Still Present Day. Flashbacks are coming at some point…

I cannot linger over my usual wordy prose. I’ve got places to go and indian artifacts that were made in China to buy. So I will offer you a few bullet points from yesterday:

* If there is even the remotest chance that the deodorant you are about to apply is brand new with one of those harsh plastic pieces on the end of it, by all means look before you roll. Series injuries can occur. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

* We spent the day at Ober Gatlinburg yesterday and bought an armband to do all the stuff. After wandering down a series of ramps to look at hibernating bears and a few indigenous animals they scrounged out of the woods out back, AG had to go to the restroom. And I mean, he HAD to go. Right then. So we had to run back up the series of ramps to a bathroom that was clearly designed for young, spry people who only meander to bathrooms. Certainly the person who designed this restroom had never had an emergency while looking at otters in the “wildlife encounter.” At one point, while I was huffing and sucking wind, I asked AG, “Did we really come down ALL THESE RAMPS?” He said yes. I have GOT to get back in shape.

*My dad and I were flagged by the Alpine Slide guys as “too fast.” I beg to differ. I think all the other people on the mountain should have been flagged as “Go to the Lam-O Hospital or Get off the TRACK!”

* We ice skated. Beloved, AG, me, Dad, and Mama’s Boy. It went a whole lot better than I expected it to, until the last time around the rink. I always go one time too many around the rink, metaphorically speaking. Mama’s Boy was ten feet behind me, holding his own. Then I heard a combination thud splat sound and I whipped around to see him lying flat out on the ice. He had fallen on his face without breaking his fall in any way. His face hit the ice in two spots and he got a goose egg abrasion from it. Pictures to follow, at some point. The good news was that he took it well. The bad news was that I had to set aside my hopes he’ll become a figure skater.

* Somehow I can manage to even turn bullet points into books. Sheesh.

* I’m off to Cherokee in the rain to curse Andrew Jackson for forcing the Indians onto the Trail of Tears. Shame on you, President AJ. Shame on you.

Every night, they ask the same question. “will you tell us a story, Mama?” and every night, though I am certain I will kick myself in the teeth later, I cringe and beg them not to make me. The problem is not that I don’t like talking to them. And it is not that I don’t appreciate that they want to hear what I have to say. And I am not too busy.

The problem is that I am out of material.
Way out.

I’ve told them every interesting Little Missy story I have, from the driving the car through the plate glass window when I was 2 to burning down the kitchen when I was 10. (My iPad just tried to autocorrect burning to “brining.” Brining down the house would be a new twist on an old story!) I have a lot of good stories. I did a lot of weird stuff as a kid. But you can only tell the same story so many times, ya know?

Last night, when I groaned over having to think too hard, AG said, “just tell an old one, Mama. We don’t mind hearing a repeat.” Good thing. Because I was fresh out of thinking cap juice.

“OK,” I conceded. “Real quick I will tell you about the time I got my dog.”

And I proceeded to tell them this bad version of the story. When I was 5, turning 6…or was it 6 turning 7 (I will wait to hear from Mom on this one), we were told that we were getting a very different kind of Christmas gift. What is it? What is it? We were dying to know. We had been begging for a dog for quite awhile, but we had no idea anyone was listening. We had been given the stock answers that come from the Status Quo Manual of Parenting. You won’t take care of it. I will end up doing everything. Dogs are too much trouble. They are dirty. Etc. All of that would end up being true. My brother and I did jack squat to take care of that dog. Oh, I blew the storyline, didn’t I? Now you know I was getting a dog that Christmas. As if.

Anyway, we still didn’t know. All we knew was that we had to go to Crawfordville to look at something. You probably haven’t been to Crawfordville and probably know nothing about it. Say the word to yourself. What does that conjure up in your mind? Yeah, it was that kind of place. Scarytown. When we pulled up outside a dirty little shack, my brother and I had fear in our hearts. Were Mom and Dad going to sell us? Were we about to meet our real parents?

Of course, I am just being an idiot right now. I have to embellish the story to keep the boys awake. And you.

Outside this little shack was a cardboard box. Inside that box were puppies. Poodle-terrier mixes. Adorable. My parents made the announcement that we could pick out a puppy and before they could finish their sentence, we were screaming the shrill screams of kids at a carnival.

We had no trouble agreeing on the puppy for us. It was the small, white one. And his name was Benji.

And we loved him, though we did jack squat to care for him.

And that was the story I told the kids.

“That’s how I got my.dog,” I said.

Mama’s Boy, who seemed almost asleep, spoke up in a quiet voice.

“I thought you said you were going to tell us how you got your BLOG.”

“Oh o, boy, that’s a really boring story,” I replied, chuckling.

“How DID you get your blog, Mama?” AG asked, interested.

“I designed it and I started writing.”

“You’re right, Mama. That isn’t an interesting story.”

Ha. At least you don’t have to read it, boy. At least there’s that.

Now, listen. I don’t need Hallmark to drum up fuzzy feelings for all the people in my life. I don’t feel the need to rush out and spend $4 on a rhyme I could have written myself. I’m a sucker for Hallmark movies all day long, but I don’t buy into the fabricated holiday hype.

That said, I did intend to celebrate this day with the lovies that live in my house. And we looked forward to it. We bought steaks, potatoes, broccoli, and special napkins. Actually, the napkins were purchased for us by our next door neighbor, so you cannot accuse me of falling prey to the Heart Shaped Napkin Company.

We set the table at 4 p.m. We tidied the house. At 5, Todd came home to grill the steaks. And though I apparently don’t buy in to all the hype, he does. He came in the door with a Hallmark card for me, for Beloved, and for Snuggletoot. In his other hand was flowers for me and a stuffed flower (think Beanie Baby, but in carnations. I know. Weirdest thing ever. And yet they loved it!) for each girl. There were gummy bears and bags of Starburst and Double Bubble.

“Aww, sweetie, thank you. I got you this….” I then shook his hand. No, I didn’t. He got a hug. And nothing else. Because I didn’t think we were exchanging gifts. And you know, I don’t do that kind of thing. I just try to be polite and stuff. That’s a gift, right?

I was determined for this day to go well and end well. Todd was grilling and I was finishing up the sticky rice (don’t ask…we should have been born asian) in the microwave. When I opened the door up, the plate on top of the rice bowl came sliding out like a kid on a greased sled.

It was piping hot.

I mean, PIPING hot.

I had a choice: Catch it and burn my hands, or let it go and deal with piping hot shattered glass. What would you have done?

I caught it with the “aplomb of a circus performer” (that’s a quote from Lea!) and brought it to safety on the stove. I used the skin left on my hands to wipe my sweaty brow and we were back in business.

It really wasn’t that bad, but if I hadn’t caught it, this would be a very different blog, I assure you.

The meal was gobbled down by even Picky Pea Pants and though you are expecting me to tell you my perfect day jumped the tracks, it never did. We ended the night reading the “Going to Town” chapter in Little House and realizing how super spoiled we are. Laura Ingalls about lost her lunch because she saw two houses standing together in one place. My kids think they should have a house on each coast and one in the mountains. Ah well. Perhaps next year, instead of gummy bears and heart shaped napkins, they’ll each get a house.

There was a lot of love. And there will be tomorrow, too, Hallmark.

But I digress.

I really didn’t stop here to talk about me. As if. I have a blog. Who am I kidding?

I’m here to talk about my Papa. That man knew how to love. For months, since his passing, I’ve been meaning to post a couple of things he penned during the war. This seems like the perfect day to finally get around to this.

This photo shows an album page from my mom’s album. He is pictured with his army brothers. He’s the handsome fella in the middle. And below that picture is a scan of a letter he wrote home to my mom, who was a 1-year-old baby he truly didn’t want to leave behind.

The letter said this:

February 1945
To Daddy’s Darling:

This is the first letter I have ever tryed to write you and I am afraid that when you are old enough to read and write yourself that you will think Daddy is very poor at writing, but someday you will understand that he loves you and Mommy better than anything else in the world.

It was not my idea to be away so much since you were born. It’s that someone with more power than you and I has said I must go. This I have done and I am trying to do a good job so I can come back to you and mommy before too long. Until I see you I want you to be a sweet little girl and do what you mother says. She is a good mommy and will only tell you what’s best for you. I know you will do all this. I only wanted to caution you.

From one who loves you very much,
Daddy

And I’ll leave you with a little poem that will never make the cover of a greeting card, but means a whole lot to our family.

Happy Love Day. Go hug someone. (Not just anyone, though. You should at least know them. Otherwise, it will be awkward at best. At worst, they might punch you, which is the exact opposite of what you want on a day like this. There is no card for that…)

Good Valentine’s Eve, peeps. I apologize again for the lengthy dry spell on this blog. I have found it difficult to type what I didn’t find interesting. Tonight, however, my son made me laugh pretty hard, so I thought I would do a little Ode to Mama’s Boy.

A long time ago, when Mama’s Boy was barely 4 years old, if that, and had a tiny, raspy little Linus voice, we were sitting across each other eating lunch. He was eating something ridiculous like chicken nuggets, I feel sure. I was eating a bowl of tuna. He looked up from his food and very seriously asked me, “Mama, what if everyone in the world was named Uncle Doo Doo?”

I spit out my bite and started laughing. And I didn’t stop for about 10 minutes. Because I was picturing the world he had asked me about. How very confusing. And backwards. But it was fun to imagine. He laughed, too, after a few minutes, but only because I was laughing and he got caught up in the moment. He really had no idea that what he had said was funny.

Tonight was like that.

We are about 60 pages from the end of Little House in the Big Woods. We read most of this series a long time ago, but we are re-reading it as a family and getting a whole lot more out of it this time around. Tonight’s chapter was about the dance at Grandpa’s house. Grandma was tending to the maple syrup on the stove while everyone else danced. And when the syrup was ready, people would file out into the clean snow, put some snow on their plates and file back in to have some hot syrup ladled onto the snow. The syrup would harden into candy and everyone would lap it up and go for more. There was a whole lot of description about this process that, frankly, I didn’t think they would find interesting or even listen to. But as I was finishing up this section, Mama’s Boy rolled over in his bed and said with a dreamy tone in  his voice.

“What if all that syrup was Jolly Ranchers and those people were me? I would love that.”

As we were finishing up, I told them where we were in the book and what the remaining chapters were titled. One of them is called “The New Machine.” AG thought that chapter sounded intriguing. I commented that the Ingalls were on the brink of the Industrial Revolution and that machines were starting to come into play a little bit. To this, Mama’s Boy responded, “I bet it was a peanut butter and jelly squirter. Those go good together.”

I think he went to sleep hungry.

I am thankful to live among weirdos, where I feel like just one of the gang.

If anyone wants to know how emotionally imbalanced I was at age 7, let me know and I will set up a play date for you to spend some time with Mama’s Boy. Bless his dear, fragile little heart (mine, also). He tries so hard. He is so intense about doing something perfect, immediately. Tonight we were discussing family resolutions and possibly ALL setting some goals. I always know right off when I have brought up the wrong topic. Unfortunately, by the time I realize it, it is always too late. Always.

“I can’t set resolutions!” he wailed.
“What’s a revolution?” Beloved asked.
“My teacher said we have to write out our resolutions in three areas: home, school, and personal. I can’t think of anything. I’m just going to sit there with nothing on my paper and then I’ll get in trouble!” And the wailing continued.

Wow. Great way to get 2012 started, Missy. Really.

I did my best to convince him that there was NO WAY he’d get in trouble for struggling with this assignment and to let some things go.

“I can think of one thing I really thing you ought to do for your personal goals,” I volunteered.

“What?” he asked, hopefully.

“Cut yourself some slack! You don’t have to be perfect at everything, all the time.”

“I can’t do that!” He cried again, this time smacking his own forehead in utter dismay.

Never mind. Forget goals. I think he might be better flying by the seat of his loose fitting jeans. We shall see.

Me, however, not so much. I need the goals. I need direction. I need discipline. And most of all, I need to FINISH.

So I’m working on my areas. I will pare down the list. I will not bite off more than I can chew, since that right there dictates failure. The areas for improvement are: Spiritual, Physical, Relationships, Domestic, and Creative.  The order of importance is Spiritual, Relationships, Domestic, Physical, and Creative. If creative has to go, it will go. I might just decide to blog this year. Nothing else crazy.

Part of my physical goals will be to go to bed on time and get up early. I badly need a better routine and I believe this will impact everything.

For Mama’s Boy, I have submitted the following list as a cheat sheet for him to take to school tomorrow:

Personal Goals:
Bathe daily. Try and smell like an angel.
Be perky and upbeat.
Get new hobby: laundry. Also mopping.

Home goals:
Get other new hobby: cooking dinners for the family.

School goals:
Do not make gassy noises with my mouth during school hours.
Make straight As. Mommy will not accept anything less.
Skip a grade this year.

There. That should keep him out of the hot seat tomorrow.

Happy New Year’s. Again. See ya tomorrow.

Growing up, Thanksgiving was not so much about people. It was about food. Every year, we left after school on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and drove from Tallahassee to Lakeland where my mom’s parents lived. There were no other kids–no cousins–until I was about 13, when one came along finally. So my brother and I just listened to Walkmans and tried to stay out of the way, while our mouths watered over the magic happening in that tiny little 1950s kitchen.

I’d like to say I remember conversations…or specific Thanksgiving foods. I’m sure it was all delicious. I was probably too finicky to really appreciate it all. What I do remember is the daily slow-cooked-in-bacon-grease scrambled eggs and the triple-layer, totally homemade and scrumptious chocolate cake. Oh my. Their equal has not been found. I will continue to search for the rest of my life.

But somewhere along the way, Thanksgiving began to morph into something bigger than scrambled eggs and chocolate cake, which I’m well aware are not standard Thanksgiving food staples. It began to become about the things and the people I am thankful for.

One of my fondest Thanksgiving memories was November 24, 1995. Todd’s parents were living in Concord, NC on a contract for Frank’s job. We decided to drive up to be with them and take everyone along. In a 1970s, horrible, hideously ugly, brown-striped Toyota minivan, 7 people piled in. It was my mom and dad, Todd, his sister, Kelley, my brother and his then-fiancee who is now his awesome wife. I know my parents are going to take me to task on my choice of words about that van. I only call it like I see it. They never rode in any seat but the front. They don’t know the sorrow. Actually, though I am technically complaining, that trip wouldn’t have been as funny or as memorable if we hadn’t had the knock-down, drag-out arguments over who would have to sit next to the flesh-eating mini blinds or who would sit in the middle seat of the middle row with their legs hiked up under their chin because that’s where Toyota decided the engine should go. Inside the car…with some ugly ole carpet over it. Good idea, boys. Really.

It was a 12 hour trip. We passed around a laptop, which was cutting edge in 1995, and played Links golf and Tetris. Good times. Halfway to NC, I began running a fever. I don’t remember much about the next few days. I remember being thankful we were all together. And some of what I was thankful for, I wrote down. During those early days, we kept a “thankful book” that we wrote in every year. More on that in a minute.

The next memory that stands out in my mind is Thanksgiving of 2007, when we booked a large house in north Alabama and spent the week in Joe Wheeler State Park with Todd’s parents, and Kelley’s family. The house was just one notch above haunted. It was in no way nice. It was super large and rambled on forever, giving us plenty of space to spread out and sleep everyone. But it didn’t have a fireplace, it DID come with a million house flies(think Plagues of Egypt or Alfred Hitchcock), and was old and drafty. That being said, however, it was on a river, set on a hill, and surrounded by fall color that was hanging on just for us, I believe. And we could walk out of our house and play a wild game of football in a field of crunchy yellow leaves. And when our electricity went out due to weather, there was a lodge across the park that served us a fine buffet with every color of Jello imaginable. For the toddlers among us, it was the little things. It was the Jello buffet. Those were good times.

I have more to be thankful for than you will want to read. I will probably write more on that tomorrow. On November 24, 1995, I wrote this little poem, which is kinda corny. I’m going to type it up anyway, because it reflects where I was that year and where I am now.

This year, more than any other, I am thankful.
On my knees, I am thankful.
My blessings are a mysterious November wind that swirls around me and can be breathed.
They are dried autumn leaves that carpet the earth in a mosaic of color and can be walked through.
I am thankful for the blessing of forgiveness, the providence of God, for second chances.
I thank God for the family I was given,
For family I have found,
For friendship.
I am thankful for afternoon rainstorms,
For the first, white crescent moon that hangs like a rocking chair in the sky,
For the scent of a fire.

I thank God for twilight, for quiet evenings, for hugs, for the smile of a friend, for worn pathways between familiar doorways, for laughter, for unbroken promises, for hope.

Most of all, I am thankful that as I walk across this carpet of color, surrounded by God’s gifts, I cannot see the end.

Back to 2011… That was a little too corny even for me, but it was true. And I didn’t have a single child then. I didn’t know that love. I didn’t know that gratitude.

I didn’t know what a sloppy mess i’d make when my cup ran over as it has. And I didn’t know the many ways God would hold me up over the next 16 years and keep that cup full. Always. He has never not been there. How does one say thank you for THAT?

On that note, I’m going to bed. I will post 2011’s version tomorrow.

Be thankful. There are reasons to be. Always.

The day started out rough.
Rough.
It’s hard to know sometimes who to be mad at. I’m definitely mad at the kid causing the glitch in the moment when a morning goes awry. But I’m also mad at me, because I can’t seem to get the whole process running like a well oiled machine. I don’t want to be the really funny sit-com that people laugh at because of all the things that go wrong in funny ways. I want to be the boring show where nothing really happens and it gets canceled after the first season. Well, I don’t really want that ALL the time. But there are two or three times I’d like to run smoothly: (1) the morning off-to-school routine, (2) dinnertime, and (3) bedtime.

I’d like them to pick up their toys, put their clothes in the proper hamper, use ma’ams and sirs, and brush their teeth without first bathing in the toothpaste. And I’d like them to stop spilling their drinks. I mean this. I am OVER the drink spilling. So much so that we have no drinks in the house any more. If they feel like spilling, they’ll be spilling purified water. At least that way, they’ll be improving the house when they dump it. Here, child, add some soap and go grab the mop. Now you have lather. Enjoy.

So the morning started rough and then the day got some better. It was a fine afternoon and the evening was pleasant. I dare say, even, that it was good. It was good. But then, all at once, it wasn’t. They started whining and arguing. Two of them were running like banshees through the dining room. One of the runners stepped on something and screamed like a dying animal. (Hard to imagine how it could be dangerous to run 35 mph in a house where you didn’t first pick up your sharp toy from the floor…) And then…

Then…

…the smallest little thing set me off. I didn’t even realize I was at my snapping point. Apparently, I was. It was the pencil sharpener. You’d have to know our history with pencil sharpeners to understand my frustration. We can’t keep one working. I buy a new pencil sharpener pretty much every time I go shopping. This time, I thought I had a better solution. This time I bought the crank kind from walmart. You stick the pencil in, you turn the handle, you get a sharp pencil. It isn’t complicated. Until you decide to remove the main section to remove the shavings. As a 5 year old.

So, yes. Beloved came to me and sweetly said, “Mommy, I emptied the shavings into the garbage, but I need a little help putting the top back on.”

So I got up from my position in a leather chair and went to inspect. Emptying the shavings into the garbage is a pretty generous description for what she had actually done. Flung the shavings far and wide is closer to the mark, though admittedly exaggerated. I can exaggerate after a day like this one. And I will.  Shavings were everywhere. The trashcan had been relocated to catch the shavings, but failed to do its job. And the top would not go back on.

She broke the pencil sharpener.

I bought a cool new pencil sharpener which worked really well. She went out on her own to “empty” it (in her mind, a good thing. in my mind, not so much). She broke it. And I got mad. I had to clean up the mess. I had to throw away the broken sharpener. And I no longer had a way to sharpen pencils. Small thing? Sure. But it represents a bigger picture.

So I spiraled into a mood that sent them to bed. They needed to go to bed anyway. I was done with them. There had been too much whining. Too much striking out on their own and failing. Too much.

After tooth brushing, I forgot something and had to run downstairs to get it. Upon my return to the boys’ room, I found them still and quiet and Mama’s Boy was smiling.

“Do you notice anything, Mama?” he asked. I didn’t really notice anything so much. I guess they were sort of behaving. He was under his covers. “I made a plan to make you happy again. It was my plan.” Of course it was. He’s the pleaser in the family. He does not like to step off course. He doesn’t like his Mama to be unhappy. He had gotten everyone in their beds and even Snugglemonkey was in her bed in a totally separate room.

“Thank you, B,” I said. He asked if he could tell the bedtime story and I said yes. It isn’t my favorite part of the evening. I’m happy for someone else to make up a ridiculous story about a ninja who likes milk. You know, that kind of thing…

About this time, Snugglemonkey walked back in and I asked her to sit on my lap. At that instant, Beloved jumped up and wanted to sit on my lap, too. Suddenly they were fighting. Mama’s Boy sat up in bed and pleaded with them,

“Hey, come on,” he said. “now you’re making Mama upset again. You’re giving her a headache.” The girls continued to fight over my lap, which I assure you has plenty of real estate for the both of them. And then Mama’s Boy said something that hit me.

“You’re ruining my plan!”

And they were.

It was a good plan.
It was the best way.
They were ruining it.

I immediately thought of God…my Father. How many times have I broken His pencil sharpeners by emptying them without His permission and without His help? How many plans of His have I ruined?

I do it every day.

When He set this all in motion, He created light and called it good. He created animals and called them good. Plants, trees, oceans–all good. Man and woman, good. It was all good. Genesis 1 is a rosy picture. The sharpener was still working then.

But by Genesis 6, it says that “every inclination of the thoughts of the human heart was only evil all the time” and He regretted making them–us. He was deeply troubled. His perfect plan had been ruined.

Wow. I’m really thankful for His grace.
For His plan fix the things we break.
For His Son, who IS the fix for the things we break.
And for the fact that He is so much better a Parent than I am.

We ended our day by belting out My Favorite Things as a family. It is a known fact that you cannot remain grumpy while singing happy songs. You just can’t. So Mama’s Boy’s master plan ultimately did work. And it cheered me to know that though they did not do the things I asked them to today–and while they could not really meet my expectations today–they really do want to. And they really do love me. And with all their scattered shavings, they try.

And one of these days, we’ll just switch to presharpened pencils and call ourselves geniuses. And people will believe us.

Yes, they will.

If you are just coming on board, you might want to read Part 1 of this topic before proceeding. It will explain the foundation of bad parenting, bribes, and clogged sinus passages, none of which you’ll get in this installment. This installment contains a great deal of spurting.

So AG had agreed to step in and be the neti pot guinea pig. He was grinning from ear to ear. I really have no idea why he agreed to this. I have to believe the hope of a new little lego pal was speaking to his soul. It’s hard to imagine that he’d flush his sinuses for less tangible things like love and sacrifice. I don’t mean that he’s not loving or sacrificial. He’s a fantastic brother. But he’s not one to mix his sinuses up in all that emotion. And he’s never been the first one to get a shot. But there was no sense in further questioning. I had a volunteer. I wasn’t going to turn this one away. AG marched up to the kitchen sink, getting slower and slower as the water warmed up. He was definitely getting cold feet, but was determined to carry through with it. I filled up the pot, tossed in the saline packet, and mixed it around. And much to my very great shock, he bent  his head and offered me a nostril.

This is really ridiculous. I can’t believe I’m telling a story with the phrase “offered me a nostril.” I should delete that. It’s totally within my power to stop this.

I’m not gonna.

Within a few seconds, the solution went in one nostril and out the other. He sputtered, wiped his face, and smiled. Mama’s Boy watched this with wide eyes, waiting for the reaction; for the verdict.

“It’s not too bad, B,” he said. “You should do it.” Yes, boy, you should.

Even still it took some haranguing, but the result was a chair pulled over to the sink (he’s quite a bit shorter than his brother) and a boy standing on that chair. He had a deer in the headlights look on his face as he leaned over. I still can’t believe he let me stick the end of that pot in his nose. It’s not like him at all.

Unfortunately, he was so clogged that there was no “in one nostril and out the other” experience, as there had been with his brother. The saline went in and ran into a wall. It tried to break through. But all it really did, as far as he was concerned, was burn the living daylights out of his sinus cavity.

So, he spewed it out of every place in his face and began to wail. This is the part I expected. If anything, I’m just surprised it took 45 seconds to arrive there.

“It’s STINGING!” he wailed. “That was HORRIBLE!” More wailing. “It didn’t work at all! The wailing continued. It was answered by my pleading.

“Boy, you are so stuffed up! You didn’t give it quite enough time to work. Let it work, boy. Try again…” Oh, no. There was to be no more trying of the neti pot. His mind was made up. I could have upped the ante to 5 mini figs and a trip to Chick-fil-a (I didn’t. I do have my limits…) and he still would have walked away.

The crying continued. I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you the effects of crying, but just for the sake of stating the obvious, crying generates more snot. More snot means more games of Kadiba in our future.

We solved nothing.

At this point, I started looking for some Benedryl. Maybe we could go about this the less natural way. While looking for the Benedryl, I came across the bulb syringe in our medicine box. (I have a friend, who shall remain nameless to protect her very delicate reputation, who calls the bulb syringe a “boogie suck.” I am not making this up. A boogie suck? Seriously.  I just can’t even go there. And if I can’t go there, no one should.)

I pulled the syringe out of the box and showed the kids.

“I should have done it this way,” I said. “This is what we used to do for you guys when you were babies.” All four kids wanted to hear stories about being stopped up and flushed out as babies. Well, Mama’s Boy was still pretty miffed, so he didn’t care to hear any. What kind of family has a bag full of these kinds of stories? I know. Sick.

“Hey,” I said in a stroke of genius. “I’ll try it this way,” I said. “I’ll show you how easy it is.” I was going to show Mama’s Boy that this was an alternate method for us to help him out. So I took the solution that didn’t get used and put it in the little blue syringe. Then, without any further planning, I pumped that up into my sinuses. We are all about examples tonight. Unfortunately for me, I think I sent it through at about 35 mph. I about lost an eye in this. What happened next is a bit of a blur to me. I think I made a pretty big scene, because the kids were really wide eyed by this time. Mama’s Boy stopped crying. When I came to my senses and washed my face a time or two, I looked at Mama’s Boy and said, “That was worse than the neti pot. I don’t recommend it.”

That was a stupid thing to say. He took it as gospel. But in the very next moment, I readjusted my trajectory and perfected my technique. This time was  less painful, but no less explosive. I lost the syringe altogether and things went flying. A whole bunch of saline hit the wall and the inside of the toaster.

“Whoops,” I said. Even Mama’s Boy was laughing now.”You see?” I said. “Not so bad this time. Want to try it?”

He was laughing.

“Nope.”

I knew he was going to say that.

We didn’t solve his problem, but he fulfilled his part of the bargain. And part of me believes we took a baby step toward something that will someday solve his problem. So true to my ill-fated bribe, I went to Target tonight.

To buy a Bini Fig.

This is not over yet, Boy.