My Mom Rocks

I love my Mom.

Not only did she watch my kids for me so I was able to go on a mini vacation...

...but she also allows her grandkids to decorate her face like this:





They thought it was hilarious.

I probably wouldn't have let them put stickers on my face. I'd have been like, "Hello, get some paper and put the stickers on that."

But my Mom was all, "Sure, decorate my face to your heart's content!"

My Mom also teaches my kids about plants and flowers.

I can't plant things for the life of me. I've tried and many things have died. I swear that flowers move away from me when I walk past them. It's like they can sense that I am a PLANTKILLER.







Tommy is watering the one plant we do have. I've kept it alive for two years and I have to say, I'm shocked.

It's probably because that plant is hard to kill. Mom promised me this when she bought it. I looked at it nervously and reminded her that plants do not fare well with me.

"Don't worry. This plant is hard to kill," she assured me.

The plant started growing sideways right before my Mom got here.

I thought I had killed it.

Sometimes I would forget to water the thing so I tried to make up for that by dumping a lot of water on it.

Water spilled from the bottom of the potter.

Then when I explained the situation to Mom she told me that the plant was SUPPOSED to grow sideways and that I shouldn't overwater it.

Oh.

I am just not a plant person.

Thank goodness my mother is. She has taught my kids a lot.

My Mom also gets down on the floor and plays with her grandchildren. I do this sometimes and you have to be TOUGH in order to take two rough kids who don't know their own strength. Tommy likes to barrel right into your gut and Natalie will fling herself on your back.



Here's a tip: NEVER expose your back to Natalie at her level. If you do, she'll jump on it.

I learned this the hard way when I was on my hands and knees picking up the living room. Suddenly I was knocked over by her tiny frame and she had her arms wrapped around my neck in a death grip.

"HORSIE!" she cooed. "HORSIE!"

For a two year old, she is surprisingly strong. I tried to sit up and Natalie remained hanging from my neck.

"HORSIE!" she screeched into my ear.

"Darling. You're choking Mommy," I managed to croak out.

I had to bribe her with chocolate to get her to let go.

I gasped out, "Chocolate," and Natalie dropped to the floor and went, "Where?"

She takes after me.



Doesn't my Mom look exhausted?

But even when she's tired, she still will happily play with her grandkids.

They were sad to see her go.

Mom left last week and we miss her. I always get a hollow feeling in my heart when she has to go.

But the good news is that I will see her again in June.

And that's also when I'll see my husband again.

---------

I would also like to thank Tasha again for the hilarious book. She did a giveaway awhile back and I won.

Usually when I win a giveaway I post about it as soon as I get the prize.

The trip to the Mall of America has put me behind but I still wanted to post a thank you.

This is what I won:



The book is SO funny. It has a lot of amusing signs.

This was one of my favorites:



It reminded me of the Do Not Feed The Animal signs that are posted at the zoo. I started to picture Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt and Mel Gibson all caged up and then I couldn't stop laughing because I'm just immature like that.

So thank you for the laughs, Tasha!

Hi. I'm a Wimp.

Okay fine.

I admit it.

I’m a total wimp when it comes to roller coasters. It’s just, they’re so high! And they look dangerous. It’s a fear of mine that my safety bar will flip up the second the coaster heads for the first loop and I’ll fall to my death. I’ve read about it happening before. I know it’s rare but the bottom line is that IT HAS HAPPENED.

Some coasters look like they’re about to collapse at any second. It’s not normal for them to creak, is it?

I’m also deathly afraid of heights so whenever I go on a high ride I shut my eyes. I’m told that this doesn’t make it as fun but I don’t care. If I look down, I panic.

I practically go into convulsions when I see people flinging their arms in the air while on a high coaster. Do they have that much faith in their safety bars? I could never lift my arms up. Mine are always clenched around me in fear.

I can usually be coerced into going on most rides. I don’t want to be known as the boring friend, after all. Some rides, however, I refuse to budge on. I put my foot down on the Tower of Terror ride at the Disney MGM studios. There was just no way I was going to go on that. I mean, they OPEN the doors so you can look out and see how high you are! If I saw that I’d burst into tears. And the second the ride dropped I would emit a scream so loud that it would render all the other people on the ride deaf for a few hours.

I also curse on the scary rides.

I can’t help it. I sometimes say that I have Scary Ride Tourette Syndrome because the second the coaster goes down the first drop, I shout a string of words that would probably make Andrew Dice Clay blush.

Why am I talking about this?

Because Jennifer and I went on all the rides that the Mall of America had to offer. I was a little petrified over the Spongebob Roller Coaster. I felt foolish being so frightened because small children were clamoring to get on the ride. But me? My knees were starting to shake and I began to feel weak when I saw that the coaster went straight up and then straight down.

“I just....maybe not this one...” I told Jennifer.

Jennifer wasn’t having it.

“We’re going,” she said firmly.

I watched as a little girl rushed past us to get onto the ride. She looked to be around seven.

If a SEVEN-year-old can go on a roller coaster, then I certainly could.

Right?

If I can GIVE BIRTH (twice) then I can certainly go on the ride.

Right?

My heart was starting to thump nervously as we climbed into the roller coaster car. It was designed to look like a Krabby Patty. I quickly pulled the safety harness down on me. It’s also my fear that the ride will suddenly shoot forward the second I sit down. Then I asked the ride operator to make sure that the bar was firmly over me.

“I will. I promise,” she assured me.

I think it amused her that I was so afraid.

I was also worried because TEENAGERS were the ride operators.

Teenagers! You know, the people who text while driving? The people who think that walking around with their boxers showing is COOL?

How was I supposed to entrust them with my life?

After my safety bar was checked the ride operator asked if I was ready.

"I guess," I said uneasily.

And then the ride sprang forward. I immediately squished my eyes shut. The ride climbed up and up and up.

Then it plunged right down.

"HOLY #*(&@$*(& MOTHER OF *#&&@& SONOFA #*#(@*(#(#*!"

The expletives just poured from my mouth.

Thank goodness we had the car to ourselves. Otherwise I surely would have ruined a child's innocence or something. Then they'd have gone home and said something like,

"Hi Mom! F***!"

When the ride was over I was panting in my seat. The teenaged operator smirked and asked me how it was as she helped me up.

"It was fun," I lied.

Okay, so it wasn't a TOTAL lie. It WAS fun.

But it also scared the mess out of me.

This probably makes me a wimp but I don't care.

We went on a bunch of other rides.





I cursed and cursed.

Our final ride was the log ride. We saved that for last because there was a chance that we might get wet when the log dove into the water.

Log rides make me nervous because there are no safety bars.

You're supposed to grip the sides of your log and that just does not seem safe to me.

I always feel like I'm going to fling right out of it.

This ride had two drops. When we went down the first one I shouted words that made me sound totally unladylike.

I assumed that was the only drop.

But no.

The log suddenly started to CLIMB again.

This time higher.

"I thought that drop was it," I told Jennifer, who was sitting in front of me.

"No. We have one more," she explained, her voice laced with excitement.

Drops don't scare Jennifer.

Before I knew it, we were falling at what seemed like to me as an unsafe rate.

I gripped the sides with all my might and prayed that I wasn't about to be ejected from the ride.

Oh, and I cursed and cursed.

When that was over we went to check out the ride pictures just to see if it captured anything thrilling.

It did.

When our photo popped up it showed a delighted Jennifer and...

well...



...a terrified me.

A Trip to the Aquarium

Did you know that the Mall of America has an aquarium?

Well, it does.

So Jennifer and I decided to check it out.

After we got our tickets, we walked into this room that was made to look like a forest.

I got the feeling that we were being watched and sure enough, we were.

By these guys:



Their expressions remind me of my own when I'm desperate for chocolate.

This guy freaked me out:



I had calmly rounded the corner and there he was. I was about to swing my purse at him and emit a Zena Warrior Princess-like roar and then I realized, duh, he's fake. I've probably been watching too many episodes of Lost. I now feel like there are Others lurking behind trees or bushes whenever I enter a wooded area.



This guy looked like he was mocking me. Look, I know my hair is scary but you don't have to laugh. It's rude.



This guy clearly did not like me. I think he was sick of being called Jaws. He was probably all, "Dude, my name is NOT Jaws. It's Brian."



Thank goodness for the glass. Otherwise I would have surely been shark food.



As we continued our tour, Jennifer picked up a new boyfriend. He's handsome, no?



I'm starting to wish that my husband were a lined seahorse. I told him so on the phone. I wistfully said, "It would be lovely if you were a lined seahorse," and he went, "EXCUSE ME?"

Though if he were the one that got pregnant it would be awful. I mean, the man whines and moans when he has the sniffles. What would he be like with swollen feet and contractions? Yikes.



We found gold! Hurray! I can pay off the Honda Insight! But no...it was fake, of course. And glued to the bottom of the pit. Dang. It's not nice to tease.



Oh noes! That mean shark broke free and ate Jennifer!

The Glamour Shots Experience

Jennifer and I did Glamour Shots while we were at the Mall of America. I had done them a few years before and actually got some good photographs from the process. See, I don’t photograph well. Apparently I need makeup caked on my face and half a can of hair spray in my hair in order to look appealing on film.

It’s just how it goes and I’ve accepted that.

So Jennifer and I get to Glamour Shots and we’re given papers to fill out. The two women who were going to be doing our makeup kept shooting perplexed expressions in our direction. I was beginning to think that my fly was undone again. I mean, it’s happened before. I surreptitiously checked my fly and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw that it was up. But then I worried that there was something stuck on my teeth. Was that what the women were gaping at? I ran my tongue along my teeth and didn’t feel anything. I was about to lean over to Jennifer and ask if I smelled or something but then one of the makeup ladies spoke.

“How old are you?” she demanded. She was Latino and I’ve heard Latinos are quite blunt. Maybe it’s just because I watch Desperate Housewives and I’m used to the Latino character Gabby mouthing off.

I get this question a lot. Jennifer does too.

“I’m 26 and she’s 25,” I said, gesturing to Jennifer who was busy filling out the paperwork.

The Latino woman didn’t look like she believed me at first.

“You’re kidding?” she said, her perfectly shaped eyebrows disappearing behind her bangs.

Then the other makeup lady chimed in.

“I was wondering where your mothers were!” she chirped.

It was on the tip of my tongue to say something like, “You caught us! We’re high schoolers. We’re totally ditching school and our first stop was Glamour Shots.”

But see, that’s sarcastic and rude. And these ladies were in charge of my makeup. If I pissed them off they could make me look like Bozo the Clown. Or, you know, a streetwalker.

So I just gave them a friendly smile and said something like, “We’re in our twenties.”

After the paperwork was finished we were led to the makeup chairs. The Latino woman was in charge of my makeup. She stared at me for a full minute. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable and squirmed a little on my chair. It makes me nervous to be stared at. I was about to say something cheesy like, “Please stop looking at my zits!” but then she spoke.

“You have nice eyes,” the Latino said. She continued to gaze at me sharply.

“Oh,” I answered. “Thank you.” I gestured to all the makeup she had laid out in front of her. “You seem to have a lovely collection here….” I trailed off. I just wanted her to STOP LOOKING AT ME.

“What kind of makeup do you like?” she inquired. (Still staring.)

I shrugged. “I don’t wear a lot at home. Just, you know, some foundation and some blush. I attempt eyeliner but usually fail horribly.” I gave a nervous laugh. The makeup lady didn’t even flinch. She just stared and stared and stared. There was another brief silence and I was tempted to slide off the chair and say, “You know what? Forget this. You’re totally creeping me out.”

But then the lady suddenly clapped her hands and I jumped in my chair.

“Did I scare you?” she wondered, rubbing my shoulder.

No lady. I just leaped out of my skin for the fun of it.

But to her I just went, “I’m okay. I scare easily.”

“I know what I’m going to do,” the lady told me seriously. She started rummaging through her makeup and suddenly she was putting stuff around my eyes. A few minutes later she instructed me to close my eyes because she was going to spray foundation on my face.

“Like the celebrities. The celebrities get this spray. Isn’t that exciting?” she gushed, getting the tiny silver machine that was sitting on the counter ready.

Um. I guess if you find getting liquid sprayed on your face exciting. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to breathe when it was being splashed on my face. So I just held my breath as I was sprayed and then I realized, crap, I need to BREATHE but then I was paranoid that the foundation would get into my lungs, I’d get sick and then die and wouldn’t that stink if I perished because I inhaled foundation?

Right when I was about to pass out from lack of oxygen, the lady finished.

Phew.

You never appreciate breathing until you take a brief break from it.

“Eyes again,” the lady muttered and started rubbing more stuff on them. Then she practically poked my eye out with the mascara.

“Look down,” she instructed. “DOWN!” she shrieked when I accidentally looked up.

I’m sorry. I panicked. When you see a POINT coming at you, you lose all sense of direction.

I feel like my eyes were totally abused. Because she kept adding mascara to them and I was about to say something like, “I’d rather not look like Tammy Faye Baker (may she rest in peace) if that’s okay with you…”

But then she announced that she was done.

Just like that.

Oh.

“Let’s go take some pictures,” she said and led me into the back.

There was a photographer waiting. She introduced herself and instructed me where to stand.

“I’m taking off my glasses so I can’t quite see what you’re doing,” I explained as I headed for the backdrop.

The photographer would tell me how to pose and I’d be squinting at her in confusion, cursing my poor eyesight and eventually having to admit that it looked like she was just doing jumping jacks from my perspective.

So the photographer would have to stand two inches from me and go, “No..like THIS!” and she’d twist herself into a pose.

Oh. Right.

Then my Latino makeup artist stood and watched because she’d be in charge of fixing my hair if it messed up. And my hair messed up a lot because it hates me. So the photographer would be about to snap a picture and the makeup artist would suddenly shriek,

“STOP! Her HAIR!”

Seriously. I nearly had a heart attack. My poor nerves.

Then my hair would get fixed and I’d be told to smile….BIGGER SMILES!....is that really a big smile?

“I don’t want to look like a possessed clown,” I said, my lips pulled up as high as they could possibly go.

“You don’t. You look CUTTEE!” the photographer cooed.

Oh fantastic. When I think of the word cute I think of puppies and kittens. I wasn’t going for cute. I was hoping for sexy, as I wanted to send these photos to my husband who will be in Texas until June.

My mouth was really starting to ache towards the end of the shoot.

“Can I do some silly pictures? Maybe leap through the air or something?” I asked the photographer.

She looked like she was about to say yes.

But then my makeup artist interjected and said, “No.”

No?

Excuse me, last I checked, I would be paying for these pictures. What did she mean NO?

“Why not?” I wondered meekly. To be honest, my makeup artist scared me a little bit. Not only did she abuse my eyes but she also seemed the type who slapped people when she got upset.

“Because this is GLAMOUR shots. Not SILLY shots,” I was told in a sharp tone.

“Can’t I be glamorous sailing through the air?” I said.

The makeup artist shook her head. “No.”

No.

Okay then.

So we did a few more shots and then Jennifer came into the back. I was close to running over to her and throwing myself into her arms and shrieking, “Save me! My makeup artist is SCARY and she won’t let me do SILLY shots!”

But I contained myself.

Jennifer and I took a bunch of pictures together. We were finally able to do some silly shots because we both starting begging and I think we started to give my makeup artist a headache. So she waved her arm and went, “Fine. Some silly shots. It makes no sense but fine.”

Yay!

So Jennifer and I did some silly shots with some sunglasses and some strange looking hats that we were given.

When those were done we got to have one last individual shot. While I went to get dressed, Jennifer got some pictures done.

I decided on the red dress that the store had hanging up. The zipper didn’t work and I went over to my makeup artist and explained the situation.

“Zipper isn’t supposed to work. I’m clipping you up in the back for a better fit,” she said sternly.

Oh.

And clipping me up she did.

“HOLD YOUR BREATH!” she shrieked at me. “You want a good fit, yes?”

“Yes,” I croaked out. “But I’d also like to be able to breathe.”

I was ignored.

The makeup artist just finished clipping the dress and was all, “There we go!” Then she twirled me around so I could face the mirror.

The dress did fit well but seriously, I could barely breathe.

“How do you like it?” the lady asked me.

“Well,” I said honestly. “It’s pretty but I can’t breathe very well.”

The makeup artist waved a hand in the air. “Breathing is overrated.” Then she tossed her head back and let out a cackle.

I was beginning to wonder if she was part witch or something.

Then it was time to change up my makeup. I was a little afraid to be honest. My eyes were given fresh eye shadow and yes, the mascara was put back on.

“You must look down or else I’ll poke you,” the makeup lady chastised as she applied mascara. Then she laughed because I guess a horrified expression appeared on my face. “I’m joking!”

But I wasn’t so sure.

Jennifer came back out to switch outfits as I was headed back to take more pictures. These pictures were more the sexy kinds. The photographer had brought out a chair and showed me how she wanted me to drape over it.

“LOVE the chair,” she told me seriously.

This made me laugh. I giggled until I caught my makeup artist’s expression. Her lips were set in a firm line and she shook her head slightly.

The giggles abruptly stopped and I loved the chair.

And then, about ten minutes later, it was all over. I watched as Jennifer took her last photos and tried not to laugh when they had her draping over a chair backwards. Jennifer just looked startled so the photographer nixed that idea.

We were finished after that and told to come back in a half hour to look at our pictures.

So Jennifer and I walked around the mall and then returned. There was a guy waiting to show us our pictures on a giant computer screen. He was all, “Here is a slide show of your pictures,” and he clicked a button and cheesy music started up in the background as our pictures appeared on screen.

Some of my pictures were scary. But some looked okay.

Then you had to tell the guy the pictures that you liked. He marked them on a piece of paper and then started adding everything up.

“Okay, with all the pictures you want that’ll be four thousand dollars,” he said without flinching.

I think my jaw fell open. How he could say that so casually was beyond me.

I mean…four thousand dollars? For PICTURES? I can understand if it was for a wedding or something. But for a bunch of silly pictures?

“Um,” I said weakly. “I don’t think so.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to remind that guy that we were in a RECESSION.

So I started taking pictures out that I didn’t like so much.

“That’ll be six hundred dollars,” he said calmly.

SIX HUNDRED DOLLARS?

“Sir,” I pleaded. “Our husband’s are in the military and don’t make a lot of money. I just had to buy a new car because my old one crapped out. I don’t have six hundred dollars to spare for a bunch of pictures.”

The guy looked startled. “But these pictures are amazing!”

“Maybe so. But I don’t have that kind of money lying around.”

I think we sat there for nearly an hour trying to get the guy to lower the prices. It gave me a headache.

The guy lowered them to three hundred at one point and I shook my head.

“Too high.”

The guy looked confused. “But I’m giving you free stuff….”

What free stuff? I didn’t see anything free.

When we walked out of there my head was pounding from all the haggling.

And no, I don’t have the pictures now. They’re going to be mailed to Jennifer’s house and she’ll scan them for me and then I’ll share.

I do have other pictures to post though. That night Jennifer and I took a bunch of pictures. We had had a few drinks at TGI Fridays and, well, this is how I tend to get when I’m around alcohol so it’s best that I stay away from it:



Since the makeup artist wouldn't let me do jumping photos I just did them in the hotel room.



Like my spiffy glasses? I got them at Claires.





Um. I have no idea.





I got the giggles. This is how I started to laugh when I was instructed to love the chair.



I take my video game playing seriously, yo.



Hey look! A non-silly one.

The Chocolate Volcano

So, okay.

The Mall of America trip was awesome.

I'm not going to lie.

In fact, I think Jennifer and I will be planning another vacation. Maybe to New York City. I've always wanted to go. She's always wanted to go. So it would be perfect.

But anyhow, I already wrote about how my plane trip was on my way to the Mall of America.

Jennifer and I basically dumped our luggage off in our hotel room and headed straight for the mall, which was across the street. The thing that amused me was when we were checking in, the lady behind the front desk said, "If you want to take the shuttle to the Mall of America it's out back."

I sort of gave her a bewildered look when she said that. Because hello, the mall is across the street.

"Can't we just walk?" I asked stupidly.

Because again. The mall was RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET.

Maybe that's why America has a weight problem: because there are shuttles that take people places that are right across the street.

The lady behind the desk looked surprised that I'd even mention walking. She sort of blinked at me a few times and replied, "I suppose you COULD walk..." as though the thought had never occured to her.

So yes. Jennifer and I walked. It took all of five minutes to get into the mall.

And then...

We were inside the largest mall in the world.

Or maybe it's just the largest mall in America.

It doesn't really matter. All I know is when I stepped inside, that I wanted to twirl around with my hands straight out and sing a song about the mall as though I were a Disney character or something.

I didn't though.

I didn't want to embarrass Jennifer. Oh, and I can't sing.

Instead I just calmly gazed around in awe and said something like, "Wow."

The first store that we went into was Gymboree.

Of course.

You'll be shocked to know that I didn't buy a thing. Oh, of course I oohed and awed over the tiny outfits but I reminded myself that the kids had a drawer full of clothes. And totes. And closets.

We basically just walked into store after store and tried to avoid those annoying workers at the kiosks. They would leap out in front of you with a straightener in their hand and shout, "Can I make your hair straight?" and we'd be all, "No thank you!" and they'd still talk to us about how our hair would thank us or something like that.

No means no.

We ate at The Rainforest Cafe that night.

It must be an annoying place to work because every half hour the entire room would flash and the animals would go off.



This is Bogey, the monkey that we were seated in front of. He'd go off every half hour and make loud monkey noises. I wanted to tell him that we got the concept the first time and he didn't have to continue going apeshit like that but he didn't listen.

Jennifer and I both ordered the chicken chimichangas. I think they were the cheapest thing on the menu at $14.99.





Everything was tasty except for the beans. The beans tasted like gruel. Not that I've ever HAD gruel but I can imagine that they'd taste about the same.

The Rainforest Cafe has this delicious volcano dessert that Jennifer and I had to try. The thing is, when the waiters bring it out, they sing to you.

Our waiter started to sing as he brought it to us and I was making a chopping motion against my neck and hissing for him to cut it out.

I don't like people to sing to me.

Not even on my birthday. It happened a few times and when it does, my face gets bright red and I force a smile on my lips so I don't look ungrateful or anything--but honestly, I'm not a person who likes to be the center of attention. When I'd give reports in front of the class while I was in school, I hated when the teacher would clap her hands and shout at the students to give the speaker their undivided attention.

I always wanted to shout, "You know, that's okay, keep talking. I'll do my thing, you keep doing yours and it'll be fantastic."

Thankfully our waiter cut out the singing.

He placed our delicious volcano down...



...and I practically drooled all over the table.

Forget jewelry. If you bring me out chocolate, I'm good to go.

Basically, I'm a cheap date.



The waiter took a picture of us digging in.

We ate...and we ate...and we ate..



...and then we had to admit defeat.

Then the next evening we went out to TGI Fridays for drinks.

I hadn't had alcohol in over two years because I was breastfeeding.

I ordered the appletini, which made me giggle because that's what JD off Scrubs orders.

I love the show Scrubs by the way. It always makes me laugh. I wish I had a friend like JD. I think we'd totally hit it off. Of course, it would be a bit odd because we both stare off into space and start to think strange things. So there we'd be, standing there, our heads cocked to the side looking comatose.

Oh well.

The appletini was delicious.

Jennifer got a mojito, which is fun to say.





We also ordered some food because we figured we could stuff our faces and it would be okay since we were doing so much walking.



I got the brownie dessert and Jennifer got some nachos.



Yuck, it came with guacamole, which tastes like flavored paste. Not that I've ever HAD paste (maybe in kindergarten) but as I've said a lot, I have a vivid imagination.



I also ordered this blue lemonade drink that was quite tasty.

Apparently I'm a light weight because by the time we left, I was feeling a slight buzz.

Oh, and everything was funny to me.

Jennifer and I took some pictures, which I'll share on Monday.

Here is a preview of one of them:

I've entitled it why Amber should not drink booze.

And..I'm Back

I'm home now.

To celebrate the occasion, Natalie took a gigantic dump in her diaper. Fantastic.

I was also sitting next to a guy who smelled like tuna at the airport. I kept expecting him to pull out a tuna sandwich but he never did.

Tommy was racing around the house like a mad man and I briefly wanted to gather my luggage and walk back out the door.

I'll be back to update about my trip tomorrow. I have tons of pictures. Of course, you won't be seeing the ones where I look constipated. For some reason I make this scrunched up face whenever I pose for the camera. I can't help it.

I'm Here!

Fantastic News!

I survived the plane ride and am currently at the Mall of America.

Well, not right now.

I'm currently in the hotel room across from the Mall of America.

But I WAS in the Mall of America for most of the day with my best friend Jennifer. My aching feet can prove it. But I hardly feel like I'm exercising because I'm SHOPPING. I wish I lived by the Mall of America. Then I could work out and not even know it! I could squeeze back into my size 3 jeans! Of course, if I lived by the Mall of America I'd probably be broke. So it may be best that I don't live near it.

Anyhow, as I was saying, I survive the plane ride.

I hate to fly.

I'm one of those nervous fliers who is gripping the arm rests in horror if the plane so much as makes a funny noise.

My flight had a little bit of turbulance and I guess I looked horrified because the guy sitting beside me asked if I was okay.

I think he was worried I was going to vomit all over him.

"I'm fine," I assured him even though what I wanted to yell is WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!

I gave him a half smile and said, "It's just, I watch Lost and usually when planes on that show start to shake it means they're about to break apart and we're all going to land on some creepy island where there's a smoke monster and..."

I trailed off because the guy was starting to look a little afraid of me. I saw him inch away slightly.

I guess he doesn't watch Lost. I suppose to a non-Lostie that would have been a frightening conversation. I mean, who talks about smoke monsters??

Thankfully, our plane was okay and I didn't end up trying to outrun some polar bear on a remote island. Whew.

I was almost in a panic when I realized I couldn't find my bag on the carousel though. I had met Jennifer at that point and I explained that I had no idea where my bag was. I was getting nervous at that point because the crowd around me had dissapated and it was me and some old guy watching the carousel go round and round with the same 3 bags.

Then I realized, wait, that bag sort of looks like mine and I reached out to check. See, I thought it MIGHT be mine but I was worried that if it wasn't mine and was someone else's, that the owner of the bag would suddenly hit me over the head with her purse and accuse of me of trying to steal it. And I'd be all, "No, I promise I was just checking to see if it was my bag!" and she'd be screaming, "STEALER!" at the top of her lungs...

But it turns out that it WAS my bag. It was just turned over.

I was a little embarrassed as I took it off the carousel. But it's not really my fault. It's not as though I look at the back side of my bag!

Then Jennifer and I found our hotel shuttle and dropped our stuff off in the room and then went shopping.

Of course we started on the shopping right away. We're girls.

Then we ate at the Rainforest Cafe and pictures will follow soon.

We went to see 17 Again and I realized the reason why Zac Efron bugs me: it's because he has better legs and hair than me and that's just not right.

The movie was good though. There was this one lady on the other side of the theater who was sort of giving her own commentary on the movie. Like when Zac Efron turns up she went, "And look at that boy, playing basketball.."

It's like, yes lady, I can see he's playing basketball. I have eyeballs in my sockets.

Anyhow, I better head off to take my shower and then get into bed. We have another full day of shopping...

Oh, and we're totally going to eat at Hooters and I'm totally getting a Hooters t-shirt.

Whenever I think of Hooters I think of Adam Sandler in Big Daddy going "Hooters, hooters, hooters.."

It cracks me up every time.

Worst Packer Ever

Great news!

Mom made it here safely.

I was surprised that she was able to walk in the house without shaking. After all she had to drive through heavy snow and on slippery roads. I’d have been twitching all over to the point where someone would ask if I was having spasms or something. My hands would have been sore from gripping the wheel tightly. But Mom, she was a trooper.

Mom watched the kids yesterday while I got my hair done. I’m actually supposed to get it done every six weeks. I usually get it done every six months. At that point my roots are showing horribly and my hair has tons of split ends that would cause those hair experts that come on the E channel to gasp in horror. My hair is bad enough to be featured on the Don’t page of Glamour magazine. I could imagine them blocking out my face and having the words: “DON’T go out of the house with hair that resembles a mop” over my head.

I get my hair done at the Regis Hair Salons because they offer a 20% off military discount which excites me to no end. I sort of feel sorry for the hair stylist because they always suck in their breath slightly when they realize how much hair I have. I mean, I always mention that I have a lot of hair when I make my appointment but I don’t think they believe that it’s really down my back until they see it.

“I know it’s a lot of hair,” I’ve been known to say. “But at least you’ll be getting a lot of arm exercises from lifting it and such.”

No one has ever laughed at that though.

They sort of offer a half smile as they place the drape around me and run their fingers dazedly through my hair as though they can’t believe a person can have so much of it.

Then the other customers in the salon will usually say something like, “Wow! You have a lot of hair!” or the inevitable: “Are you getting all that hair cut off today?”

No way. I’m one of those people who can’t have short hair. If I cut my hair short then it puffs out. And Afros just don’t look right on white people. I mean, if I really wanted it short I would have to straighten it every day but who has time for that when you have two rambunctious children running around? Plus, if I attempted it, I could see Natalie reaching out and burning herself on the Straightener because she thought it was some weird dish thing that went with her toy kitchen. I could see Tommy grabbing it and trying to straighten Max the Cat’s fur. Then of course we’d have to take Max the Cat to the vet for the first degree burns.

So you see, short hair is just not for me.

Plus, I like having long hair. It helps me stand out in the crowd. I’m usually known as the “girl with the long hair.” (Or the girl who jumps a lot. I can’t help that I startle easily.) Tom also likes my long hair. He used to like running his hands through it when we were dating. Now he sort of pulls strands out of his mouth and gives a long sigh. I asked if that meant that he was sick of my long hair and he went, “No, I love it,” but sometimes I wonder if he’s just being polite.

Anyhow, while the stylist was putting the color into my poor ugly roots she started to Make Conversation. I wish I was better at Making Conversation. I must have a warped sense of humor because most of the things that come out of my mouth sound funny to me but not a lot of people laugh. Then if there is a lull in the conversation I feel the need to say something because I don’t want to be known as the Boring Client Who Says Nothing. But then again, sometimes I wish the stylist would stop yakking because who wants to sit around and discuss the weather for twenty minutes? Sometimes I want to cover their mouths and be all,

“Look. I don’t get out much without the kids. I’m going to try and enjoy the quiet because I don’t get a lot of it at home. I hope you understand.”

Then I worry that I’ll come across as rude and they’ll “accidentally” burn my scalp while straightening my hair.

So I usually end up prattling on, talking about nothing, saying things that sound funny to me but really aren’t to anyone else.

I always give a generous tip though. It’s sort of my way of apologizing for having all the hair and for my poor humor.

The good news is that Natalie didn’t cry while I was gone. This was a sort of test to see how she’d react with not having me around. Sometimes she throws horrible fits and I was so worried she’d scream up a lung the second I was gone. But no, this time she didn’t do that. She did ask Mom where I was once and that was it.

I’m hoping she does the same while I’m away on my trip.

My trip, for those who don’t know, is to the Mall of America with my best friend Jennifer. I leave tomorrow and I return on Thursday. It’s just the two of us. No children. No husbands.

Of course I know I deserve the trip—after all, it’s my first trip without the kids—but I can’t help but feel slightly guilty. I know the kids are in good hands with my mother. She’s quite capable and is probably even more patient than I am.

I’ve basically done with all my packing. Of course I think I’ve packed too much. I started to go through my suitcase and I decided to pull out the dress I had shoved in there. I mean, what would I need a dress for?

But then I start to think that suppose I run into Michael Phelps and he’s all, “Hey, you’re awesome, let me take you out to dinner,” and I don’t have anything fancy to wear?

I mean, there’s nothing wrong with going out on a platonic dinner is there? Plus, Michael Phelps is on My List.

(My List, for those who don’t know, is a list of celebrities that I can mess around with. Tom has one too. Although I doubt I’d ever go through with it because I have an annoying Voice of Reason.)

Anyhow, as I was saying, suppose I was invited for a dinner and I didn’t have the proper attire? Then I’d be all, “Dang it, I wish I had brought that dress!”

But then of course I realized that the odds of bumping into Michael Phelps are slim to none since he practically lives in the pool and plus, I doubt he’d show any interest in me anyhow because he tends to go for dark haired women who are a size 0. Plus he’s like seven feet tall and I’m only five foot three so I doubt he’d even HEAR me when I spoke to him.

So I ended up taking out my dress.

Then I realized I had more shirts than I needed but then I was all, “But what if I get intense BO and need to change?”

Not that I’m a stinky person, I swear it! But with all that walking around and shopping, well, sweat is bound to happen right?

And I can’t walk around smelling like I’m from Europe. Not that all Europeans smell. Some smell quite nice. But I was in Paris once and this guy walked past me and I nearly passed out from the stench. And that one time I was in England and this guy saddled up beside me on the Tube and I swear that he must’ve bathed in vomit because dear gracious, I wanted to gag. But I didn’t, because that would have been rude. I sort of tried to breathe through my mouth but then I started to TASTE him and that was even worse. Americans don’t always smell that good either. I mean, Mickey Rourke doesn’t look like he smells that great.

So I decided to leave in the one extra shirt just in case my deodorant fails me. Maybe I should have bought the Clinical Strength deodorant for the trip? Hrm. Maybe I should run to the store and grab some of that. Then I wouldn’t have to take the extra shirt because isn’t the Clinicial Strength deodorant supposed to clog up your sweat pores so nothing comes out? The commercial showed this bride dancing around and flashing her pits to her guests and the sweat glands looked pretty clogged to me. Of course, that was probably due to the magic of film.

Maybe the extra shirt should stay then.

Then I realized I had too many pairs of underwear and I started to think, well, that’s in case I have an accident.

Not that I WILL because hello, I’m 26, not 62. I shouldn’t have issues with my bladder. Granted, my bladder isn’t what it was before having children. My poor kids abused my bladder while in utero and thought of it as their own personal punching bag. This means I am no longer able to hold my pee for hours as I once was able to. This means that the second I feel the urge to go that I NEED TO BE ON THE TOILET or it won’t be pretty.

Thankfully I’ve always been able to get to the bathrooms in time.

I mean, there was this one instance where I had to push past this teenager but honestly, it was an emergency! The teen probably just wanted to text privately in the stall anyhow. She looked the type to do that sexting business that I keep hearing about.

I decided to keep the extra undies in just in case. Not that I plan on pissing all over myself but you never know.

I then realized that I had quite a few pairs of bras which didn’t make sense to me because no one is going to be seeing my bras. Well, maybe Jennifer since we’re sharing a room. But I’m not intending on flashing her or anything. But then I started to go through that scenario where I’ll run into a celebrity on my list and I wouldn’t want to go out with him while in my tattered bra.

Not that I expect the celebrity to SEE my bra because like I said, even though they may be on My List I have a Voice of Reason who sometimes starts to sound like Fran Dresher and it would be quite distracting to have Fran in my ear while the celebrity was trying to rain kisses down my neck. I just wouldn’t be able to enjoy myself.

So out went a few bras.

Then I realized I had way too many socks but I started to worry that I’d step into a gigantic puddle or something. You just never know.

Basically, if you can’t already tell, I’m the Worst Packer Ever.

But it’s okay. I’ve made peace with it.

Jennifer is calling tonight and we’re just going to go over any last minute details. I’ll probably moan about how I can’t pack.

And then, when we say goodbye, for the first time in over two years, we can say, “See you tomorrow….”

Snow! Piss Off!

My Mom is coming to visit today.

She lives in Texas. Land of warmth and sun.

I live in Wyoming. Land of cold and snow.

Guess what Wyoming is up to today?

That’s right.

It’s snowing.

In fact, some would call it a snowstorm.

I am not amused.

This means that a lot of roads are closed. So far my Mom’s flight isn’t delayed but who knows if that will change?

Colorado decided to join Wyoming in the land of cold and snow and is currently going through its own snowstorm.

My response is this: it’s April, poor confused States. This means that the sun is supposed to be out. I understand that rain may occur and I’m cool with that. But snow? Harsh winds? I said goodbye to that when Winter ended.

I’m currently watching our local news for updates on the road closures. Right now it appears that I-25, which is what Mom needs to travel on to get here, has re-opened. But for how long? Mom’s flight doesn’t get in until 5. (Wait never mind. I-25 is closed.)

There are some irritating people from Wyoming who are actually excited about the snow. They’re on the local news right now going, “Well, we need the water!”

Um. NOT RIGHT NOW. Did you not get the memo that my MOM is coming?

Can’t any of these people curse at the cameras like I would have when asked how I felt about the latest snowstorm?

I’d have been all, “I’m livid. Because not only is my mother supposed to visit today but it also means that I now get to shovel my driveway on top of everything else I have to do. Right now the state of Wyoming deserves the middle finger.”

Of course they probably wouldn’t have even aired my segment because it wasn’t cheery like that lady who gushed, “Oh, I love the snow! It’s fantastic!”

I still think she had to have been drunk. She was swaying slightly. No one can possibly like snow that much unless it occurs on Christmas.

When I’m not griping about the weather, I’m darting around the house cleaning things so my mother doesn’t know that her only child has weird stains on her kitchen floor. I’ve been getting on my hands and knees so I can scrub them out.

I’ve also realized that I need to dust more because ew, the television had like an inch of dust on it.

I nearly left my bottle of KY Jelly on display for all to see. It was sitting on my night table and I quickly hid that. Mom doesn’t need to see that sort of thing. In her mind I’ve only had sex twice to conceive her precious grandchildren.

I also hid my thongs. Not that I wear them often because I’m sorry, they are not comfortable. It’s like having a wad of toilet paper stuck up your butt. I only wear them when I want something from my husband. It never fails to work. I just walk up to him and whisper, “I’m wearing a thong,” and he agrees to practically everything I ask.

But my Mom doesn’t need to know that I wear thongs to get what I want. I can imagine her coming across them and picking one up with her thumb and forefinger and saying something like, “Well. These are festive.”

It’s just best that they’re hidden.

So why is my Mom coming to visit? Well, to visit her only child and her grandchildren of course.

Oh, and because she’s totally babysitting said grandchildren while I go to the Mall of America for a few days next week.

I’m meeting up with my best friend Jennifer, who lives in Ohio.

I haven’t seen her in over two years. Of course I talk to her everyday. But it’s not the same. We both knew we had to see each other and we both agreed that the best place to have a reunion was the Mall of America.

I’d like to point out that we’ve been planning this for nearly a year now. This was before I bought the new car and before I had to Cut Back. Thankfully I had been setting money aside for my trip so I’m still good to go.

I’ll be leaving on Monday and returning on Thursday.

It is my first vacation away from the kids.

It’s going to be strange. I know I’m going to be tempted to reach over and cut Jennifer’s meat when we go out to dinner because I’m so used to slicing my children’s meals.

Jennifer would probably be all, “Um?” while I leaned over with my knife and fork poised to cut.

Then again, she might be leaning over my own plate, ready to do the same thing to MY meat.

Because we’re both mother’s after all.

The Cutting Back Adventures

Have I mentioned that Cutting Back sucks?

Yesterday I went to Gymboree. For some reason it has always thrilled me to buy clothes for my children. Oh, obviously I still get excited when I get clothes for myself--I mean, I AM a girl--but there's something doubly exciting about buying an ultra adorable outfit my kids.

Maybe there's something wrong with me?

I don't know.

Gymboree does this thing where you can redeem Gymbucks. The Gymbucks take half off your order. I had earned three of them but after we bought the car, I gave one to my best friend. I was all set to beg her to take it: "Please please please, you MUST take it otherwise I'll be tempted, please please please.."

But she was all, "I'll take it!"

Oh.

Awesome.

Anyhow, Natalie and I headed into Gymboree and I reminded her that she had to SIT in her stroller.

I made sure the seat buckle was on extra tight.

I mean, she could still BREATHE and all of that, don't worry.

I walked into the store and started to glance at all the clothes.

Oh my gosh! Too cute! Must have! LOOK AT THE MONKEY PURSE!

My mind instantly went on overdrive.

Much like women get excited over shoes, I imagine.

Oh my gosh! Manolos! Jimmy Choos! ARE THOSE MICHAEL KORS?

I'd probably get more excited about shoes if I could walk in them properly. My feet are usually safely inside a pair of tennis shoes--the few times I’ve attempted high heels I’ve teetered every which way or grasped onto Tom’s arm for dear life. Tom has told me gently that someday I’m going to have to learn to walk in heels on my own.

“Why?” I asked him, squeezing his arm. I had nearly collided into the wall moments before.

“Suppose we get invited to an event? It could happen since I’m in the military. It wouldn’t look right if we walked into the room and you’re attached to me as though you’re afraid of everyone,” Tom explained.

In high school I tried to get away with wearing flats when I’d go to dances. I think one time I wore heels and I stuck close to the wall. I sort of walked along it and yeah, people gave me odd looks but oh well. At least I didn’t go spinning into the punch bowl.

Anyhow, back to Gymboree.

So I had walked into the store and the worker gave me a warm smile because I’ve given them a lot of money.

As I was peering at a few dresses I heard a click and realized that Natalie had figured out how to unbuckle herself. She was starting to slide down the stroller.

“You need to sit,” I said sternly. I pointed to the stroller sharply.

Natalie shook her head. “No! NOOOO!”

The worker looked up from some papers she was looking through with a start.

I gave her an embarrassed smile. “I’m sorry. She’s two,” I felt the need to say. I’ve been saying that a lot lately.

The worker nodded her head and went back to her papers. It’s common knowledge that the age of two is no fun. Of course, I don’t know what I’m going to say when Natalie turns three.

“MONKEY!” Natalie felt the need to tell the entire mall. She pointed to a shirt and started making monkey noises.

“Yes. That is a monkey. How about you sit back down?” I asked hopefully, gesturing to her awaiting stroller.

“NOOOOO!” Natalie howled.

Trying to shop with a non compliant two-year-old was not my idea of fun. I’d start looking through some clothes and then Natalie would run off to the back of the store and scream, “MOM!” because she thought she was lost.

I finally decided on a dress and set it down on the counter to pay while Natalie raced into the back of the store again.

“MOM!” she shrieked as I pulled out my wallet.

“I’m over here,” I said and marched back to get her. I tried to look on the bright side. At least this meant that I didn’t have to work out. Because obviously I was getting plenty of cardio in.

I picked Natalie up and tucked her underneath my arm. Then I went back and realized that the worker hadn’t started to ring me up. She was writing something down so I cleared my throat politely while Natalie kicked and kicked.

“Oh,” the worker said in a surprised tone as she looked up. “I thought this was your hold pile. This is it?”

Usually I go a little wild in the store and I start to form a pile on the counter.

This time, however, I was walking out with one dress and one shirt for Tommy. I decided to use only one Gymbuck.

I can see why that would have been a little startling.

“I’m Cutting Back,” I said with a shrug. “We bought a new car and we have to make payments. So I can’t buy as much as I used to.”

The worker tossed me a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry,” she said. I thought for a moment that she was going to reach out and squeeze my hand.

I sighed. “Me too.”

The worker started to ring me up. She gave me the low total and I handed her a few bills.

“You smell nice,” the worker said politely. I wonder if she just said that to make me feel better. She may have been thinking the poor girl can’t shop as much anymore. I should compliment her.

“Oh. Thanks. It’s a scent from Dolce and Gabbana,” I said.

Okay, so she didn’t have to know that I had rubbed it on from the ad in the latest Glamour magazine.

Since I’m Cutting Back I won’t be buying perfume. But it’s okay because magazines always have free samples of perfume. So one day I can be wearing Dolce and Gabbana and who knows what I’ll be wearing the next day? I mean, the possibilities are endless.

“AHHHHHHH!” Natalie screamed right into my ear as the worker handed me my bag.

So then she rendered me partially deaf I couldn’t quite understand what the worker said to me as I turned to leave.

It sounded like she said something like, “I like the bay!” and even though I was confused I nodded and said, “Bays are great!”

Then she looked positively baffled and I realized that oh, she had probably told me to have a nice day.

Oops.

It’s just, when you’re trying to hold a thrashing two-year-old it’s hard to make sense of things.

When we got home I asked Natalie if she wanted to try on her new dress.

“Cah-co-dat,” she said primly and held out her palm.

Oh.

I guess the payment for getting her to try on clothes was giving her chocolate.

Most mothers may have shaken their heads and refused to give in.

But I found myself handing over a Hershey’s Kiss.

But it was worth it because I got some cute pictures:





Yes, I was making farting noises to get her to laugh. But this time I checked to make sure the new neighbor wasn't out. For those who don't know, the last time I was trying to get Natalie to laugh the neighbor had come out of his house and had given me a horrified look. I wanted to shout out, "That wasn't me! It was my mouth!" but I wasn't sure if that would have come out dirty or something.



We love farting noises in this family.



I'm off to make some Hamburger Helper for dinner.

Because Cutting Back means having lots of Hamburger Helper.

Yum.

Tommy and His Award

My son, my first born, won an award at school today. His teacher had sent me a letter letting me know and I knew I had to be there.

You see, Tommy hasn't always had it easy.

When he was two we discovered that he was speech delayed. He only knew a handful of words so he started speech therapy. Then we started noticing that Tommy would walk on his tip toes and flap his hands when he got excited. I remember when I brought it up to his pediatrician how I thought that I'd be told that it was just something kids did.

But then the pediatrician looked concerned and suggested that I may want to get Tommy tested for Autism.

Of course I knew about Autism.

But it's like a kick in the heart when someone tells you that your kid may be Autistic.

Tommy was three when we took him to be tested.

I was nervous the entire time. I watched as Tommy played with one of the women who was testing him. There was another woman standing in the corner of the room recording everything that my son did on a clipboard of paper.

What are you writing? Is he okay?

I wanted to ask but I didn't.

In the end it turned out that they didn't think that he had Autism.

"He's just way too social," I was told.

But it was obvious that Tommy had a bunch of sensory issues going on. He wasn't able to play with Play-Doh without shrieking in fear and he continued to walk on his tip toes.

So an occupational therapist started to work with him. It took a few weeks but finally Tommy was able to hold Play-Doh--it may have only been for a few seconds but it was something, you know?

He started Preschool around this time. I had warned his teacher that Tommy was an energetic child. Around the age of two I'd notice that Tommy didn't sit still for long periods of time. He'd even be racing around the room when he'd watch TV. He couldn't concentrate on playing with one thing for too long. When I'd take him to the park he rarely played on the equipment. Instead he'd run around the park in circles.

I started to receive weekly phone calls from his teacher.

"We can't get Tommy to sit at circle time."

"Tommy's speech is well below where it should be."

"Mrs. M****, Tommy grows frustrated in school because his communication skills just aren't there."

"Tommy was doing a dance in the corner of the room when he should have been working on his picture."

I began to dread the phone. Whenever it would ring I would hold my breath for a few seconds before picking it up.

Still, with all the complaints from his teacher, Tommy did improve. Oh, it was difficult for him to sit at circle time but at least he was starting to talk better. With each new word that he would master I'd clap my hands enthusiastically and praise him.

Because honestly, for the longest time, I thought that he might be mute.

I would watch him with other children his age and my heart would squeeze when I'd listen to the flawless speech of his peers. My own son struggled to get a few words out and here these other kids were talking up a storm.

I began to wonder if it was something I did wrong.

Did I not read to him enough?

Was he like this because I had him at nineteen?

Did I accidentally drop him on his head when he was a baby? I didn't recall doing so but then again, I was so tired when he was an infant so maybe I missed it...

Tommy started Kindergarten when he was five. At this point he had been diagnosed with ADHD and had started taking medication for it. He's currently on 30 MGs of Vyvanse.

I tried to avoid the medication. Of course I read all the arguements about the downfalls of it. But it was obvious Tommy needed it. He just was not able to sit and do his work. Instead he'd be jumping out of his seat and sprinting around the room.

But even with the medication I'd still receive phone calls from the teacher.

This time Tommy was bursting into tears.

Over everything, really.

I was called into numerous meetings.

It was found that it would benefit Tommy to be pulled out of the regular classroom and go to the resource room for most of the day. Obviously being in a room with 22 other children was too much for him. A sensory overload, I would imagine.

The phone rang one day and it was Tommy's teacher.

"I can't get him to stop crying. I had to take him to the Principal's office..." she told me apologetically.

Five-years-old and already in the Principal's Office...

I'd ask Tommy why he was crying all the time and he's shrug and tell me that his brain made him do it.

At this point his speech had improved greatly. He was still behind but he was at least able to carry on a conversation. True I had to remind him that he needed to look people in the eye when he spoke to them--but he was doing much better.

Kindergarten, admittedly, wasn't an easy time.

But he got through it. Even with all his crying he was still able to get his work done.

So he moved onto First Grade.

Things got better. Sure he struggled with reading but he was eager to learn.

He rarely cried at school anymore.

Of course he'd admit to me that he "cried a little bit but told my brain to stop" on some days.

Then his teacher wrote me a letter saying that Tommy was going to be recognized for his hard work.

So Natalie got herself ready to go...



....complete with her Easter basket.



And Natalie MAY have slid all over the floor even though I asked her to SIT DOWN more times than I care to remember..



I also wondered if I wasn't dressing like a Proper Mom. Most of the other Mom's wore simple button down tops. And here I was sporting a shirt with a cheese grater attacking some cheese. (In case you can't read backwards stuff, the cheese is screaming "You Monster!")



But then my boy walked in and I forgot all about how Natalie was mistaking herself with a human mop and how I may not be wearing regular Mom clothes...



When he was told to stand up and get in line for his award, he did so. He stood diligently in line without even fidgeting.



Then when the Principal called his name--the same Principal whose office he was sent to a year ago--he expertly marched forward. The Principal explained to him that he was receiving an Industrious Worker award and did he know what that meant?

My son, without missing a beat, nodded his head.

I was impressed because at 9 in the morning, I wasn't sure if I could have told you what it meant. My mind is not all there before noon.

The Principal looked surprised. I think she expected him to say no.

"What does it mean?" she pressed.

"Being responsible and hard working," Tommy answered and flashed the audience a grin.

The Principal was clearly impressed. "That's right! For being responsible. Fantastic job, Tommy!"

Then Tommy was handed his award..



...and he stood on the other side gazing at it. (His shirt, by the way, says Ladies Man. We love shirts that say stuff in this family.)

At one point he looked up and met my eye. I stuck my tongue out at him like this:



...and Tommy giggled and made a face back.

True, some of the other mother's tossed me a confused look. Because they were all waving at their kids and leaving it at that.

But oh well.

They don't know the story.

They don't know how hard Tommy has worked.

How far that he's come.

Congratulations, my boy.