Carworthy Conversations?

For your reading pleasure, the following conversation.

Time: 6:15CST
Place: Car (where else would I be?)
Players: Some cute little four-year-old and his much more mature, post-birthday, eight-year-old brother:

Eight: Dude? How are your taste buds?
Four: MMMMOOOOMMMMM! He just asked how my taste BUTTS are.
Me: That's taste buds.
Four: Did you just say "BUTTS"?
Eight: NO! It's buDs. Not buTTs.
Four: Buds?
Me: Yes.
Four: Oh. What are taste butts?

Then the conversation took a turn down the high road:

Eight: Mom? How do women pee?

If someone had told me I'd need fifteen PhDs, ranging from anatomy to phonics to astro-physics, just to pseudo-qualify as a borderline-OK Mom, I would have cracked up laughing in my twenties.

Now? In my earlyish-forties?

It's not so funny.

Birthday Awesomeness

I will rarely plug any business or product on this blog because I just don't think you need that junk in your life, but I do have to give a GREAT BIG shout out to my flying friends at Southwest for this little bit of awesome greatness we experienced on our trip out to CA:

On our flight out, it was one little guy's eighth birthday day. We were basically spending the entire day in airports, rental car lines, and driving to hotels, so there wasn't much time for actual celebrating.

As a neurotic Mom who thrives on celebration of events, none of this was sitting right with me. We should have been throwing a party or blowing out candles or stuffing ourselves full of cakey deliciousness, not salivating over bags of peanuts that wouldn't fill up a small gnat.

So I took action. Starting with the lovely woman who gave us our boarding passes, I started telling everyone who was wearing Southwest garb or who LOOKED like they could have possibly worked for the airline at anytime in their life that it was my son's eighth birthday.

I struck gold while waiting for the ticket agent to come up that thingy that attaches the building to the plane* because the pilot decided to check the passenger load.** He was very kind when I asked if he would announce son's birthday over the speakers mid-flight. He said he be delighted to do this but that I should let the flight attendant know so his pilot brain wouldn't forget.***

The gold rush continued when we boarded the plane and the flight attendant already knew about the birthday boy and immediately whisked all three Nowell kids into the cockpit! The two younger guys were lifted into pilot's seats and the oldest took over as king of "Don't touch that". The pictures I managed to get show the crazy amount of excitement in the boy's eyes. And touchy-feely-OOPSY-hands.

About 3/4 of the way through the flight, we heard birthday wishes over the speaker system and the flight attendant presented our boy with a gift. No, not plastic pilot wings or a deck of cards. PEANUTS!!! And not just a few packages, but the big plastic bag they hoist on board to feed about half the passengers. A BIG HUGE bunch of peanuts.****

In a couple of days we are going to have a proper eighth birthday party here at the house. On New Year's Eve. With eleven boys.***** No matter how much energy I put into that celebration, I don't think I'll be able to top the "party" Southwest threw last weekend.

Southwest? You had me at "Hello".



*Technical definition eludes me here. You get my point, I hope.

**Completely full plane plus one dog. Yes, a dog. Southwest has found a way to bilk $75/one-way out of over-attached dog and cat owners who feel bad about leaving kitty/fido in the kennel WHERE THEY BELONG WHEN HUMANS GO ON VACATION.

***Apparently, multi-tasking isn't in this dude's DNA. But, if you saw the cockpit, you, like me, would get really worried about this. There are like ten-thousand buttons and levers and cup holders in there. What if he accidentally hit the "eject" button trying to announce birthday wishes and ended up parachuting into Des Moines?

****Mike was channeling the entire family when he announced "If I never see another honey-roasted peanut in my life I'll be happy."

*****Please call 911 if there isn't a post on January second.

Poor Baby

BAM. CRASH. "Dang it!"*

That's the sound of me learning I was being pushed off the top of the "Best Mom Ever" trophy I THOUGHT I had previously earned title to.

That's the sound of me after I was told, by The Babe, that "You are not the best Mom in the world" along with the cousin statement, a brief three minutes later, "You are the worst Mom in the world".

What, pray tell, did I do to deserve such fierce commentary?

I didn't order overpriced Preschool pictures.

A few weeks earlier, we had been to Target to take his birthday photo. With the Preschool pictures being taken in late September, I also was looking at a budget that was replete with school expenses. I just didn't think having yet another set of photos I'd eventually have to distribute made ANY sense.**

According to the sob story I received, Mr. Nadaphoto was the only kid in class not to get a set of pictures. I guess the rest of the kids are first-borns, come from homes with bigger budgets, or are more adored than my kid. Pity him.

Once we got home, he wanted to see his Target pictures again. When I handed him one, these same pictures he so adored upon pick-up, he pronounced them "dumb" and said "everyone is going to laugh at these". I beg to differ.

No offense intended, Jesus, but I understand*** the Preschool pictures this year were taken in front of the Jesus statue. The one that is about two stories high with hands which are disproportionately large. Mike and I wonder how this bronze beauty made it through the initial phases of planning without someone going "GEEZ. What's up with the hands on that dude?"

Somehow, big-handed Jesus in the background of my kid's picture just doesn't work for the world's worst Mom. Finding this out made me DOUBLY glad I hadn't sent through the order.

The world's most neglected, unloved, photo-deprived child would disagree, though.



*That's a cleaned up version of what I would actually say.

**Yes. You are right. You haven't received your picture yet. It should be coming with the Christmas card. If you want it earlier next time, you'll have to come to Target WITH me when I pick them up.

***With The Babe as my source, how could this be wrong?

Birthday Party Blues

So tonight I'm watching the Duggars on TV. Michelle is pregnant again and is about to add another "J" kid's name to this universe*.

And she's about to become a GRANDMOTHER. In fact, her next baby will be Aunt to the grandbaby. But they'll practically be the same age. That's creepy with a capital K.

But, really, what this got me thinking about was the number of birthdays there are to celebrate in the Duggar house. If the birthdays were somehow evenly divided between the days of the year, they'd be celebrating once every 2 weeks.

Now, I'm kinda digging that scene. Talk about taking the pressure off. That makes me want to go out and adopt a hoard of kids so I can get rid of the curse of the birthday party.

Am I the only parent in America that feels that way? I stress WAY TOO MUCH about birthdays.

I think, if I gave the boys fourteen buckets of over-full water balloons and a gob of cupcakes, they would think they died and went to Heaven. That's the LOGICAL side of me talking.

Here's the emotional, "I'm building memories for this generation and generations to come", side of me yakking: The bucket colors should not clash, the balloons must be the right weight to break just as they hit their victim (and color-coordinate, fo' sho'), and the cupcakes must be homemade, individually decorated with perfectly whipped, appropriately colored, buttercream frosting.

I know what you're thinking, "Control freak!"** You think that like it's a BAD thing.

I guess I'm really fortunate that I have boys. I get easy party requests like "swimming" or "watching a movie". I'm the one who complicates them. Or forgets the most important elements.

Like deciding it would be a good idea to throw a party the night before we MOVED? All because I felt bad that I hadn't had the party on the anniversary of the very moment he was born.

Or the time we decided to drive FOREVER to the natatorium where some schmoe of a parent didn't put a proper swim diaper on his/her baby. It was Baby Ruth city in that joint. My arsenal contained paper plates, forks, napkins, and cake. It's kinda hard to entertain pre-pubescent boys for 45 minutes with nothing but chairs and tables after you've tanked them up with sugar and they've been banned from the poo-poo pool.***

Oh, to be Michelle Duggar, if only for one month. I bet she has all the kids help bake a sheet cake, from a mix out of a box, and frosts it with a tub of pre-made frosting. They probably use candles that have been burned before. And I bet there are no birthday invitations or planned activities or anything unnecessary. And, I bet those are some of the best birthday parties in the world.

Now, there's a woman with priorities in the right place. I could learn a thing or two from here.

Maybe I'll try to gain her wisdom. That is, after this weekend's birthday party that starts at a restaurant and moves to a theater. With no back-up activity. I don't even know what kind of cake the b-day boy wants.

Chest pains? Who, ME?


*She's used all the good ones, if you ask me. And some crappy ones, too. Jedidiah got totally hosed. I just hope that kid doesn't have any learning problems or he'll never get past trying to spell his own darn name.

**Emphasis on freak. That's me.

***Lesson learned? Always have a back-up activity.

The BESTEST Brother in the World

Know what makes you feel old? No, not the sagging, creases, or belly fat. Not that your friends from high school are graduating their children next Spring. No, it's when your YOUNGER brother is turning the big 4-0.

I remember the good old days of screaming matches, name calling, and tongue-sticking-outing. The days when it was boys vs. girls, pitted against each other for days on end over some trivial little issue.

Where have those days gone? Sometimes I actually miss them.

Truly, when our biggest worry was who was going to get the last package of Little Debbie's, what in the world was there to get stressed out about?

Today, my Bro and I get to worry about our kids getting exposed to junk on You Tube, the crazy people who kidnap 11-year-old girls and lock them up for 18 years, and whether or not our children will survive this horrible generation.

But, this weekend, we'll put all those worries behind and stop for a minute to salute the passing of my Bro's youth. My sweet, shy, ATM-loving, devoted father and husband of a Bro. And, truly, the best brother a girl could ask for.

I won't buy him a $12 cane with a horn on it from Party City because that kind of thing embarrasses him. I remember his best friend's wedding, where he was appointed best man. Poor guy almost passed out with fright before going on stage. He swore off wedding gigs from that day forward. Even avoiding having to do a big wedding himself. THAT'S how hard it is for him to be in the spotlight.

If, somehow, anyone in our family ever becomes famous enough that reporters skulk around and find Bro to ask for an interview, he'll become a hermit. Cross my heart, hope to die, he will.

Truth is, for every forty words I speak, Bro speaks one. Or, maybe, more accurately, half of one. He is a man of very few words, so when he does speak, you know to listen because it is likely going to be good. He probably thinks I have diarrhea of the mouth. After all these years, I'm just thankful he still takes the time to listen to my overwhelming ability to drool words.

I'm also thankful that he has a posse of friends whom he adores and keeps in touch with. They are a great collection of guys, gathered from years in high school and college, who are dyed-in-the-wool, true-blue friends. I know he has stayed sane through all these years, and all those beers, because of them.

I'm most thankful that he married a generous, loving, out-spoken*, woman who has endured two pregnancies to bring our beloved niece and nephew to this world. They are a cohesive bond of love in action.

For my part, I know he loves me because, when I ran away from home with a gallon of milk and a box of Cheerios, Bro cried big, croccodile tears. Mom says he was hysterical. Of course, I was just beside the house, under the sailboat, in the pouring rain, eating Cheerios. But HE thought I was gone for good**. If the tables had been reversed, I would have been crying, too.

I hope he knows that I love him fiercely. We don't get on each other's nerves much anymore*** or resort to calling each other unfriendly names, so I think we've made progress. He has grown into a man any sister could be proud of. And I am.

So, here's to you, Bro. Happy 40th. If the good die young, then there's a problem, because you are GREAT.

But, you're still OLD. ;)


*She is so awesome because she has the gift of being outspoken without being a "b" with an itch. Me, on the other hand? A "b" AND an itch...

**This is a true story. I was a little bit melodramatic as a child. Some things never change.

***OK. I can only speak for myself here. I can HOPE I'm speaking for him, too.

Let Them Eat WAY-TOO-MUCH Cake

I think I just experienced the ultimate, near-perfect, most wonderful day yesterday. It was book-ended by cake.

So, this weekend, we visited my brother and his family near Houston. They have this stellar piece of property that Mike and I drool over every time we visit. They sit on about two wooded acres with a lovely house and a great pool that flows from the house via a patio with a TV, lots of chairs, and a cooler the size of Montana that can hold all sort of beverage. Just for us, it seemed, the weather fairies were out in full-force, giving us plenty of sunshine and cooler temps. Had there been mountains in the background, I would have pronounced it Heaven.

Now the reason for our visit was birthdays. Let's just say that the fertility gods shown upon our family this particular part of the month; we celebrate three birthdays in the span of 13 days at the beginning of September.

Quite correctly, then, there were THREE cakes in the house. White cake/white frosting, chocolate cake/white frosting, and yellow cake/chocolate frosting.

Having this much cake around is MommaJ nirvana. I could have lounged on the back porch with a fork and a barf bucket, all Roman-like*, and eaten all of them in Guinness World Book record time. But, I still have some modicum of decency about me.

On Saturday we enjoyed birthday festivities for brother and my Bro, with gifts, cake, ice cream, and way too many candles. I had a piece of cake the size of a pumpkin in mid-October. A pumpkin grown for it's size. That has to be transported via forklift, to the scale at the county fair, to be weighed in at slightly under 500 lbs. To say I was on a sugar-high would be the worst bit of under-exaggeration in the world.

I ate such a large piece of cake on Saturday night that I thought "That's it. I've enjoyed my cake for the weekend. Back to trying to watch what I eat." Then Sunday morning issued in, with the smell of early-morning coffee wafting through the house, beckoning me to fill my mug half-full of over-sweet, vanilla-flavored creamer and half-full of strong coffee.

The minute the spiked coffee hit my lips and that satisfying sugar met my taste buds, the devil on my right shoulder, from whom all suggestions about eating issue forth, whispered, "Au contraire, madame. You are NOT done eating cake. Turn around."

When I spotted the half-eaten beauties, I felt for them. I imagined the cakes feeling neglected when they were thrown to the back of the counter, maybe to never be touched again. I wondered how it must feel to be covered in transparent plastic, partially-naked at the edges. Well I wasn't taking any chances with the feelings of THESE cake orphans. I greedily helped myself to another pumpkin-sized slice. Then I chased the cake with eggs, so I'd feel better about my diabetes-inducing, artery-choking second slice in less than twelve hours.

For lunch? A big salad. Redemption, of sorts.

Then dinner. Holy cats. One of our bestest couple friends and their kids were celebrating their son's 11th birthday, with their extended family. There were a total of nineteen of us and food for about eighty.

Smoked chicken and brisket, baked potatoes with the fixins, homemade mac n cheese made with an entire stick of butter and at least four cheeses, grilled vegetables, crescent rolls and french bread. A virtual tour of all things grand, starchy, and carby. By the time I ate the obligatory plate of food, I was stuffed. Like a thanksgiving turkey.

Then, around rolled the cake. Marbled white and chocolate cake with white frosting.

I really shouldn't have, but I took the edge piece. In case you've never noticed, there are only four of these coveted areas on a cake. And nobody around me WANTED the one that was cut. So, I dove in with abandon. Frankly, enjoyed every last bite, with absolutely NO guilt.

In fact, I told my friend "This is the perfect day. It began with cake and ended with cake."

Little did I know, but I should have, the day would REALLY end with Tums. But, that, as they say, is another story.

And, in my spirit, I still hear the loud cry of partially-eaten cakes everywhere, beckoning me to their assistance. And so, my war cry, even after much too much of the spongy, airy, divine goodness?

VIVA LA CAKE!



*One of the funniest/grossest SNL skits, the historically inaccurate, "Vomitorium".

43

You know how some birthday years are just BLAH? Take, for instance, 14. The previous year, when you turned 13, THAT was a biggee: you became a teenager, had a big party at the skating rink with all 500 of your BESTEST friends, and instantly became, as your Mom put it* "all grown up." What's left for 14???

So, as your 14th birthday creeps closer**, you start to hear comments like "Gee, Marge***, that sure was an EXPENSIVE party we threw last year!" or "I hear COOL teenagers all around America are having parties at home with their Dads as DJs!"****. That's when you know it's a "no-count" birthday.

That's pretty much what I'm feeling about 43. I'm not hatin' on this birthday or anything, it's just a "no-count"-er. Here are a few reasons why:

1. If Mike planned a big party, I'd be completely exhausted by it. I still love the idea of a few dozen people getting together, but, these days, I'd have to take a nap before I even THOUGHT about who to invite.

2. Cake. Glorious cake. Plus, leftover cake. I dream about good cake, but my thighs really can't handle the thought. They'd burst out in cottage cheese patterns for the next twenty years after all that sugar. Really, I'm better off with one of those cute, faddish, demi-desserts at a chain restaurant. You know them--the ones in the shot-glasses? For me, they are a generous bite. And only cause a slight thigh dimple.

3. I truly don't have any good gift ideas. IS THAT MESSED UP OR WHAT? I thought you had to be in your Polident years to not have a behemoth list hidden in a side pocket of your purse. But, I'm completely tapped. My friend asked me for ideas and I came up with one: a hammock.***** Yeah, I know, LAME. I'm 43, what can I say?

4. For the next 9 months and 8 days, I will officially be 4 years older than Mike again. As in, "Hey, Jill!" (ha, ha) "Do you know what grade I was in when you were a SENIOR in High School?" Torture, I tell you, torture.

Now, on Sunday, I'm going to violate every one of these four reasons for not getting excited, because that's what I do on my birthday (or anybody else's, for that matter.) I'm going to remind Mike that he was a lowly 8th grader when I was a Senior and that, darn, is he lucky that I'm enough of a COUGAR to prowl after him. I'm going to eat cake. LOTS of it.****** And, then, hopefully, I'm going to take a nap in my new hammock, and dream of what adventures we'll go on when I turn 44, after the exhausting party with 500 of my BESTEST friends.

Happy Birthday, me!!!



*With a tear in her eye.

**The date, stealthy circled on the family calendar, in red Sharpie. By YOU.

***Nobody I know has a Mom named Marge--save Bart Simpson--so I figured this was an
ultra-safe moniker.

****Hysterically funny examples for illustration only. Do not resemble comments made by my parents, Mike's parents, or any of our friend's parents. EVER.

*****To nap in whilst I produce a list for next year's non-party. 44--blah.

******Followed by gallons of water and nothing but fish for food, the proper sacrifice to quell angry, spongy thighs.