For the Love of Boys

I just love being around little boys.

They are full of comments that make your heart sing like "Will you explode if you have to fart and you don't?"

They are afforded a large, wide-open space and a piece of flesh that is easily aimed, yet their urine manages to hit the conveniently-placed target on the back of the toilet, otherwise known to women as the "lid" and, sometimes if we are lucky, the "seat".

My new favorite "Aren't boys just KEEN?" thought came today in the car.

It was just me and The Babe. Running carpool.* It was 2pm+ and I hadn't eaten. And, further, I'm a sucker for a pout and a request for a carfait**, so we ran through the Mickey D's drive-thru.*** I order a cheeseburger for myself and another for The Babe. And the coveted parfait.

Between the span of BeltLine/75 and Preston/635, probably a mere eight minutes in bad traffic, the boy had wolfed everything down. Then he started force-belching.

You know the kind, if you had a brother. It sounds chunky. Like something that was supposed to be in your stomach crawled back up and made this weird sound.

Not a petite little burp like you might hear issue from a sweet, four-foot-three Grandmother. No, this series of belches rattled the car interior. I think it took out one of the car speakers in the process.

I, as politely, as I could muster, told him to excuse himself and to stop trying to burp.

And he said "MOM. I can't help it. This is the way God made me."

Wow. Talk about putting the brakes on parental-correcting-of-bad-behavior. The God card trumps an Ace any old day of the week. And my four-year-old just threw it on the table. The nerve!

I was rendered speechless.**** He's right. The human body IS made to burp. In some cultures, this is even considered a polite response to a wonderfully-prepared and presented meal.

But, dadgum, son. We live in America. Home of people who have all sorts of bad manners. But burping? It's still considered right up there with farting. And we won't even go into THAT discussion today.

But, at the end of the day, after considering the beauty of belching and pre-moistened towelettes that make bathroom duty a breeze, I realized that I still think boys are the bee's knees.

And I wouldn't trade any one of mine for any one of yours. Even on the days that I catch a whiff of road kill and see one of the boys laughing hysterically.

While sitting atop his brother's head and force-farting.



*Yes. It got old week three. Thanks for asking.

**The Babe has a way with words. The fruit and yogurt PARFAIT, in case you aren't tracking here. I guess, since we always eat these in the car, I should give him at least one point for creativity.

***Those of us with English on the brain wonder why the Queen's English wasn't employed in properly naming this the "drive THROUGH"? Guess they'd feel obligated to serve high-tea if they did that?

****Probably by God, who reads my mind and says "DUMB. You will be dumb for the next 5.2 seconds until you have something worth saying."

Sugar

With all the cancer going on around me lately, I've decided to try to really rein in the processed sugar I'm exposing my body to. From what I read, cancer really likes to gobble up the white stuff and use it for its evil purposes. And I'm really into not allowing evil to take up residence in this 5 foot 3.5 inch frame.

So, I started a couple of weeks ago by ixnaying the sugar in my Route 44 unsweetened tea from Sonic. This has been my cheap, carpool-endurance enhancing, thirst-quenching routine a couple of days a week since school started back.

Problem is, I am using two packs of sugar every time I get a drink. So, this week I decided to switch to sweetener instead. Saves me 32 calories, exposure to processed cane, and the worry. BUT. Now I have another problem: am I going to become like those poor, abused rats in experimental labs across the world that develop saccharin tumors?

ARGH.

Another sugar-enhanced drink in my life that I've said "arrivederci" to is Coke. I haven't enjoyed one since January 1, thus saving me the 39 grams of sugar in 12 ounces. However, looking at the Coconut Creme creamer* I use in my coffee, I discovered each tablespoon contains 5 grams of sugar.

Now, I'm no Einstein when it comes to math, but my world started spinning when I looked at this number. Then, the geek in me had to do an equation.

1 fluid ounce = 2 tablespoons. Applying a very lame version of Algebra, I determined that 12 fluid ounces = 24 tablespoons. And 24 tablespoons times 5 grams equals a whopping 120 grams of sugar!

So if I drank the equavalent of a can of Coke in creamer alone, I'd get three TIMES the amount of sugar.

Uh oh. That can't be good.

Considering, in every place but really nice restaurants who spend thousands of dollars annually on superior coffee beans, I need creamer to offset the taste of coffee, this is a problem.

Now I am on the hunt for a good replacement creamer.

I swear, if I discover one more product that contains processed cane sugar that I really love and have to figure out a replacement for, I might just write an angry note to the sugarcane producers of the world.

The bigger problem there? The largest producer of sugarcane is Brazil.

Anybody in to interpreting from Engligh to Porteguese?


*Which I got hooked on when my coffee-loving buddy poured me a tall glass of ground, steeped beans with whipped creme and green/red sprinkles on it. Loved BOTH pours, LR!!!

A Recent Exchange

So here's the ride home with The Babe from Preschool...

Me: "How was your day?"
TB: "Good."
Me: "What did you do?"*
TB: "Nothing."
Me: "Really? Didn't you do SOMETHING?"
TB: "We didn't do ANYTHING."
Me: "NOTHING at all?"
TB: "Nope."
Me: "So you mean to tell me you got there and sat around the classroom and just stared at all the other kids all morning long?"
TB: "MOOMMMM. No. We talked."
Me: "About...."
TB: "Nothing."
Me: "So you sat around, said nothing and didn't talk about anything?"***
TB: "We talked about stuff."
Me: "Did you talk about letters or numbers or the calendar?"
TB: "No. The weather."****
Me: "What did you decide about the weather?"
TB: "The snowman had to wear his coat because it was cold outside."
Me: "Well that was smart."*****
TB: "Yeah. Oh. And we didn't go to the playground."
Me: "What did you do instead?"
TB: "Nothing."

Me (thinking): "Didn't this freakin' conversation START with the word 'nothing'? And, if that's the case, maybe I should just let this go."

But, apparently the second NOTHING in a conversation with a four-year-old is the magical key that unlocks their little tongues because for the next FIFTEEN MINUTES I hear: "BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH."

All the sudden he's a fountain of information! It's like the last rock holding Hoover Dam together suddently burst from its position and the whole dang thing started spewing. That was my child. Spewing. On and on. About Legos and Star Wars and a friend from Preschool.

Which got me wondering "If the key to turn on is two 'nothings', where's the magic off switch?"

I still haven't figured that one out. I figure further that it's tied up in someting about nothing.

Or something like that.


*Yes, I should know better than to ask this lame question, especially after three kids. And, doubly especially, because they are all boys.

**Does this comment stink like bait or what? It's waht I would expect to smell if I boarded a boat looking to caputre a great white shark and they stuck my head in the chum bucket.

***Ten points if you can guess "who's on first?"

****HOW LAME IS THAT? Really. At four you can't come up with anything better to talk about than the stinkin' weather? GEEZ. At your age, kid, we had long conversations about Barbie and Ken getting married and how cute puppies and kitties are and how Santa was bringing the Barbie house. The weather.....?

*****All logic aside, we'd hate to have the SNOWMAN from Dallas get too cold because he didn't wear his coat.

Bribery in Hell

"First, he whacked me, like five times with his stinky gym bag while I was trying to tie my shoe" This is coming from middle son, with the beginnings of stinging tears in his eyes. "Then, he wouldn't quit, and he said he'd tell if I didn't give him a dollar. HE TRIED TO BRIBE ME!"

I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out WHAT in the conversation was bribery material. The rest of the story, as they say, came from my oldest.

"Yes, I whacked him with the gym bag. I already said I was sorry for that. But, he said I should be in Hell."

Yet, my oldest left out the crucial bit of information that he told his brother, for a measly dollar, he could acquire a "Get out of Jail Free" card and have his little exorcism-like comment purged from memory.

If this were a headline in the Dallas Morning News, it would say "Brother whacks sibling with gym bag and is sentenced to Hell. Bribery charges against whacker being considered."

I quote Mike on this "Well, at least he didn't say he should GO to Hell."

We Nowells are quite adept at finding the silver lining in every stinkin' cloud.


Editor's note: Both boys asked the other for forgiveness and, begrudgingly, hugged each other. By the time carpool arrived, they were laughing again.

Of Course You're Right

One of my favorite lines, in any movie, EVER is Carrie Fisher's "You're right. You're right. I know you're right."*

Of course, her character, Marie, continues to say this OVER and OVER again, never heeding the advice that will infinitely improve her life.

Isn't life just like that, though? It's a continuum of KNOWING instinctively what we SHOULD do then doing what we know we SHOULDN'T do. Then, regretting our decision, and turning around and doing the right thing.

I'm constantly on wee ones around here to get it right the first time. Cripe--if they could recapture the time they spent re-brushing their teeth** or returning to their rooms to make their beds *again*, they would have enough time to watch all six episodes of Star Wars in 1/60th motion, with plenty of potty and snack breaks.

The big kids in this house aren't without their own issues. On point: if diabetes was actually directly in proportion to the amount of sugar a human body consumed, I'd have been diagnosed when I was two. I can't remember a time in my life when I wasn't looking for the white stuff***.

The frequency of my sugar cravings actually astounds even me. You'd think I'd know better than to heed the cravings. I KNOW, from plenty of experience, that having a big slice of cake after lunch is directly related to a 2pm slump**** AND the cottage cheese that has taken up residence on my thighs and backside. I also know, from experience, that when I give up sugar, I feel 1000% times better. Yet, back I go, again and again.

I guess it's all about the journey, though. We all have to learn life's lessons. Some of us are just really.slow.learners.

And of myself I say "You're right. I know you're right."




*From one of the bestest movies of all times "When Harry Met Sally".

**A constant battle for us. They are not at all moved by the "sugar bugs" that are attacking their teeth because they eat so little sugar. Our oral hygiene has been foiled by a good diet.

***Thank goodness I never graduated to "the other white stuff". It's not exactly as innocent as "the other white meat".

****The need for a nap of monumental proportions, more appropriately. Problem is, this is the exact same time carpool starts. OOPS.

Stupid Dog

What do you get when you decide your dogs make good carpool buddies?

Poo. On the back floor mat. And lots of sad, droopy eyes, and no-tail wagging from the little guy who made the doggie deposit.

I swear. If Doug weren't so stinkin' cute and sweet, I'd have had him driven back to where we first met him.*

In fact, it crossed my mind for the first time today that, maybe, the reason he ended up in the hoosegow to begin with was his penchant for pooping and peeing places where even toddlers know are off limits.

In every other area of life, he is a perfect gentledog. But, at this? He.Really.Sucks.

I guess it's time we try leash training for him. He does get really excited everytime he sees "big blue", so maybe we'll just work that angle for awhile.

Unless someone can educate me on Kohler-potty-training a dog.

As long as he doesn't pee on the seat or use all my toilet paper without refilling it, I'll be good.



*Notice I didn't say I'd drive him. Because it would just kill me to take him on this journey and have him wag his tail at me and look up with those big eyes like "Are we at the doggie park yet?"

Crime Fighting, Momma Style

I had to call "311" today because the signal light on the school zone sign was out and people were flying through the area, talking on cell phones, generally making a hazard out of a 20mph swath of concrete. And, most importantly, I was having a hard time making a right out of the parking lot to get home*.

Yes, I'm the kind of person who reports these things. I also call 911 on a fairly regular basis. I kind of feel compelled to report such things as**:

1. Motorcyclists who go down the Bush 80+mph doing wheelies. Also, the same type of idiot on Central Expressway.
2. Two kids in a Mercedes, in the left turn lane about to get on the Tollway, who are smoking weed***.
3. Men in pick-up trucks who are drinking beer at 10am, throwing cans out of the windows of the vehicle in an attempt to disguise the fact that they are stinkin' drunk, and bouncing off the backs of other cars.

Yeah, somehow, I manage to be "there" just in the nick of time. Like some kind of pudgy superhero. Without a cape. And no ability to fly.

Back in my elementary, Junior High or High Schools days, this would have been labeled telling, tattling, narking, snitching, or squealing. Today, it has become my "civic duty".

In fact, when I call 911, I expect the conversation to go something like this:

Operator: "911. What's your emergency? Oh, HI, Mrs. Nowell!"
Me: "Hey! How are you? Is this Tabitha?"
Operator: "No. It's Laverne. What's shakin'?"
Me: "Well, there's another tire in the road on 635. Fourth time this week."
Operator: "Geez. It's amazing that you are the ONLY ONE to call these things in. Do you have some sort of super power?"
Me: "No. Just a misplaced sense of duty and a lot of time in the car due to carpooling."
Operator: "I feel your pain. Crossroads?"
Me: "Preston and 635. Northbound side, going West. How are the kids?"
Operator: "Great. Harley just went to obedience school and he's a new dog. Barney is as rude as ever."
Me: "Give Harley a biscuit for me! What a sweet little dog."
Operator: "Anything else I can do for you?"
Me: "Naw. I'm sure I'll be calling again soon (uncomfortable laugh.)"
Operator: "You know we're here FOR YOU!"
Me: "Thanks. Have a great day."

Instead, it goes like

Operator: "911. What's your emergency?"
Me: "I think there's a drunk ahead of us."
Operator: "How can you tell?"
Me: "Every five feet he's weaving from one shoulder to the other and going 30mph in a 60."
Operator: "How long has he been doing this?"
Me: "Forty miles, since Tuscaloosa."
Operator: "HMM. Do you think he just dropped something on the floorboard?"
Me (covering the mouthpiece so I don't chortle in her ear): "UM. No. I think he's wasted."
Operator: "What's your location?"
Me: "I-10 and Smith Road. Can you send a police officer? I'm really concerned he's going to hit someone."
Operator: "Ma'am. Simmer down. The police are busy tending to other "real" emergencies right now****. We'll get one out asap."
Me: "So, in the meantime, should we try to pass this guy or continue the drive from Hades behind him. That is, us and the 500 cars bottled up behind us?"
Operator (slightly annoyed): "Ma'am. I can't tell you how to drive."
Me (using the best sarcasm I can muster): "OK, fine. Thanks for your help."
Operator (no clue I'm being sarcastic): "No problem. Thanks for calling 911"

Now, I'm sure there ARE people who call in dead squirrels in the middle of the street. Not me. I make sure this is a real life or potential death type of situation.

The true solution, of course, is to take up a career in law enforcement. The biggest problem is that I guarantee the belt o' weapons would absolutely make my hips look at least 10" bigger than they really are. Plus, I hate polyester. And, hat head? Really. Not happening.

Word to the police departments of the world: if you want me on your force (and who wouldn't?), PLEASE consult a cotton-producing institution of fashion and have them get working. I'm sure the weapons could go across my chest, all Girl Scout sash-like, and somehow act as a bra at the same time. And let's just can the hats and replace them with tiaras. The female officers will feel not only empowered but also FABULOUS.

Since I figure this has a bat's chance of actually happening, I guess I'll just stick to my cell phone, crime-fighting ways.

So, 911 operators, when you see my name pop up, please take note. I'm trying to collar the real criminals and idiots of this world, not just blow smoke to hear the sound of my own voice.

Really.


*If it becomes an inconvenience to me, I take action.

**Yes, every one of these things actually happened.

***How did I know? OOHH, that smell....

****Donut runs? Cleaning their patrol cars? What?

Carpool Manners

Dear Lady-ahead-of-me-in-the-carpool-line-who-isn't-aware-that-the-fourteen-cars-ahead-of-you-have-moved-and-you-are-blocking-the-rest-of-us-from-moving-forward,

There is this little law on the books that says, "when you are in a school zone, you can't talk on a hand-held cell phone." Apparently you are related to the person who thought it was proper to bring her "dog in a bag" to school earlier last week, because it seems the rules don't apply to you, either.

Normally, I wouldn't even think to mention this, but you are blocking my sorry butt and I am late*. Thus, you make me, and everyone behind me, later. And this just has the effect of pissing off the teachers who put up with our children all day long. God Bless them. The teachers, I mean. And the children, too. But, mostly the teachers who put up with the children.

I knew it was bad when the division secretary thought it appropriate to point out, via email to the ENTIRE SCHOOL, that we have "work to do on carpool--don't we?". In case you don't speak satire, I'll translate: THAT WAS SARCASM with a capital S. She was trying to be nice, but the sassy side of her slipped out with the "don't we" comment. In my opinion, it's BAD when the issue reaches the secretary and even SHE is hacked off about it.

Should this unfortunate incident EVER occur again, the bumper sticker slogan "hang up and drive" will be tattooed to your forehead by whomever you are blocking. I'll gladly pay for this service, but I'm sure there will be overwhelming support for this action and I'll be able to raise "ink" funds from the entire carpool queue.

Why a tattoo, you may wonder? Because I don't trust this won't happen again. And when someone behind you lays on the horn, you'll be forced to look in the rear view mirror and be reminded
a. you are on the phone, AGAIN
b. you need to hang-up, NOW
c. your gas guzzler needs to move FORWARD

Future warnings will be in ink. Permanent ink. In a shade that doesn't match your complexion.

Thank you for your cooperation,
Cranky Mom and all the other parents you blocked yesterday

*As usual.