What About....*

Struggling with writer's block, here's a piece from last May.

Conversations with five year olds are always interesting, even when they’re repetitive.

They understand that there is give and take, but never that a specific subject matter has been exhausted. We were at McDonald’s. The circumstance of getting into and out of that particular establishment on this occasion is worth a separate treatment in the blog, but suffice it to say, I’d managed to order and get all three, the 5, 3 and 2 sitting in a booth with the baby and me on the opposite side. Our food arrived and my son took the occasion to notice the warning stickers on the entrance, NO BARE FEET, NO SHIRT NO SERVICE, and NO DOGS ALLOWED.

“Can dogs come in here?”
“No, see the sign? They don’t want fur on the French fries or the chicken nuggets.”

“Or the chocolate milk.”
“Right.”

“Can horses be in the restaurant?”
“Well, they’re a little big don’t you think?”

“What about monkeys?”
“Monkeys? Can you imagine Curious George and his pals in this place? They’d be playing with the soda machine and making a real mess.”

“I guess you’re right. What about….jaguars?”
Maybe it was the hardening of the arteries from the French fries but I was starting to lose steam on fielding these questions. “Um…they’re endangered and prefer the jungle to a fast food franchise?”

“You’re smart Mom.” The two toddlers are nodding in agreement with their brother. I sipped my diet coke. Maybe I could answer a few more questions.

“Monsters!” my daughter pipes up. The other side of the table is collapsing into giggles.
“Monsters? They’d eat up everything. They’d drink all the chocolate shakes! There’d be no fries or burgers or cookies for anyone else.”

“Oh…right. Okay…how about cats?”
“Well, if we let cats in, I think the dogs would get very jealous and then we’d have to let them in and can you imagine this place with cats and dogs inside it? What do you think would happen?”

An elderly gentleman walked by, watching this 20 questions grueling of why an establishment of this fine caliber would be so discriminatory against all God’s creatures, great, small, endangered and imaginary. He gave a little wink. “I think they should let bunnies in young man.”

“I like bunnies. They’re soft and we could catch them.” My son happily agreed. “They should serve carrots with the happy meal so we could feed the rabbits.”

Now, the manager of the restaurant had seen to it that we got to sit and have our food brought to us. I was very grateful given the number of littles I was seeking to corral. She came by at this point, “Can I get you folks anything more?”

“Yes. We want bunnies allowed to eat at McDonald's.” my son explained.
Not missing a beat and earning my eternal love, she responded, "Oh...well, they could but see, they don't have any money."

I'm glad that the world can still bend to the nonsense of a five year old boy. Now I just have to come up with an answer to his follow up question in the car after the meal, "Hey Mom, the rabbits could work for the Easter Bunny! How come you didn't think of it?"

The-thee-the-the-tha-that's all Folks!

Law and Order in the Food Court*

The following is a future conversation coming to a municipality near you.

Sitting down at the local chain establishment known for its greasy cheap abundant delicacies that have been deep fried more than once, I prepared to enter that gastronomic paradise known as fresh fried chicken. My meal was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a staff member from the chain, dressed in the red uniform, wearing secret service glasses and holding a brief case.

“You ordered the trans-fat saturated high carbohydrate and sodium basted poultry with a side of twice submerged in canola oil high starch potatoes with a whole milk sugar enhanced frozen beverage?”

“It’s on the menu, #3.” I sputtered.

“Yes Ma’am, please sign these release forms.” He said as he produced a stack of paper an inch thick and placed them in front of my meal.

“What for?”

“Exemption from liability for any current existing known or otherwise health conditions that may or may not be exacerbated by the ingestion of excessive carbohydrate and fat infused food products, resulting in but not limited to heart disease, high blood pressure, hardening of the arteries, diabetes, high cholesterol, stroke, obesity, muscle fatigue, and gout.”

I looked around for a camera or someone to shout “You’ve been punked.” But everyone else in the store was ordering, eating or simply observing. The staff of the business seemed not to notice anything.

“Is this a joke?” I started.

“No Ma’am, no joke. We here at …have started a proactive policy of targeting 10% of our customer base at random to ensure that we show due diligence in warning our patrons about the dangers of eating these particular foods which the government has deemed exceptionally hazardous to the long term well being of its citizens.”

“And I’m…”

“This noon’s recipient of the information.”

"Why me? I'm not that overweight!"

"Ma’am, if we only spoke to people who were obese, we'd be accused of physical profiling. That's against federal law."

“I see. Well, you’ve told me. Now take these forms and go away. My food’s getting cold.”

“You will not sign these release forms?”

“No! I bought the food and I’m going to eat it.”

“I see. Thank you Ma’am for your time.” He removed the first form and my drink.

“What are you doing? That’s my chocolate shake!”

“Substituting a healthy soy-based, protein enhanced sugar substitute frozen beverage, flavored with carob.” He snapped his fingers and another employee in red with sunglasses appeared with a new drink and placed it on my table.

“But I ordered a chocolate shake.”

“If you had signed the release form, it would stay Ma’am.”

“Get me the manager.”

“Certainly, sign this affidavit indicating you wanted to initiate mediation rather than accept responsibility for your poor health choices.” He pointed to the next form.

“Why?”

“It makes you responsible for all potential legal fees involved in the negotiations regarding the return of your chocolate shake.”

“Get me the manager now. I’m not signing anything.”

“Very well Ma’am, I’ll alert the management. In the meantime…” he snapped his fingers again and away went my food. The second employee in sunglasses put an apple, broiled chicken breast and salad in front of me. “Enjoy your meal Ma’am.”

“Give me back my chicken. I paid for it.” I stood up, I was mad.

“Ma’am, you may have back the entire meal on one proviso.”

I should have said “No provisos, I want to eat my food now!” But curiosity got the better of me, “What proviso?”

“Sign this form indicating a pledge enforceable by law that you will put in the obligatory 10 hours of cardio-vascular exercise necessary to erase the calorie-intake health risk represented by this meal.”

“I belong to a gym already.”

“Yes Ma’am, this makes it possible for the government to check into your gym records. You also will not be allowed to frequent another establishment of this franchise until those ten community service hours of exercise are served.”

“What?”

“Oh, and one more thing.” He puts the remaining papers back in his brief case and my cold chicken and fries and melted shake back on the table.

“What?”

“You owe an additional $4.25 for the heart healthy lunch.”

“But I didn’t eat…”

“Yes Ma’am, but federal regulations prohibit the food from being served to someone else, so it is yours to dispose of as you wish. Here is your bill. Bon Appetite.”

*Original run on November 12, 2007

My PR problem

I found this piece as I was looking through my records. It was a draft that never saw daylight. Since I've been a bit heavy lately, I thought some lightness might be in order. It is supposed to be a humor blog after all.

Back when my oldest was a mere four years old, we were visiting my husband's parents over Christmas vacation. While enjoying dinner, my son turned to me and asked out of the blue, "Do you remember that time when I got hit by a car at McDonald's?"

The clinking of silverware and audible gasps were everywhere, including from me. "What?" I stammered, "That NEVER happened." I explained firmly.

All eyes were on me as he insisted. "Yes it did. I remember." Thank goodness my husband stepped in to quash the false rumor before it hit the internet.

A few years later, family was coming into town and I had spent the week cleaning. My children, having long ago grown weary of trying to help their mother get the home "Relative clean" as versus everyday tolerable, watched with bored expressions. I did not consider their observations of my work to be a potential hazard to my reputation or at least the reputation I was attempting to cultivate as I wiped down the refrigerator and washed out the drawers.

Then, my family arrived. My daughter brought my family to the kitchen and proudly opened the ice box. "See...that tray there had green and black stuff in it but Mommy cleaned it out because you were coming."

"Ahhhhhhhhh. Why don't you come into the living room and I'll bring out some pastries and coffee?" I scrambled but the damage had been done.

A decade later, while the older children have mastered the social rules of not DELIBERATELY putting forth a poor showing when company arrives, they lack nuance.

This morning, my oldest daughter was put out because her father was doing a double run to shuttle children to school, first the oldest to the Metro by 7 a.m., then doubling back to pick up all those in tow for school. "I want to go with Dad." she humphed.

"Why?" her grandmother asked.

"Because when Mom and Dad do a double run, they always wind up talking and if they talk then we're late!" She folded her arms. "I hate being late." she added for emphasis.

"Excuse me sweetie." I felt a mild torque of annoyance at her announcement. "How many times have you been late this year?"

"Twice." She said with a smugness born of pure adolescence.

I considered the two incidents. Once was because the fish pond had nearly drained and if their father and I hadn't worked together, the fish would have died. And the other time was because she could not find her shoes. Pointing these facts out privately, she unfolded her arms but still looked annoyed at being left behind.

"Well...you won't be late today." I answered.

Sure enough, her father pulled in a few moments later and I made a point of saying, "Can't talk, you don't want the kids to be late." He nodded.

Then I went inside to wipe down the refrigerator drawers, just in case they got in an accident at McDonalds on the way to school that day.

Father's Day

My oldest son is sixteen and likes to keep on top of current events.

So when he told me that the Federal Government, in the interest of public health has deemed that all fast food commercials now must refrain from showing people actually consuming food and not mention the word "eat" as part of their advertisement, I asked why?

He told me "This parallels the restrictions currently in place regarding alcohol and cigarettes, where beers can be shown being poured, being admired, being discussed, being held and being passed around but not actually being sipped, and cigarettes which can only be shown, not smoked." He talked about how this was part of an overall campaign to "slim down America." and thus hopefully reduce long term health costs for all.

I considered the recent commercials I'd seen, where waitresses brought food and people were spooning it but not eating, the fast food where people were preparing to dig in at dinner, and the kids favorite place, which showed someone...hey wait a minute, I saw him take a bite. I asked, "When did this take place, because I know I saw the guy take a bite of the Big Mac?"

He was grinning. I'd been suckered completely. So I did the only thing I could do in such a situation, I told him to go tell his dad.

Short Order Bit and a testimonial worth 1,000,000,000 plugs

But I took my kids to McDonalds to celebrate my second son's birthday lunch.

My oldest went to secure a table. We need a big one as you might imagine, and my second oldest ushered everyone into the play room where the table was, while I ordered with my youngest strapped down in a high chair.

The youngers ran to the play ground, began taking off their shoes and going into the tubes.

An 8 year old girl comes over to the table where my son is sitting and swipes at his arm, scratching him. "HEY! We were sitting here."

The table was clear of debris. The girl and her father or father figure had been leaving.

My son --according to his sister, "I'm sorry, no one was here and we're getting ready to eat as soon as my mom comes back with the food."

Father figure "You should move because my little Marcy is more important than you are."

My son "Well, that may be true, but I have seven other siblings. I think we trump Marcy."

They left.
__________________________________

A friend who reads this blog on a consistent basis said, "After reading, I always feel like I need a nap."

Chocolate for your Brain, it cures insomnia, exhaustion and the possibility of overwork!

Things to look forward to...working on a piece concerning traditions and birthday celebrations that has nothing to do with the very important little Marcy.

Road Trip

In every family history since the beginning of time, there is a story about a well intentioned trip that had all the hallmarks of doom from the start.

The Washington Post in it’s well meaning ways creates Road Trips every weekend to places 3 hours or less away from DC, designed to give the traveler a slice of experience from the locale, highlighting the “Don’t miss whatever you do..” of the off beaten path. But there’s a catch to all of this. Sometimes, the non beaten path has been not travelled for a reason.

This voyage has been created as a precautionary tale against well meaning folks who might have otherwise entertained the notion of making a pilgrimage to Dover, Delaware for Saint Patrick’s Day festivities as suggested in this past Sunday’s Washington Post “The Source” section in future years.

First, let me make a caveat to those Delaware fans out there, we love going to the beaches there and bear no animosity whatsoever towards the “First State,” but I’d wager a Guinness, a freshly picked four leaf clover and all the winnings at Dover Downs Hotel and Casino, the locals could have come up with a better itinerary for catching the highlights of the 3.5 miles showcased of Dover, Delaware.

Getting there: I-95, straight line, 2 hours theoretically but then it’s only 20 miles to DC from my home and that takes an hour. By that type of math, anticipate 4hours with the obligatory gas/provisions stop and artery clog at the bridge.

Going there…this is a time when a DVD player would prove useful, as there isn’t so much as a single cow to point out to the children staring aimlessly out the window, or a corn field, or mountain, or windmill. There’s flat field after flat field of brown at this time of year, or possibly patchy greyish white. Ambient temperature, 40 plus a wind, slightly damp. Think Seattle spring without the chic possibility of flying salmon across a fish market, rural in an uninteresting and endless freeway kind of way. Even getting a competitive game of Alphabet going will take some doing if the powers that be rule out license plates as a source.

What to do: Well, here’s where things got interesting. The first stop on the day was the Johnson Vitrola Museum. “Get out of the car kids, it’s time to see the predecessors of the IPod.” The photo of the mostly brown room with the shiny giant Crumpet attached to the phonograph machine I am sure will bring joy and giggles to that budding spinster in your offspring. It lacks the kitchziness of the Museum of Yarn or the History of the Kazoo. The very air feels drowsy.

“Okay children, it’s time to really have some fun, so let’s head over to “The Green” at First State Heritage Park, for some four leaf clover hunting.”

“We drove three hours to go sit in a park?”

“Shut up and start searching. There’s a reward for the first finder of a four leaf!”

"What's the reward?"

"We get to get back in the warm dry car."
"I'm on it Mom!"
"Me too!"

The thing is, clovers have not quite yet come to full blossom necessarily by March 17th, at least not here. The rain and snow have managed to make the ground marsh like and cool –damp, like Ireland…so it’s an authentic hunt, not that the Irish ever hunt four leaf clovers, that’s just something Americans do…since the shamrock was actually used to teach the Trinity and a four leaf cannot be used that way. We don't find any, but one child thinks he's found one, because another kid mercifully "doctored a three leaf to split one leaf," making four.

“Great trip…where to next?”

“Oh, well, since we came here Sunday, we missed the Schartz Center for the Art’s homage to traditional Irish music, but we can go by the center and stop in Forney’s Jeweler’s because nothing says “I’m Irish” like a porcelain pig with a shamrock painted on his rump. It’s decorative and oh so festive.

"Lovely. I can think of nothing better, except perhaps, for going to the Wiccan shop, Bell Book and Candle, after all, I can’t think of any way to celebrate a Saint’s feast day better than to revel in pagan roots by purchasing a few Celtic books and deity sculptures."

“Wow…what an engaging multi-cultural experience…what’s next?”

The Parade…finally, now we’re talking! School marching bands, homegrown beauty queens and 20 floats featuring mostly local boosters including the Confederate Irish.

The thing is, the whole town is marching and the whole sideline is filled people like us, who read and took seriously, the Washington Post, damp from clover hunting, sleepy from Vitriola watching and busy proselytizing our children to prevent them from becoming junior druids.

Now that we’ve really started to enjoy ourselves, we’ll go see the mechanized potato harvester at the Delaware Agricultural Museum. It’s a kid favorite to see how Irish’s favorite food is pulled from the ground….I can see the little wee bairns dancing jigs from here at the prospect of it all.
“I…need…a drink. “
“ Me too!”

Luckily for us, there’s the Irish Mike’s Olde Towne Pub…which for this day only, is overcrowded as the 2000 people who came to see the parade and participate in all the heart pounding fun seek libation to kill the sinking feeling they’ve just blown a Sunday…

"Hey! I bought a four leaf clover at the Wiccan shop, now we’re lucky so let’s go to the Dover International Speedway or the Dover Down’s Casino."

"Sure, as soon as the 3.5 mile strip that is closed for the day because of the Parade opens up. That should be around eight this evening. We have to hit the road by six."

In the meantime, we’re going to the local McDonald’s for a green shake. Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!

Editor/Spouse: “Psst. Sherry! It’s May. Memorial Day Weekend is coming up. Why are you posting this?”

“This has been a cautionary tale as part of a public service announcement. Drive Carefully. Plan, even better. Thank you.”

The Maid of La Muncha

Whenever I feel life is just too easy, I buy a magazine.

Yesterday, in a visible sign of my need to make work for myself, I bought one of those "organization" rags.

The helpful pages tell how "you too can live in a house with other people and have a debris free existence." It looked so touchable and neat, I wanted this quieter life and felt I could have it if only I knuckled down and disciplined myself...so, I became a Knight Errant...

To Clean...the impossible Clean...
to Sort all the socks with their mates...
to fold...till the pile is nothing...
to sweep all the cobwebs away...

this is my Dream...to order this home...no matter how hopeless...

I tried the first method --Donate, Discard, Keep. It sounded promising.

Armed with a trash bag and a laundry bin, I went to the first room, resolute in my determination to sort everything in my two sons' room into one of three piles. After five minutes, it became apparent that I would need a forth pile for the clothing that belonged in another person's room, and a fifth pile for clothing that was out of season and a sixth pile for the things that my helpful toddlers kept bringing to me.

The magazine never said anything about toddlers undoing the work as you go, wearing the donations on their heads, reclaiming things from the trash, dumping the keep and jumping into it like leaves.

I felt I was playing Go fish with my kids who kept sorting back through the discard pile to find matches. Not one to give up easy, I put on the television to distract my "helpers" and started in on the 1/3 policy in the living room.

Now I get tunnel vision when I write, read, draw, watch TV or work. The world shuts away for me and I don't notice what should be obvious. I forget this is not what happens to everyone.

Helpers need snacks and thus the immediate urge to eat ten minutes after breakfast will superceed the desire to be entertained. So while Don Quixote was busy doing other things, like sorting laundry, Sancho and Dulcinea had to help themselves, which they did. Cereal and Hershey's syrup seemed like a good combo. Chocolate flavored Cherrios...they make a lovely mosaic on the floor. They even stick.

So we stopped in the living room and headed for the kitchen to address the newest distraction. That took wiping, sweeping, moping and no small amount of prayer. Then I had to clean up the artists. Bath time and new clothes, meaning more laundry. I wiped down the bathroom while they splashed and felt vaguely virtous for getting one room done while still providing appropriate loving care for my children. A mometary moment of victory for the Knight Errant.

But there remained the upstairs project I had half started. I admit, I was tired and the clock indicated it was near noon. Lunch time, the kitchen would be undone.

There was only one thing to do. Running up the stairs with my two helpers in tow, we bagged up everything we had already sorted, put everything else back into laundry baskets and called it a day. We went to celebrate at McDonalds.

And the magazine?

I put it in the recycling.

Next Saturday, You're On You're Own

“Mom, there’s nothing to do.”

“We could go to a museum.”

It doesn’t matter that they’ve been to the Air and Space Center countless times and loved every trip to the Natural Museum of History and spent hours poring over exhibits at various Civil War battle grounds, the answer remains as timeless as it is predictable.

“That’s boring.”

It puzzles me as a adult, for I know the same answer would have escaped my lips at their age every time and yet I know I loved those places with their well done dioramas, ancient texts, odd collection of buttons and tools and jewelry, I loved them, I loved them, I loved them, and so do my children.

And yet here are my own progeny fighting against what suspiciously feels like an “educational” field trip instead of a weekend treat.

Nevertheless, the gauntlet has been laid down, and I have given my marching orders. They said they were bored, so I’m going to entertain them. “Get in the car.”

Like opening a book that I tell them is good, they grudgingly pile into the van.

“Will we get lunch?”

Not wanting a direct mutiny on my hands, I agree. The kids spend the entire duration of the driving time to the museum discussing what they will eat and how much money they brought for the gift shop. “Museums are only fun if you get souvenirs.” My son explained. I smile and pretend he’s right.

Sure enough, the planes hanging from the ceiling, the uniforms behind the plastic casing and the actual rock from the moon they can touch sufficiently shock and awe even my jaded oldest into the wide-eyed-this-is-the-greatest-way-to-spend-a-Saturday-jazzed-by-everything kids that I know them to be. For an hour, all is bliss as we peruse “Women in Flight,” discuss past history of aviation and even reveal a touch of personal history, our own friend that happens to be a pilot in the armed forces.

As hunger pains rear their ugly heads, the glow of the museum fades just a touch, but the onsite Museum McDonalds cures all, even growly attitudes from an eight year old sulking that he couldn’t purchase the $89.00 Lego kit of the Space Shuttle.

Munching on french fries, the kids examine their treasures, plastic planes, stickers, a coloring book and few models and magazines. It takes considerable adult pull to convince the kids not to start assembling their planes in the restaurant.

Like any sensible adult at an education excursion, I throw out an open ended question to facilitate further insight and discussion. We adults are boringly predictable that way. “What did you like best at the museum?”

“The French fries.”
“The Lego Shuttle I couldn’t get.”

“The IMAX movie of Harry Potter Order of the Phoenix which we could go to if you bought tickets.”

“I mean,” I start breathing deeply, trying to avoid becoming annoyed, “of the things we saw.”

“Oh."

"The Shuttle.”
“The Big plane that was the Fastest in the World!”
“I still want to go on the simulation. It looked cool.”

Trying to ignore the technical answer by the eleven year old, after all, she did “see” people waiting in line for the simulation ride, I throw out a different line of thought. “Did it make you think about what you would like to do when you grow up?”

“I’m going to be a pilot when I grow up.” Says my five year old daughter brightly.
“I’m going to be an astronaut.” My son has to up the ante.
“Oh yeah, I’m going to pilot the Space Shuttle to the Space Center.” says one of his two older sisters, trying to win.

“Well, I’m going to run this museum so I can test all the planes.” says the other.

Everyone looks at her in silent envy. “No fair. You got the good job.”

Maybe next week, I’ll let them be bored.



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Cold Potty Wars

USSR has always been impishly cute, linguistically gifted, naturally sunny and caffeinated .(She never sleeps) She also wants to prove she can go toe to toe with her next older brother. Her older brother USA has staunchly refused all attempts at becoming “a big boy.” More on principle I think.

“He doesn’t want to get his beautiful potty dirty.” was the given explanation. Reeducation camps on what the intended use is for a mini-potty had thus far proved useless, until yesterday.

USSR had finished her shower and sat unprompted on said potty. USA was outraged. “That’s my potty!” he stomped into the closet to suck his thumb and sulk. The little Russian noticed his reaction and proceeded to sing a little song about going to the potty and make little “sssss” sounds. “I’m going potty Yankee boy.” she said several times.

Meanwhile, Captain America humpfed in the closet.

I happened to have some M&M’s in the freezer which I joyfully procured for my daughter. The little member of the Communist block eagerly ate them from my hand and squirmed in her seat. Suddenly, this wasn’t a game. We had the By-George-She’s Got-it-Let’s-sing-the-Rain-in-Spain-Hallelujah-chorus moment of truth. America could not ignore the physical evidence. He had been beaten and she had a fist full of chocolate to show for it.

Any guilt I might have felt for ruining his self esteem evaporated when I remembered, he turns four in a few months.

The next day, USA announced a new policy, “I’m a big boy.” and ate at the table using silverware. He dressed himself. He helped clear the dishes. “Is there anything else I can do for you Mom?” he asked rather archly.

Then the Cossack finished her breakfast and announced she would go to sit on the potty. His face darkened and the thumb sucking started up again as he marched out of the room, I suspect to hash out a rapid response.

Russia had the handle on the situation, she relieved herself properly, asked for her M&M’s and spontaneously did an end zone celebration that would have warranted a penalty for sure in NFL playoff season.

USA knew how to fight back though, he ran upstairs and called down, “I made my bed for you Mom!” I praised his hard work. Little Russia’s face darkened. She ran upstairs. “Me too Mom.”

“You don’t have a bed, you have a crib.” America crowed.
“I made my sister’s bed Mom.” She responded.

Game on.

America rolled up his sleeves and went to work. He made his brother’s bed. He brushed his teeth. He put the cap on the toothpaste. I don’t even do that.

Russia also tried to win in the proliferation approach. She lacked the resources but not the political will. She tried to give the baby a bottle. She also brought me a book and told her brother in a gloatingly superior voice for a two year old, “Turn off the television. It’s bad for you.”

Watching two super power toddlers duke it out via good behavior, the UN puzzled over how this would or could end. Being the UN, I didn’t mind if their little conflict profited me on the side.

Annoyed at being preached to by the enemy, USA went to the garage and got me a diet coke. He thought he had the ace in the hole. So did I. Then USSR brought me the M&M’s. USSR cuddled up to me and USA took off my shoes to rub my feet. It’s good to be the UN.

Tensions were high and likely to result in a full scale incident when I asked if it was potty time. USA manned up and used the big potty. Russia used the little one. America finished first and both of them got plenty of praise and chocolate. End zone dances all around. Just when it seemed like glastnos had broken out, they recognized something about the UN.

“Hey Mom, we should go to McDonalds to celebrate.” USA suggested.
USSR appeared with my purse and keys. “Happy meals?” she said with an unbearably cute grin.

I am in serious trouble Mom wise. They’re colluding.


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Spin Doctor Cycle

My children’s memories of their childhood reality won’t be helped by these blog stories. I used to worry about the mythic nature of these tales. Then I remembered, my own kids’s stories about their family life are often mythic and don’t help matters. I’m just hoping that in the end, what they remember is they laughed a lot, Mom was nuts and that they were always loved and never lonely. Reading their memoirs when they grow up should be entertaining at least.

The First Spin…damage control

In front of the inlaws, our oldest, who had suffered a broken arm when he was two, asked, “Hey Mom! Do you remember that time when I was hit by the car?” My head wheeled around so fast, I hurt my neck. “NO!” I said. “That never happened!”

“Yes it did.” He remained convinced. The grandparents were eyeing me with some concern. “It happened at a McDonald’s near our home. You were walking with me.” In his defense, he was five at the time.

“You must have dreamed it sweetie.” I explained.

Everyone relaxed when he thought about it and said “Oh yeah.”

The Second Spin…Marketing is Everything

It happened again with my daughter turned nine and her father took her out on a date. They went to that famous toy store with the giraffe and had dessert out. She came home with a stuffed collie named Luke. She thanked her father and trotted upstairs to bed with the fluffy black dog in her arms.

The next morning, her grandparents called to wish her a happy birthday and to ask if she had done anything special. “Yeah.” She said flatly. “But I didn’t get to stay up till midnight.”

“Oh? What did you do?”

“Got some food. And then we went to the store.”

“And?”

“And I got a stuffed dog.”

“I see.”

Prompting kids to give more details over the phone sounds desperate but I did it anyway. I wanted her grandparents to know what a good birthday she’d had. “Tell her what you named it.” I suggested.

“I found the dog and it was a stray. It wasn’t where it belonged so it was probably old. I named it Luke.”

As embarrassing and frustrating as both of those situations were, the children have now learned that Spin works both ways…

The Third Spin…A spoon full of Sugar or in this case, Rodgers and Hammerstein

Ten days before Christmas, I summoned the children to the living room. “Presents for you.” I said and turned on the “Presentation of the Children” from the King and I. “Line up.” My oldest clapped his hands a la Yule Brenner. They obliged.
I left the room and waited for the musical cue.

Returning to the first child, I bowed and handed him his laundry. He played along. He bowed, took the basket and marched up in tune to the music. The musical selection was sufficiently long enough to allow six baskets to be delivered in grand fashion. There were two baskets left but since it wasn’t like the two babies were going to put away their stuff anyway, I got the point across. They laughed in good spirits but I overheard my second son saying to his sister as he carried his basket up.

“For Christmas, I’m going to give her some folded socks.”

This is how great memoirs aren’t written.

Ordering Out

Going through a drive thru is rather like taking a leap of faith with my brood. Or at least, it used to be. I'd write the order as follows:

W: Big Mac, root beer
B: Ten Piece, Chocolate Shake
M: Mighty Kids Double Cheese, Chocolate Shake BOY Toy (even though she's a girl)
P: Mighty Kids Chicken Nug/BOY TOY ONLY, Chocolate Shake
F: Happy Meal Hamburger/GIRL TOY ONLY, Sprite
J: Happy Meal Cheeseburger/BOY TOY, Chocolate Milk, Apples
R: Happy Meal Hamburger, GIRL TOY, Chocolate Milk, Apples
Me: Diet Coke, resign self to eating whatever order got messed up.
Order four more hamburgers and two four pieces to cover the bases and sigh as oldest produces three dollars to buy six pies.

After writing things down and having errors, writing things down and handing it in and having errors, writing things down and having the kids change their minds, I placed an ultimatum, either cope with what comes or no more golden arches.

This quelled internal dissent at least publically, but getting people to hear the order took time. I considered running through the drive thru twice, as five seems to be the cut off at which the cashier assumes you're done. Instead, I've channeled my inner Julie Andrews.

It is fortunate for me that blogs have not yet progressed that you would hear my words in my own voice. Imagine I'm in tune and very musical.

"A flat please maestro."

They laugh and then they listen. And, I almost never get any mistakes anymore.

(Sung to the tune of twelve days of Christmas)

"For our drive up order please listen to me please

Three happy meals, 2 with hamburgers and one with just cheese.

We'd also like two chocolate milks and an apple juice for drink

and six apple pies!

One big mac meal. A ten piece too

And two Mighty Kids Meals.

One is Cheeseburger, the other chicken!

Three Medium Chocolate Shakes and One Root Beer

And for me a diet coke!

and four hamburgers and 2 chicken four piece

from the dollar menu.

And two girl and Three Boy Toys....."

My only issue is if the kids change the order.

Goodnight Everybody!