What’s Goin’ On?

A little catch-up on the goings on in my happy home.

Baby and I are doing well. Or should I say, Baby is doing well. I imagine my gallbladder must be the most comfortable pillow in the world…something that you’d find on late night insomniac shopping channels. Made by the Japanese 100′s of years ago, and it contains special herbs to help relieve the toxins in your head while you sleep. Better than a dream catcher. When he’s not snuggled up on my bladder, he’s practicing the Cello on my spine or doing curl-ups with my ribs. All this fun and excitement on the inside means that, on the outside, I’m constantly running to the bathroom, chugging Mylanta, and crying to my husband to rub my back. Usually at the same time.

Sir, you have been accused of putting your mommy through hell. How do you plead, you cute little guilty bug?

In not so pregnant news, Laurie is still being potty trained. Which is code to my friends for “Don’t come over without calling first because my carpets are soaking wet and the whole house smells of urine!” I’m bribing her. I’m threatening her. I’m begging her.  I bought new panties. I put a Cheerio in the toilet and told her to aim for it. (not sure why that didn’t work) I’m doing everything they tell you to do…and for the most part she’s not too bad. As long as I stay on her every 20 minutes, we do okay. I thought we had a solution for the whole thing the other day when Laurie told me she only wanted to wear diapers. I told her I was tired of changing her poopy butt so she HAS to start using the potty. She told me, “Okay, I no poop no more.” Brilliant! So we had an agreement. She’d stop poopin’ and I’d let her wear diapers. Well wouldn’t you know only hours later she pooped. Back to panties and potties. Fingers crossed we’ve got this whole thing figured out by June.

Mr. Tommy is also doing well. He just had his first school program this week. Boy, it sure was exciting! 50 of the cutest kindergartners you’ve ever seen dressed like flowers and bees and chickens and singing about worms and farmers and Mr. Golden Sun. It was no Miss Saigon, but it was pretty good. I’m fairly certain had the local paper covered it, there would have been special mention of my sons talented moves during The Chicken Dance.  But just like on Broadway, there was a bump in the road to a successful opening night. A flu epidemic swept through the class this Wednesday when they were practicing in front of the Jr. High students. When I asked Tommy how it went he said, “It was awesome! The teachers kept having to come on stage and clean up puke!” I’m thinking that day was pretty damn awesome for those Jr. High students, too.

Steven’s doing alright, too. Despite some hiccups and headaches at work he’s been fairly calm. That is, until I started having major contractions and told him, “I think it’s time.” I don’t see him sweat very often so it was kinda nice to know that his cool, calm demeanor can be destroyed with just 4 lil’ words. And then to see him actually get vein-popping-angry when I said just 1 lil’ word. “Gotcha!” It’s okay though. He got me back when he handed me divorce papers. At least…I think he was joking. Good one, babe. Love you, too. Babe?…Honey? …Sugar Dumpling? Uh-oh.

When I’m not torturing my husband, I’ve been trying to prepare myself for the birth by reading “All About Your Pregnancy” books. I read in one that when a woman is about this far along (I’m 36 weeks) she may begin having weird and very vivid dreams. This is true for me.  Recently I dreamt Steven and I were meeting the baby for the first time. The nurses had him wrapped up tight in a brown blanket and just his pink little chubby face was poking out. Basically he looked like a strawberry ice cream cone. You may think this might cause me to never want strawberry ice cream again, but no, I had some that afternoon. It was delicious! I felt guilty eating it, but it was delicious!

That’s all from here! Thanks for reading, y’all!

Detective Mommy and the Mystery of the Missing Spoons Part 5: Serving Up Justice

Be sure to enjoy part 1, part 2, part 3, and part 4 of Detective Mommy before reading this anticipated conclusion.

I love the rain. I love the smell and sound it makes on my roof. I could stand by a window and watch it all day long and just daydream. At 34 weeks pregnant, my current daydream is simply my husband pushes this baby outta my body, takes me to a beach, and hands me a margarita! But that was far from my mind today. Today I was thinking about the spoons.

The day had finally come to confront the utensil mastermind. I was ready. Ready to put this all behind me and regain control of my silverware drawer once again. I had answered the who…now it was time to find out the why. So I continued staring out the window, waiting for my assailant to find me. It didn’t take long before I saw her reflection in the window.

“Hello Mother. I tot I might find you here.”

2-year-old Laurie stood in her doorway. She held a pink Minnie Mouse sippy cup in one hand and in the other hand a long silver spoon.

“Miss Laurie. Is there something you need to tell me? “

“I don’t tink there’s much to say, Mommy. Why don’t you tell me how you fingered out it was me?”

I hesitated, but then it all came pouring out. “It took some time, but eventually I put all the clues together. I knew it couldn’t be Tommy because if he’d been playing with spoons, they would have been in the dirt pile out back. Not on his desk. And I knew it wasn’t your father because he’s a neat freak and can’t bear the thought of something being out-of-place. You almost had me when I found the spoon in the dog’s bed. I thought perhaps he was jealous of our ability to use cutlery and wanted to seek revenge. But then I remembered, the dog is stupid. I looked at outside suspects; Hoying, Grandma, even Pastor Nick. I never suspected it could be my sweet little girl.”

She crossed the room and picked up her Fur Real Friend white kitty cat while I spoke. I never took my eyes off of her. She was a slippery one. Too cunning for two. While she brushed the cat’s fur with a small purple comb I continued.

“Eventually, I put all the evidence in front of me and stared until my eyes about popped out. I knew I had to look at the case from a different angle. And that’s when it hit me. That’s when I figured what everything had in common. The spoons were all found on or near the floor. Nothing was ever found in any place higher than my knee. And who’s about as high as my knee?”

Her expression never changed and her eyes never left mine. It was obvious she’d been practicing the staring game with her brother.  “That means nothing. It could have been a lepwechaun or a fairwee or a twoll. How did you know it was me?”

“Because of this!”

Just as I suspected…she couldn’t even look at the picture.

“You must have forgotten that I do the laundry in this house. Did you just think it was magically placed in your drawer every day? Well, it’s not! I separate it! I apply the stain remover to the spaghetti on your white t-shirts! I toss it in the washer, then the dryer, then the laundry basket! I fold it! And I damn well put it away!”

I turned back to face the rain. “Imagine my surprise when I came in here to put your princess jammies away and found my spoons. My precious precious spoons.” When I looked back at Laurie, she had tears in her eyes. “So that’s how. Now tell me why, Laurie. Why did you take my spoons?”

The tears in her eyes had surprised me, but not as much as the anger that suddenly washed over her face. “Why? Why, you ask! Isn’t it obvious? Every beckfest, yunch, and dinner you and Daddy and Tommy get to use the big spoons. It takes you just a yittle bit of time to eat your Cheerio’s or ice cweem or peas. But I have to use the baby spoons! You ever twy to eat peas wit a baby spoon?!?! It takes me yike 10 minutes just to get them to stay on the spoon. And I have to eat them one damn pea at a time! It’s agonizing! But you! You can fit pobaby 7 or 8 peas on a big spoon!”

She began tugging on the ends of her hair, her face was flushed and red with anger. I knew her hissy fit wasn’t over just yet, “So finawee I had enough. Wemember when you made homemade icecweem? Everyone got a big spoon, but not me. You all yaffed at me cause evy time I twied to take a bite, the icecweem would slide off my stupid patetic baby spoon. I got maybe 3 bites of icecweem before you said, ‘That’s enough. Time for a baff, Miss Yaurie.’ It wasn’t my fault. Do you hear me, Mommy? IT WASN’T MY FAULT! THE SPOON WAS TOO SMALL! So that night I decided if I couldn’t eat with a big spoon, then nobody would.”

Part of me felt bad for her. She was just a little girl with a little mouth in a big world full of big spoons. One day her mouth would adjust, but not today. We both knew it, but neither of us would say it.

“Laurie, I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

“SHUT UP, MOTHER! JUST SHUT UP YOUR BIG MOUTH!”

And then it happened. She lunged at me like a spider monkey in a Jet Li movie! Her chubby little legs tightly wrapped around my body and her chubby little fists starting beating my chest. I was momentarily stunned! The only time I’d ever seen her move that fast is when she stole a piece of chocolate from her brother on Valentine’s day. While we jostled about the room she screamed and spat, “MY SPOONS! MY SPOONS! MY SPOOOOOOOOOOOONS!”

I tried with all my might to pull her off of me, but she has some incredible lower body strength for a two-year-old. My only option was to try to beat the hell out of her, but how could I do that without hurting myself or my unborn child? I pulled her hair, but she just grabbed mine and yanked harder. I decided to pull some old-school moves and boxed her ears. It worked! She lost her monster grip around my waist and fell to the floor, but before I could pull any other stunts I learned from the 3 Stooges, she ricocheted off the wall and round-house kicked me in the jaw.

“OW! WHAT THE HELL, LAURIE!”

“Kung Fu Panda. The t.v. show. Not the movie. Guess you should have played more puzzles with me and let me spend less time in font of the t.v.”

Damn, she had a point. But while she was talking something bumped my hand. It was exactly what I needed. This time, when she came running at me full force, instead of attacking her, I wrapped her in a hug, grabbed the sippy cup that had bumped my hand and shoved it in her mouth.

I could see the fear in her eyes as I whispered, “It’s okay, sweetie. Drink your milk. Everything will be okay.” She was no match for the power of calming words and a cup of nice warm milk. The fear slowly turned in to trust and the trust in to love.  It was over.  I grabbed her blankey and we snuggled on the bed.

“If you want to use regular spoons, you can.” I whispered.

She pulled the cup from her mouth and smiled, “Tank you, Mommy. You the best.”

She fell asleep in my arms, and I wriggled my way out. I figured the whole round-house kick thing was probably cause she needed a nap. This wasn’t our first nap-time battle. I put a bag of peas on my face and waited for Steven to come home. He was going to be so excited.

As soon as he walked in the door, he asked, “Oh my God. What happened to you?”

“It’s over, honey. You no longer have to worry about the spoons. It’s over. “

He put his lunch pail down, “This is all about those stupid spoons?! Christ, Rachel. Sometimes I wonder what goes on with you while I’m at work. Are you crazy?”

I could only smile. Maybe I was a little crazy. Maybe I took things a bit too far. But I knew one thing. Tonight, I was going to have a big ol’ bowl of Cocoa Puffs, and I was going to eat them with a clean spoon.

The End

Detective Mommy and the Mystery of the Missing Spoons part 4

**Don’t miss out on how the mystery began in parts 1, part 2, and part 3**

After the strange spoon scene in the bathroom, spoons began to show up all over the place; in the laundry hamper, the toy box, the shoe box, in the dogs bed. I found one in between couch cushions and another lodged under the microwave stand. But just as quickly as I retrieved them, they’d be gone again. Was my perp starting to lose it? I sure hoped so, cause I knew the case was beginning to get to me.

I dreaded my late night ice cream craving. I stopped making soup and chilli all together. When the kids wanted to play ‘musical instruments’ I had to break out the plastic sporks for them to use as drum sticks.   One night I dreamt I was a tiny ant in the silverware drawer. A giant hand reached in and grabbed the spoon I was sitting on. It then tried  to crush me with a second spoon. I saw no one, but could hear a dark and menacing laugh as I was spooned to death. I woke up sweating and panting and shaking. My husband took my hand, “You have to give this up, Rachel. You’re in too deep. Let me buy you some new spoons and let’s get on with our lives before it consumes you!” He pleaded and pleaded, but even the love of a good man couldn’t convince me to stop. I was so close I could taste it.  And then it happened.

The spoon thief made a mistake that busted the case wide open. I knew who it was. And I knew what I had to do.

Detective Mommy and the Mystery of the Missing Spoons part 3

(Catch up with Part 1 and Part 2)

Things had been quiet for a few days. A little too quiet for my taste. Spoons were still disappearing and reappearing on a regular basis, but this time there were no clues, no hints, no leads. Even my informant, Steven, was no help. When I tried to get some information from him he replied, “Oh…are we still doing that? No…I don’t know where the spoons are.”

The case was getting cold. As cold as…well…a spoon. I had to come to grips with the idea that this case might never get solved.  And so what if it doesn’t? As long as we still had enough spoons each morning for cereal, did it really matter WHO was taking them? I had almost given up on the case when I found this…

Placed ever so menacingly on my vanity was a spoon. Another good spoon, too. Why do they keep taking the good spoons!?

Was it a clue? Or was someone warning me? Had the perp figured out that I was on the case? Or was it a mistake? They say in my business if you give the bad guy long enough, he’ll slip up. Is that what happened? I didn’t know. But I did know I couldn’t stop now. I was so close. I would find the Spoon Scoundrel…and I would make him eat his punishment with a fork.

Lucky for me, it was almost dinner time…

Detective Mommy and the Mystery of the Missing Spoons part 2

*Check out part 1 here if you’ve missed it. *

The air was cool and crisp on my bare feet that early April morning. I waddled my way to the kitchen for some oatmeal. There was no milk in the fridge, but I was pretty sure there was some in the garage fridge. I dreaded going out to the  garage. The lights were far too bright for this early in the morning and the cement floor was going to freeze my poor piggies. Luckily, I spotted my husband’s lawn mowing shoes sitting by the door. They’re about 10 sizes bigger than my own feet, but I decided to throw them on anyways just to get the milk. But as I approached, I realized there was no way my foot was getting in that shoe. Someone messed up. Someone…left a spoon in it.

I picked up the evidence and sped through the freezing garage for the milk. When I came back into the house both kids were awake.  I layed the shoe on my desk and made breakfast for the kids. Business as usual. Then while they chomped away on Lucky Charms and Multi-Grain Cheerios, I snuck back over and snapped this picture.

I spent most my day confused, but that’s nothing new. What was new was the way I couldn’t look my husband in the eye. Could he be the Spoon Swindler? The evidence was right there in his shoe, but something didn’t smell right. I’ve known Steven for years and he’s never stolen anything. He’s also not the type to leave stuff lying around where it doesn’t belong. But the evidence…I couldn’t look past the evidence.

That night while we were doing our regular bed time ritual (me, reading my book. Him, watching crap t.v.) I decided I couldn’t go to bed without knowing the truth. There would be no way I could sleep knowing I was laying next to a thieving scalawag!

“Steven”, I pulled the spoon from behind my pillow, “we need to talk about this.”

He gulped. A guilty gulp.

“What’s that?” he asked, turning his attention back to the t.v.

“I think you know what it is. What I want to know is why did I find it in your shoe this morning?”

“What? In my shoe? What are you talking about? I haven’t seen my shoes in a week. That spoon has nothing to do with me.”

It made me sick to see my strong and rugged man weaseling about. I grabbed his shirt and pulled him in close. “C’mon Steve. Tell me what’s going on with the spoons. I know you know something! Spill it! Or things are going to get awfully chilly in this bedroom if you know what I mean!”

He raised his hands, “Okay, okay. Just don’t hurt me. Look, I’ve noticed the missing spoons, too. But it ain’t me, see. I’m being set up. I wanna catch this bastard just as bad as you do. I had to eat ice cream with a fork today. A fork!”

My grip tightened on his shirt, “So you’re the one who ate the last of my peanut butter fudge ice cream? You son of a…what else do you know? I know you know something! Tell me about the spoons, damn it!”

“All I know is right before I ate the last of your ice cream…and I’m sorry about that, by the way…I heard the silverware drawer open and feet scurrying. But when I looked around the corner, I didn’t see anything. No one was there. They just…vanished.”

I let go of his shirt and sat back on the bed. I believed him. I didn’t like what he had to say, but I believed every word of it.

“Alright. But if you see or hear anything you’ll let me know, right?”

“Of course, baby.” he touched his lips to my thigh and looked up like a puppy dog, “Now, how about a reward for your little spy.”

“Uck. I have heartburn.” I moaned, rolling over to turn off the light, “You just keep your mind on the spoons, mister. “

Cause that’s where my mind was. Who was taking my spoons?

(Stay tuned for part 3 of Detective Mommy and the Mystery of the Missing Spoons)

Detective Mommy and the Mystery of the Missing Spoons, part 1

Why do we never have any clean spoons??? I yell this, I bet, about 4 or 5 times a week. It just doesn’t make any sense. I use them, I wash them, I put them away, and the next day they’re gone! Yeah, there will be some in the sink or left over in the dishwasher,but not ALL of them. Someone must be swiping my spoons, but who?

It made no sense that it would be an inside job. I mean, the family can have spoons whenever they like, right. So it MUST have been someone outside the family. A distant relative maybe? A close friend? A close friend’s child? I began a pretty decent list of suspects . My girl, Hoying, was  at the top of the list because she always compliments my style of spoon every time she sees them.  But would she go so far as to steal them one by one? If you know Hoying, you know it IS possible. But before I could throw on my intimidating Sherlock Holmes hat and spit shine my magnifying glass, I got a clue that threw my theory for a loop.

While putting clothes away in my son’s bedroom, something shiny caught my eye.  I prayed it would be a razor or a knife, but no. There it was. One of my nice spoons. The good kind, too. Not one of the ones that are real big and hard to fit in my mouth. I couldn’t believe it. I was stunned. Forgetting all my professional super sleuth training, I grabbed the evidence and stuffed it down my shirt. My big ol’ pregnant belly held it in place while I nonchalantly left my son’s room and tossed the evidence in the sink.

Why did I do it? Was I just being a mother, protecting her son? Or did I  know that I’d be starting the dishwasher within the hour and should probably get it in there? I don’t know. What I do know is I wish I had taken a picture of the evidence where it lied at that time. It could have saved me so much time…so much hurt.

I didn’t question my son. Not yet, anyways. I needed more evidence. So I decided to start carrying my camera around with me all through the house. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

And It didn’t take long for me to almost step into the next clue…

Death of an Eggs-man or Why I love My Family

On our way home from Easter Sunday dinner at my Granny’s house, my husband chuckled quietly.

“What?” I asked.

“Your family. They’re just so funny. Who buries someone on Easter Sunday?”

I smiled, “The fact that you’re calling Mr. Blue a ‘someone’ shows that you’re being sucked into our weirdness. That’s sexy.”

Well ladies and gentleman, without further ado, I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Blue!

Yep, he’s an Easter Egg.

My uncle, whose only a month older than me, created Mr. Blue when he was 4-years-old.  When all the other colored eggs had been deviled or chopped up or simply trashed, Uncle Jason begged Granny not to throw away his favorite one. Granny, being the wonderful soul she is, promised to keep him in the freezer. I don’t know if there was any discussion on how long Mr. Blue would remain in the freezer, but I suspect when Jason said he wanted to keep him forever, Granny believed him.

After dessert, when Granny pulled Mr. Blue from his frozen home and told us the story, we all laughed and joked about it, but I don’t think any of us were all that surprised. Of course Granny kept a treasured Easter Egg in her freezer for 26 years! This was the same Granny who used to give us stomach medicine (I think it was called Memos) whenever we liked because it tasted good.

The same Granny who poured the powdered cheese from the Macaroni and Cheese boxes onto plates and let us lick it off because we wanted to pretend we were birds.

The Granny who chased us around the house and yelled, “I’m going to steal your sugars!” then covered  us in kisses when she caught us.

The same Granny who got all her grand kids addicted to buttered Cheerios and strawberry milk. (oh man, that sounds so good right now.)

The same Granny who rushes over when we’re not feeling well with some homemade food and a few scriptures from the Bible.

The very same Granny who laughs right along with us when we’re picking on her about her crazy driving and running over the small children in the neighborhood.

OF COURSE this same Granny would keep an egg for 26 years because her youngest child begged her with tears in his eyes not to throw him away.  She’s the best person in the world!

So after all the jokes were told and we wiped the laughter-tears from our eyes, we watched Grandpa grab a shovel and head out to the backyard.  Grandpa is the perfect partner-in-crime for Granny. While she was giving us powered poison and letting us jump head first into tiny kiddie pools as children, Grandpa was always there to make sure we knew we were going to die.

“You kids be careful on those swings! You’ll fall off and bust your heads open and die!”

“You kids better watch out playing baseball. That ball will knock you out and give you a concussion and then you’ll die!”

“You kids be careful squirting those water guns! If you get water up your nose you’ll drown and die!”

Sometimes we’d wonder why our grandparents would let us just die, but most the time we mumbled, “Okay, Grandpa”  and tried to find something less hazardous to play. (It’s hard to find something less hazardous than paper airplanes. “That plane will fly right into your eye and you’ll die!”)

But here was Grandpa, giddy as I’d EVER seen him, rushing to the backyard, shovel in hand, and Granny right behind him, just as giddy, holding Mr. Blue in a Styrofoam casket. Not even our enormously full stomachs could keep us from missing this spectacle!

The whole family gathered around the ‘plot’ to pay our respects. My aunt Boo and I jokingly hummed Amazing Grace. My cousin Dusty made a smart comment about wishing he’d prepared a Eulogy. And Cousin Jason pretended to sob, “He was such a good egg!” The only person who was not in attendance was the person who started it all, Uncle Jason. I believe it was all too much for him and he just couldn’t handle the pain of letting go of his good friend. The last thing he’d ever said about Mr. Blue was, “Why do you still have that thing!?!?”

Mr. Blue was placed in a shallow grave only steps from a beautiful purple Lilac bush. His last home is tiny, a little warmer than the freezer,  and unmarked.  Not because we were too poor to buy a gravestone and not because we didn’t care, but because we just didn’t think of it at the time. Perhaps one of us will have created something by the time we gather together again for Memorial Day Dinner.

Every time we get together at Granny’s there’s always some point when everyone starts sharing their favorite stories. Whether it be my Granny telling about hiding from Grandpa in the bath tub when he wanted to go on a date cause she didn’t really like him, or my Aunt Boo telling on my mom because she stuck her in the clothes dryer and threatened to turn it on when they were children (In my mom’s defense, she says Boo was a brat and deserved it!) or all us grand kids talking about how great it was to get in trouble at Granny’s because she’d put us in the corner, but we could still play our Gameboys.  It’s always fun remembering these things and keeping our family stories alive from generation to generation.

That’s why I’m so happy my kids were there for Mr. Blue’s funeral. I can just see us all gathered around the table one day having Easter dinner and my son says, “Remember that funeral we had with Great Granny and Great Grandpa for that egg?” and his son shaking his head and saying, “Why is my family so weird?”

I’d tell him, “Because you’ve come from 2 really amazing people. And they passed down their sense of humor and love and faith and joy to each of us. One day you’ll treasure all the weird things we do and say, and they’ll be the happiest memories of your life. Now, let’s finish coloring these Easter eggs so we can place them around the sacred Mr. Blue shrine out by the Lilac bush.”

Thanks for Reading!

Have You Seen My Zing?

One of the first things I’m gonna do after this kid pops out is come up with some zingers! I used to be so good at it! So Good!

When the kids were acting up, I’d zing them right into place.

When my husband came home pissy, I’d zing the grumpiness right outta him.

When politicians would call during breakfast asking for my vote, I’d zing them so flipping hard, they feared a front page scandal!

Now though, the baby has zapped all the zing right outta me. I’m sure I still have it, but it’s probably hiding by my feet or some other place I can’t really see any more.

Just tonight I had to tell my son 15 times to pick up his monstrous Nerf gun. This thing weighs about 50 pounds and comes with 400 sticky bullets. Which, by the way, are never actually ‘in’ the gun, but laying all over the house. He claims to not be able to find any bullets, but I can easily catch a dozen on my socks just walking from one room to another. I’m sure any one out there with a son can sympathize with me.

Anyways, it was finally bed time and so of course that means the kids are hopping around like 2 coke addicts who just chugged Red Bull from Pixie Sticks. I was frustrated and began barking orders just like my Drill Sargent Mama used to do when she was ready to rip my limbs apart. That’s when I saw that damn gun. I ran wobbled over, and since it’s too difficult to bend over and pick things up, I pointed and screamed, “AND TOMMY TAKE THIS DAMN NERF GUN TO YOUR ROOM OR…I’M…GONNA…PUT IT IN THE REFRIGERATOR!!!!”

Wow. Did I really just say that? Worst part was a tripped all over the words.

My entire family stopped what they were doing and slowly turned to look at me.  My husband was the first to crack. He starts giggling like a fucking….I don’t know…happy, giggly guy…and then the children join in. I covered my face and was laughing/crying. “Leave me alone! I’m pregnant!” I wailed like the Elephant Man. “I’m not an animal!”

My family’s pretty cool, though. They covered me with hugs and picked all the toys up. Then my husband got the kids to bed. Don’t “awwwww” just yet, ladies. My husband’s not that sweet. Cause for the rest of the week whenever I’d complain about anything; bills, laundry, the annoying kid that lives across the street, he was sure to joke, “Just don’t put them/it/him in the refrigerator!”

Oh, Yuk it up, my love! In less than 10 weeks, I’m gonna come back and zing you till you can’t see straight! Stop smiling! I didn’t mean in that way! Pervert.

Thanks for Reading!

Goodbye, Mrs. Fishy

It’s been a hard day in the Kid Kingdom. Today we lost our beloved friend, Mrs. Fishy. Some knew her as Fishy Friend. Others called her Nemo. In the 7 months we had her (not even knowing if it was in fact a ‘her’), we never could decide on an actual name. But we loved her just the same, and she will be missed.

Tommy won Mrs. Fishy at the county fair last August. I was less than thrilled. I didn’t even want him to play the game. But my husband, a fish addict, grabbed the boy before I could protest and coached him through it.  “All you have to do is get the little ball into one of those bowls with the fish and you win!” The boy could barely get a balled up pair of socks into the dirty clothes hamper. There was no way he was gonna get a tiny ball into a tiny bowl from 5 feet away.

But wouldn’t you know it, out of 5 balls, number 3 made it in. We were the proud new owners of a sad lookin’ Goldfish.

I assumed…hoped…he’d be dead by the time we got home.  But of course he wasn’t.  And later that night after we stopped by Kroger for some fish food and gave him a new home in one of my glass vases, Tommy told me it was the best night of his life.

“Aren’t you SO happy we have a fish?!?!”

“Oh, yes, Sweetie. ” I lied.

Mrs. Fishy sat on my kitchen counter day after day getting healthier and golder and happier. And eventually she even grew on me. I noticed when I’d cook dinner, she’d swim over to my side of her bowl and watch as I stirred batters or chopped veggies.

She did tricks, too. Well, as close to a trick as a Goldfish can do. Each night before bed we’d come over to feed her and she’d swim to the top of the vase and blow bubbles. Tommy always got a kick out of this. I was just happy we had a fish with a personality! I hear they’re hard to come by.

Her death came suddenly. This morning we noticed she wasn’t swimming about in her usual early morning frenzied way. My husband told Tommy, “I think your fish might be a little sick.” Tommy peaked in the bowl and said, “Nah. She’s just tired. She was up late last night.” He went off to school without another thought of it. Fishy Friend died shortly after he left. I found her at the bottom of the vase. No bubbles. Just one big desperate eye looking up at me.

Telling Tommy was difficult. To ease the pain, we had McDonald’s for lunch. While he ate his nuggets and fries, he kept telling me about how fun school was and how it was a “super great day”! It made me sick to my stomach…though that could have just been the McDonald’s. Luckily, my husband is home this week, and he’s the one who broke the news. After every last fry was gone he put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder and said, “Son, while you were at school, Fishy Friend didn’t make it.”

Tommy’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Did he die?”  I slowly shook my head yes. He then jumped up and scooted his chair to the kitchen counter. He took one quick look at his friend and then ran to the couch, tears streaming down his face.  He asked the same questions any grieving person would ask; How did this happen? Why did this happen? Why now? Will the fish game be at the Fair this year so I can win another one? It was actually very sad.

Tommy drew this picture of Fishy Friend in the toilet about to go to Heaven.

Mrs. Fishy had a water burial. Tommy delivered her to the toilet and then gave a touching prayer. “God, I know Fishy Friend is up there with you. Please remember to feed him before bed every night.” Steven flushed the toilet while I held on to Tommy’s shoulders and held back my own tears. I kinda wish I’d broken out into Amazing Grace. The acoustics in the bathroom are fantastic!

All kidding aside, Mrs. Fishy…Fishy Friend…Nemo…was a small, but positive member of our family and we will miss him/her. While we grieve, we’ll remember the happier moments with this tiny friend and take comfort in knowing he’s in that big fish tank in the sky.

Thanks for reading.

A Failure to Communicate

There’s a Jewish Proverb that says, “A mother understands what a child does not say”. I think this might apply to me. Especially since I don’t understand what my kids are saying when they do speak! Case in point, this morning. My little girl (who is 2, mind you)  comes up and announces, “I HATE MY BUTT! IT’S SALTY!”

I said nothing, assuming the face I was making said enough.

“WILL YOU TISS IT?”

Apparently she didn’t get my confused face. “You want me to kiss your butt?”

She shakes her head. “YIP! IT’S SALTY.”

“I’m not sure I want my first taste of butt to be a salty one, Sweetie. Can I blow it a kiss?”

Suddenly, she’s super irritated with me. “I HATE MY BUTT! TISS IT!” So I kissed my hand and patted her on the toosh and said, “There. Is that better?”

“YIP. NOW IT NO SALTY.” Well, thank goodness for that.

Minutes later, for some reason, it occurred to me what she may have been saying. “Laurie, did you say you hurt your butt and it was ouchy?”

“YIP” she laughs, “I HATE MY BUTT.”

Ah. I get that. It’s the universal language of women. Sometimes I hate my salty butt, too.