daughter Wishes She Had a Different Mama

I’m sitting outside on my new swing this morning soaking up some much-needed morning me-time and catching up on all the blogs I subscribe to but haven’t had time to read in over a week. We have plans to go to the lake later today, and I somehow convinced my offspring to gather the laundry and clean the kitchen while I retreated to the backyard with my iPad. I was mid-way through commenting on Rotten Mom’s post when Vic appeared at my side.

“Mommy, I’m hungry.”

I recalled seeing eggshells and an omelet pan in the kitchen sink this morning, so I assumed everyone had eaten by the time I dragged my half-awake self downstairs.

“So, what do you want to eat?”

“Can we go to Whataburger?”

“NO, we can NOT. What else will you eat?”

It’s important to note here that I have been wanting French Toast since dinnertime on Thursday. I can’t get anyone else to buy into the idea. What gives? But I sensed an opportunity here with Vic, so I asked, “Ya want French Toast? ‘Cause that’s the only thing I feel like cooking.”

“No. I don’t want French Toast. I want Whataburger.”

“I’m not going to Whataburger. Talk to your daddy. I’m reading.” And with that I resumed my spot in my blog comment.

Mabel walked up and disturbed our smooth swinging with a body-block to the seat cushion. Grrrrr.

“When are you going to the store again?”

[pause blog comment thought process] “Wednesday.”

“Will you buy some more popcorn?”

“As long as you put it on my grocery list.”

“Can we have waffles for breakfast?”

The thought of blending my own batter and fighting with my waffle iron made me abruptly say no.

Sweet silence. Back to my comment…

“Man, mommy, these shoes ARE comfortable!” (She’s donning my new gel-bottom flip flops.)

[busily typing] “Mmmm hmmmmm.”

“Do you like shoes that go between your toes?”

[pause blog comment thought process…again] “No, I don’t.”

More silence? 3…2…1…Ahhhhh, yes. Back to my thoughts.

“But you like these shoes.”

[exasperated sigh] “Yes, baby, I like them.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m catching up on the things I like to read. Do you have something you’d like to read?”

“Nope. I’m hungry. I’m going inside. Put BBQ chips on your grocery list too.”

She walked away, probably wishing she was anyone else’s kid today. And then I read another of Rotten Mom’s posts where she described her children’s many summer plans that don’t include her, and I realized that I will be in the same boat in a few short years.

I think I’ll go make some waffles with my daughter.

The Month of May, According to My Daughter

This morning as I rinsed my coffee cup I spied Victoria’s calendar on the kitchen counter.  An odd place for it, to be sure, so I looked closely to see if it was a current calendar.  Indeed it is – turned appropriately to the month of May.

I found her “appointments” quite amusing and decided to share them with you so that she can hate me for it later.  (Such is life, eh?)

May 6: Field Day.  Yep, it was.  Despite how she previously told me she hated Field Day, I was there to witness her having a darn good time.

May 7: Drew’s Birthday.  Drew is her favorite male classmate.  She has another word for him – something that eludes to him being a boy who is a friend, but I just can’t go there with my 9-year old baby quite yet.  I get queasy just thinking about it.  They held hands at Field Day.  I had to sit down.

May 8: MaMa and Sissy – the kids and I travelled to Tyler with my parents to surprise my grandmother (MaMa) for Mothers’ Day.  So proud that she documented the trip.

May 10: Today.  I have no idea why the entire day is blocked out.  Perhaps I should have asked her about that before the day got started…it looks ominous.  Anyhoo, I figure she probably wrote something in error and this was the only way to never have to think about it again.  Bright pink certainly draws your attention away from it, no??

May 23: Victoria Day is celebrated in Canada.  Vic insists that our family should certainly celebrate it as well.  “Yay Yay” is written on the date.  All Hail, Queen Victoria.

May 30: Memorial Day, already assumed to be celebrated at Aunt Pam’s house (and more importantly, Aunt Pam’s pool) just like the past five Memorial Days.  I have told Victoria that we must receive an invitation first. Vic apparently has every confidence that the invite will be forthcoming.

I am surprised that the Last Day of School has not earned its rightful spot on her calendar.  Perhaps she wanted to be certain of the date first, so she doesn’t end up with two pinked-out squares.  FYI: the last day is the 31^st, a lone Tuesday after a three-day weekend that counts as a legitimate attendance day – a matter that leaves me more confused than why Vic’s calendar was on the kitchen counter in the first place.