A Bumpy Ride?

Apparently Andrew has been playing with a doctor's kit at preschool. How do I know this? Well, on Friday he grabbed a tube of mascara while I was getting dressed in the bathroom, and proceeded to pretend to give me shots in each of the cellulite divots on my booty and thighs. I didn't realize cosmetic injections were part of imaginary play these days.

These kids sure keep us humble.

It reminded me of when little Margaret still couldn't speak too clearly yet. As I stood in my undies, she rubbed my upper thigh and said, "Dat bumpy, Mama!" When, I turned to gain a little personal space, she caressed the other thigh and said with wonder, "Dat bumpy too!"

Oh well, guess who just ordered Andrew his own doctor's kit on Amazon?

p.s. Tim, Margaret, and I go on our big trip to Africa on Friday. In case you missed it when I shared about it on Facebook a few weeks ago, we are taking Margaret on a 6 day safari in South Africa that I purchased at a charity auction a few years ago. We aren't ready, tensions are running pretty high, and it all seems so overwhelming. Could you please pray for Andrew (at home with his Aunties), and Tim, Margaret, and me as we travel? THANK YOU!

August is the Sunday of Summer

I've been hearing this sentiment crop up all over as summer enters its final stretch. These days Margaret is deep into field hockey practice for high school (gulp) and I'm in limbo-land before the paperback of Rare Bird comes out.

Some attribute this quotation to Ellen Degeneres because of a recent tweet, but not in our house!

You see, Jack made this statement at least 5 years ago, and I blogged about it and other random things the kids were talking about, including Margaret's antipathy for things that started with the letter C.  Note: In posts pre-accident, I referred to Jack as Jake and Margaret as Molly.

Check out that old post to get a glimpse of our family's life.

I hope you are having a great Sunday of the Summer!

Heart Issues

Four year old Margaret started to cry in her booster seat. I looked in the rear view mirror. “What’s the matter?” I figured a tag was poking her, her socks weren't "just right," or she was hungry. With a defeated, gaspy cry, she answered, “Sometimes…sometimes I just have a hard time loving Jesus.” Woah. This was not even close to anything I expected to hear.

I had no immediate answer for her, so I turned it over to Jack, in the “way back” of the minivan. I didn’t know if he’d been listening, but I said, “Jack, is there anything you could say to Margaret?” I was used to his surprising us with wisdom and a near-adult understanding of issues. Maybe he had learned something in school that would give her comfort. I don’t know, but I knew I had nothing.

He responded quickly, “Well, I always knew that about you, Margaret…” Uh oh. Not what I’d been hoping for. Little boy Jack doled out judgment, not comfort, giving his sister the absolute last thing she needed. Maybe Margaret didn’t seem as devout as he did at all of six years old. Maybe he’d seen her do one too many shimmy dances  and donkey kicks during nightly prayers. Who knows? But in that instant, I saw in Jack’s response the response of so many people, the assumption that he could see into someone else’s heart.

I redirected the conversation, but not before saying, “You know what, Margaret?  Sometimes I have a hard time loving Jesus, too. I can’t see Him. It’s hard to love someone I can’t touch and feel.” I was 31 years older than Margaret, but in that moment, in her vulnerability, I knew she spoke a truth shared by me and by many.

And Jack’s reaction, although shocking at the time, reminds me of how often we judge, thinking we have a window into each other’s hearts. Thinking it’s our place to determine how devoted someone else is, rather than focusing on our own heart condition.  It's uncharitable, and unbiblical, “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s (4 year old sister's) eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?

I suppose, perhaps, that people think I have a strong faith. But just last week I had a really hard time loving Jesus. I begged Him to help make an impossible situation better, but it felt like I was speaking into the darkness. I told Him I trusted Him, but it was just so hard and scary. Much of what was going on felt far too close to almost 3 years ago when our world came crashing down, when our prayers weren't answered in the way we wanted.

And yet He came through. Man, did He come through, in powerful and miraculous ways! But what I've learned, and am still learning, is that He somehow comes through even when things don't turn out the way we want. Even when we are neglecting to address the planks in our eyes. And even when we have a hard time loving Him.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

So, in going through folders of the kids' stuff last week, I found some more gems to share with you. One is a "song" written by 4 year old Jack. And by song, I mean non-rhyming stream of consciousness. And by "written," I mean sung to me as I furiously struggled to write it all down.

And, in his little preschool way of being on a roll and having my undivided attention, Jack went on for a good four pages. He riffs about God, the Bible, Adam and Eve, Jonah, hitting, and going potty. Wishing I could hear his little baby voice rocking out to this song, but I'm glad I have it written down.

I thought you would especially like the chorus,

"If you're lost, God can find you
If you're lost, God sure can!"

And some verses:

"Everyone as a heart inside you
So if you're lost
He never takes his eyes off you
When He's looking at you
He's looking at everyone in the world"

"So If you're lost, God can find you
If you're lost, God sure can!"

"I'm telling you the truth, I'm telling the truth again
So really God is looking at you the whole day long
He never takes his eyes off you
He is everywhere"

"If you're lost, God can find you
If you're lost, God sure can!"

"If you're up in Heaven, you'll never bump your head
fall down the stairs
or have to go potty again
But down here you have to do those things"

"And Still God can find you
Whenever you're lost God can really find you
He can see inside your heart
Try to make people with really small hearts really
do good instead of bad"

And a safety tip:

"If Jesus tells you to do something, he's telling you the right thing
but not anyone else
If someone tells you to get in his car, don't do it."

"If you're lost, God can find you
If you're lost, God sure can!"

We do believe that when Jack was lost in the water, God never took His eyes off of him. And if you are feeling lost, He can find you, too.

Summertime Smiles

 

You know Jack was quirky and funny, right? I was going through some papers yesterday (the kids' Christmas lists over the years, doodles, and drawings) and I found a little sign from an impromptu lemonade stand they held on our culdesac with their specialcousins when Jack was 10 and Margaret 8.

The sale was rather uneventful until my good friend had to call 911 because her preschooler ate a Hershey's kiss with almonds out of the one of the "candy cups" for sale. She was afraid her daughter might have a nut allergy like her 2 older children, so she called for back-up.

Fortunately, little B was fine! The lemonade stand kids then had the added bonus of selling their wares to the hunky (my observation) firemen who showed up with their rig. They pulled in $10 cold cash!

Last night I was looking at the little sign Jack made using scrap paper and a colored pencil, and I smiled thinking of the creativity and fun he brought to our lives.

The top says:

Spend Money Here

Loli-Pop .10

Candy Cups .50

Lemonade .25

Brownies .50

Laffy Taffy .10

Underneath it says:

 

Kiddie Menu:

Loli-Pop Licks .01

Brownie Bites .25

Lemonade Sips .05

(no chugging or pay extra)

 

 

How enterprising. So many smiles.



 

Universal Language

Lots to write about, but can't seem to get computers to cooperate these past few days. It's not like I'm asking for much, just to send a few emails and blog a bit. My frustration level is about where it was in the late 80's in the college computer lab, cursing my floppy disks.

So in the interest of keeping it short and sweet, this is from Margaret in the backseat of the car:

"Everybody always says music is the 'universal language'(scornful voice and air quotes) but that's not true. We all know Potty Talk is."

Indeed.

The Border

Soooo, I've mentioned a time or five that our family loves Taco Bell. The winning combination of cheese and thrift is impossible for us to resist. The fact that Jack refused to eat french fries, chicken nuggets, or ketchup sealed the deal years ago.

Since Jack's death, Margaret has noticed a few interesting menu developments at Taco Bell, all of which she attributes to her big brother.

First there was the Doritos Loco Taco, a regular hard taco with a Dorito shell. Tacos coupled with Doritoes? He loved them both! Add a Dr. Pepper and Jack would have died and gone to heaven. Okay, you know what I mean.

There's also the Beefy Nacho Burrito-- a burrito stuffed with NACHOS!. Can you say salty orange processed cheese food goodness? Making nachos and popcorn are the only two reasons I even own a microwave.

And now? There's the Cheesy Gordita Crunch, which is basically a hard taco INSIDE a soft tortilla. This is Jack's own invention he ate at home and at Taco Day at school. When we saw that one, we knew something was afoot. Oh, it also comes with "zesty pepper JACK" sauce!

Margaret figures Jack must be infiltrating a Taco Bell exec's dreams and leading to the invention of these yummy delights. I'm with her on this one. I wonder if his next invention will have something to do with Dill Pickles.

Sooo, on the last day of school we were going through the Taco Bell drive through and she was pointing all this out to me. We were laughing about it, and I decided to take a picture of the menu board with my phone. Oh how much we all missed before I finally got a camera phone! I took a couple of shots and then pulled forward.

When I got to the pick-up the window, I discovered I had forgotten to order! Ooops.

Laughing, I apologized to the worker. He replied, "That's okay. I saw you guys taking pictures back there. I told the others this must be your first drive through experience."

As if.

More laughter.

Loving, laughing and missing you, Jack! Wonder what you'll do next!

Transitory Joy

When Jack was 6, in first grade, I saw him standing by the window, a distraught look on his face. As you remember, Jack felt things deeply. I figured he was having friend trouble, perhaps being made fun of because of some of his quirky behaviors.

"What's going on?" I asked.



"I'm just so sad people choose transitory joy over what's important," he said.

Whoah...WHAT???? Insert screetchy needle being lifted from a record player sound here unless you are too young to remember what I'm talking about.

What did my little six year old know about transitory joy? What did I know about it? And why was it getting him down?

Turns out his class had memorized this (not uplifting but timelessly apt) poem:

The Flies and the Honey Pot
by Aesop

A jar of honey chanced to spill
Its contents on the windowsill
In many a viscous pool and rill.

The flies, attracted by the sweet,
Began so greedily to eat,
They smeared their fragile wings and feet.

With many a twitch and pull in vain
They gasped to get away again,
And died in aromatic pain.

Moral:

O foolish creatures that destroy
Themselves for transitory joy.

Even at 6, Jack was a patient person. He was not given to greed or excess in his desires or appetites. He could understood this poem and could already recognize how many people could be drawn in by what appeared to be seemingly sweet, but was in truth harmful.

Fortunately for us, this was about the time Lindsay Lohan started going off the rails post "Parent Trap" so we always had a tangible example on hand.

I tell you this story not because Jack didn't himself enjoy the transitory joy of a cold Dr. Pepper, a great joke, getting to one more level on a video game, or staying out extra late on a warm summer night. He enjoyed all of those things and more, and that was good.

But Jack also saw the appeal of boundaries and restraint. And even as a six year old, it appears he was beginning to understand that real joy comes from the eternal, not the transitory.

Wow.

Oozing with Love

Margaret has been away for a week having a blast with her cousins in Ohio. She comes home today, and I'm eager to see her. Not only because I missed my sweet girl a ton, which I did, but also because it's been a little weird not having someone around to comment on my appearance, my clothing, and especially my acne.

When I was growing up, that role was fulfilled by my older brother John. "Hey Schween-bag, can I carry your zit?" he would ask with a smile/sneer, stretching his arms out in front of him as if he carried a boulder. I think the proper grammar would have been, "May I carry your zit?" but he certainly made his point.

On the other hand, Tim could see an oozing pustule akin to Mt. Vesuvius on my face and say nary a word. I think he lives in fear of my reaction.

Before I married him, I informed him that while I would be a certain size on our wedding day, I wanted NO comments about weight throughout our marriage, either to me or to any of our future daughters. I had seen too many friends deal with the crushing burden of eating disorders and poor body image to tolerate any nonsense from a man who I believed, from peering into the crystal ball of my father-in-law's physique, would always hover around a spry 145 lbs and would never experience the bodily havoc of birthin' babies.

Knowing my penchant for jumbo bags of Twizzlers and Little Debbie Swiss Cake rolls, this promise could have bothered Tim, but he never let on, nor has he EVER commented on my weight, positively or negatively, in the past 20 years...even when I outweighed him by more than 40 lbs before (and after!) the birth of our scrawny baby Jack.

Sooooooo, I guess it's no surprise he does not dare comment on my adult acne.

Neither did Jack, who got many of his mild-mannered traits from his dear dad. I must tell you that a peri-pubescent (new word?) Jack did once say to me, "That shirt makes your boobs look big. But in a good way" which made me chuckle.

But from Margaret, who as a speech impaired toddler caressed my thigh and said, "'Dat bumpy MaMa," I can always count on a little zit commentary when applicable.

Which seems to be more and more often as I get older.

So I've missed her, of course. And I'm counting down the hours until I can give her a hug, at which point she can weigh in on the constellation of pimples on my chin and forehead and any/all embarrassing habits I may have picked up while she was gone.


P.S. If she asks you if I played with her hamster, Bear, while she was away, please say YES. Thanks.

Do You Know "Whether/Weather" We've Been Watching Too Much TV?

So the Washington area has reported that we might get a "sleazy" mix of rain, snow, and sleet tomorrow. Huh? I took Margaret and a friend out to dinner tonight and told them of this weird, new terminology. I mean I've heard of a "sleety" mix or a "wintry" mix, but never "sleazy."

Margaret's response without missing a beat:

"Yeah, sleazy mix sounds more like when you combine a Pole Dancer with an Exotic Dancer."

Yikes.

That noise you just heard was our television crashing through the front window.

In our defense, she learned what these things were by watching "Cake Boss" and "America's Got Talent." Of course I already told you about "Toddlers and Tiaras" today, so we may not have any defense at all.

Monday Musings...

So I’ve come to realize that PMS and Profound Grief are not a winning combination.

Of course I’d gladly embrace the former every day of my life to be spared the latter, but that’s not a choice that’s mine to make. Last week I found myself silently railing, to no one in particular-- random cars driving down the road, strangers in the grocery store-- “Blank you and the horse you rode in on!” I don’t really even understand that expression, except, of course, its intent, but I was spewing it, inside my head, again and again. I found this slightly troubling yet liberating at the same time.

I remember reading “The Green Mile” years ago and being taken aback by the warden’s sweet wife, who was dying of cancer, as she spewed out every epithet in the book. Such was the depth of her suffering. I wondered how she could have the thoughts to formulate those words, when she had probably not used them in her entire life.

Now I realize I do not even know what the vocabulary of my grief will be. Ugly words? Ugly thoughts? Soothing words? Edifying thoughts? We will see, day by day by day.

When people say how strong I am, I don’t know how to respond. Because all I am doing is getting out of bed and trying to function through the day. I am eating. I am laughing. I am crying. I don’t feel that I am any stronger than someone else who does stay in bed. And, really, who knows what tomorrow will bring?

23 years ago, when my mom died suddenly, I was 18 and had just come home for summer break. Three days later, I got a job hostessing at the local restaurant where our family had eaten 3-4 nights a week ever since Mom decided she was fed up with cooking.

So that summer I pulled on my jean miniskirt, laced up my Keds, and smiled and joked my way through my shifts. I stayed busy during the days and wandered the house crying at night. It’s just what I did. My father, brother, and sister did things differently, and that was okay, too.

Tim, who misses Jack terribly, has found comfort in being with people. Watching baseball, football, playing cards or going out for a beer. Getting together with a group of neighbors to discuss where God is in all of this. In the first days and weeks after the accident, I couldn’t understand why my normally shy husband was becoming a social butterfly. He went to museums. He wanted to have people over. He had a catch with friends. I wondered, ungraciously, “Does he miss Jack or does he miss having a catch?”

He took another friend geo-caching, which was our family’s favorite hobby. Huh? When we talked about it, it became clear that Tim likes being in a group because it is a welcome distraction. Being with friends buoys him up, even when they aren’t talking about Jack. And doing the things he did with Jack, such as going to a cherished geocaching spot or watching a baseball game, helps him feel closer to Jack.

Me? I don’t want to be in a large social setting right now, even though that is more in my nature than Tim's. It's too hard to be with people talking about toenail polish, standardized tests and the like. I know that will get more bearable, but for now I would rather be with just a few people who are willing to talk about Jack. I want people to know that talking about Jack isn’t going to “remind” me of what we have lost. Believe me, we know.

I also find great solace in messages on facebook and comments on this blog letting me know people are praying for us, even when I don’t have the energy for face to face contact or to write back. These gifts from you are accessible to me any time during the day or night.

In the week ahead, with lots of “firsts” coming up, such as our treasured Halloween parade and trick-or-treating, we wonder how we will navigate them. Tim suggested maybe standing at a different parade spot with different people, while I want to say at “our” parade spot of 12 years. Who knows what we'll do?

Despite our different personalities and grieving styles, which we are grateful to be able to understand and express to each other, both Tim and I LOVE to hear how God is working in people’s lives as a result of Jack’s life and death. If you have something like that to share, I hope you will.

Sometime in the past year, as we were getting out of the car, Jack said to me, “I think I may want to be a missionary, but I might be too shy.”

Margaret replied, “I don’t ever want to be a missionary. They have TERRIBLE toilets!”

Fairly accurate statement, I suppose.

I told him there are ways of being a missionary even if you are shy.

Perhaps, through the way he is still touching people’s lives right now, Jack is getting to be a missionary without ever having to say a word.

The View from the Backseat

When we got a new car a year and a half ago, we specified Captain's Seats. After 8+ years of being crammed next to each other on a 2-person bench seat in the minivan, Jack and Margaret could use some personal space, we figured.

What we noticed, though, was that Margaret kept sticking a foot across the way, or reaching out to poke Jack. She would do anything to get all up in his business, including leaning way out over the aisle to try to put her head on his shoulder. In short, she missed him.

How much more must she be miss him now that he's not in the back seat with her at all.

Even though I wanted him to grow- grow- grow, I guess the fact that he never got big enough to move to the front gave Margaret a little more time with him.

I'm including our last video clip of them-- a blurry little snippet, just a few seconds long, because it seems to capture a little of their relationship. Margaret is bored on our beach trip evacuation, so she's holding up the camera, pretending to look at pictures, but secretly filming Jack as he is engrossed in a game.

He throws out his summer's favorite phrase and answer to anything: "my butt." She uses a funny voice to try to engage him, but he's not biting. Finally, he throws her a bone. He says something to crack her up and then flashes his million dollar (okay, $5,000) smile.







It's the little things, and the big things that make this so darn hard.

The View From the Back Seat

After Margaret's soccer game yesterday, as Tim drove a little too fast and swervy on the highway for our tastes, this is what we heard from the backseat:

"We're coming, Jack! We're coming!"

Gotta love that little girl.

For some of my favorite backseat chatter from the kids, check out this post.

Big Smokey?

The kids are away at camp all week. Thus, I had cereal for dinner last night, and then again for breakfast and lunch today. Seriously considering having cereal for dinner tonight since Tom won't be home until late.

I'm looking forward to sharing a brand new furniture project with you in the next day or so, so please stay tuned!

Until then, I'll leave you this.

Molly and a friend were in Target with me doing some pre-camp shopping. The friend showed Molly a Slim Jim and said,

"These are gross because they are made with the ears and hooves and butts of cows."

So Molly proceeds to pick up a mammoth, shrink-wrapped smoked sausage and says in a loud, faux whisper,

"Does that mean this is the Cow's penis?"

All I can say is, "Who knows?"

Bye-Bye Birdie

The kids and I watched as cardinals built a nest in the bush right outside our kitchen window.

We squealed with delight when we saw 3 perfect eggs appear one day.

We roiled with anger when a snake slithered up the branches after those eggs-- and we chased him off with a stick.

We saluted the parents who tended and tended and tended to the three perfect babies that hatched from those eggs. Thin skin, bulging eyes, little tufts of feathers-- they were cute in the most vulnerable, pathetic of ways.

They waited, mouths open, for Mom or Dad to drop in a morsel. After only a few days, the brownish-gray fledglings were ready for their big moment.

They hopped from branch to branch, tentatively testing those wings. Ever solicitous, Mom and Dad Cardinal watched from outside, Jake and Molly inside-- Molly's arm draped around Jake's back.

I stood behind, watching my no-so-small ones watch the smaller ones. In a matter of moments, all three birds took flight. It wasn't graceful, but it worked.

Jake turned to Molly and said, "They just grow up so fast."

Amen, kid.

Out of the Mouths of Tweens

So a little while ago Molly comes up to me holding a half eaten half gallon of ice cream and two spoons. Molly: "Wanna go watch some tv and finish this thing off?" Me: "Sure! How do you know me so well, little girl?" Molly: "Well, you did push me out of your private parts, didn't ya?"

Monday Musings

So much to tell you, I don't know where to start.

I am now the owner of skinny jeans, oh yes I am. You may remember my attempt to pretend that my other jeans were skinny, and shove them into boots, but these are the real deal. My cheap self found some on sale at Target for $6.24, and I didn't pass them up even though they were a few sizes too small and smelled strangely like chemicals.

Even though I have to grease myself down to get into them and use a pair of pliers to hike them up a la my Gloria Vanderbilts circa 1983, my 9 year old suddenly thinks I'm cool! I took her out for pizza, and when an adorable young man said hi to me, I said hi back. When Molly asked me who he was, I said, "I'm not sure. Maybe he's a former student." She said, "No, I just think he likes your skinny jeans." Hmmm. Is that kind of approbation worth getting a yeast infection? We'll see.

And in keeping with the fact that Tom and I are obviously teaching our kids to value what is important and true, we had this conversation about being a grandmother.

Molly: "I feel sorry for grandmothers."
Me: "Really? Why?"
Molly: "They can't wear skinny jeans and bikinis anymore. They only get to wear FLARES and fuzzy sweaters."

Alrighty then. For the record, although I now possess skinny jeans, let it be known that Molly has never seen me in a non-skirted bathing suit.

Shadow got a clean bill of health at the vet today, and despite eating cooking grease and several loaves of bread lately, she had managed to lose 3 lbs. The vet was happy. I wasn't so happy with:
1. driving around with a stool sample in the car
2. Paying $475 for well-dog care. We just canceled our $400 pool membership to save money, so while we're inside watching too much tv this summer, I'll just remember to be grateful that Shadow is worm-free.

I spent Friday night staying awake at a church lock-in for 5th and 6th graders. 107 of them. The good news is that despite staying awake sitting in a chair all night (he was afraid if he unfurled his sleeping bag he'd doze off,) Jake survived the next day without any colossal drama like last year. We wisely cancelled an all-day boy scout outing and basketball game, but he still had to muddle through baseball practice and neighborhood interactions. Things may have started to unravel around 6 pm the next day, but we think we did pretty well.

Speaking of drama, when I dropped Jake off at school today he was about to cry. Not only was he debuting a new haircut, he was without his security blanket-- a navy blue sweatshirt. One parenting expert has written about how kids LOVE LOVE LOVE hooded sweatshirts, and Jake is no exception. So, having managed to misplace 2 navy sweatshirts in one weekend, and having no winter coat (don't judge-- why buy a coat when he's just going to wear the sweatshirt?) he went to school in a gray wool thrift-store coat I found in the closet. Should be an itching good time. Sorry, teach. The upside? Tom located one of the navy sweatshirts a few minutes ago, frozen solid in the neighbor's back yard.

In other news:

Almost all of our Girl Scout cookies have been delivered. We are about $23 short, which considering we had to collect $700, doesn't seem so bad. I love how helping my daughter earn her "Cookie CEO" patch, which you know I'll never get around to sewing on, has challenged my math skills, used up a lot of gas and postage, and made getting into my skinny jeans that much more of a challenge. In honor of Girl Scouting, we bought a tub of Thin Mint ice cream yesterday. Like.

Well, there's always more to share, but if you have made it this far, you may be yearning for your freedom right about now, so I'll just say I hope you have a fabulous Monday!

I'm heading to a chi-chi fabric store, so here's my question: sweatpants or skinny jeans?

Eureka! How to Age Your Father 15 Years in 15 Seconds

So Tom walks into our bedroom to find Molly rifling through his beside table drawer.

"Whoa...what are you doing, Molly?"

"Looking for the climax! Where's the climax?"

Tom sprints across the room to stop whatever train wreck may or may not be about to occur. Closes drawer.

"Uhh...what do you need the...er....IT......for?"

"I have a cut on my lip and need some climax to fix it."

Ahhhh....we think she was looking for the Carmex.

That will teach this former English teacher not to discuss literary plot devices with the kids at bedtime.

Tom is still recovering.

Friday Fragment

As a child we had a pussywillow tree in the back yard. I loved, loved, loved that tree, as did my mom.

What I didn't love was when she would cut branches and deliver them to the neighbors saying, "Look what I have for you! Aren't these just the prettiest pussywillows (minus the word willow) that you have ever seen? Look how full the pussywillows (minus the word willow) are this year!"

Made me want to crawl in a hole and die.

Today I don't have a tree, but I do have artificial pussywillows in a steel tub in my dining room. We were talking about them the other day and the kids couldn't remember exactly what they were called:

Jake: Oh yeah! Pumpernickels!

Molly: No, they're called Periwinkles.

Jake: Uh...Puggly Wuggles?

So very close. When I told them what they were, they weren't embarrassed in the least, which made me oh so happy... because in a week of TMI, I'm glad there is one "colorful" word they still haven't heard.

Stepford Mom?

So it seems Molly sometimes doubts I am who I say I am.

We were snuggling in bed when she was about 5 years old and she starting rubbing my back.

Molly: "Do you know what I'm doing?"

Me: "Rubbing my back. I like it."

Molly: "I'm... checking for batteries."

Me: ...

Molly: "Sometimes I think my real mom got taken and was replace by a robot."

Alrighty then.

So I guess I shouldn't have been TOOOOO, TOOOOOO surprised when the following occurred during check-out at the Hampton Inn last weekend.

I looked up from my hot tea to see Molly looking frightened, leaning against the wall. Okay, maybe she was cowering.

Me: "What's the matter, Molly?"

Molly: "You're not my real mom."

Me: "What? Why?"

Molly: "When you were checking out, the lady asked your last name and you didn't answer her. You just said 'Umm' and had to look at the bill before you said 'See.' My real mommy would know what her name is."

Oh my. Poor thing. Her real mommy does know what her name is, usually. But with no fewer than 3 possible configurations of my name, 5 email accounts, multiple passwords for work and home, phone numbers-- home and cell, and even my new personalized license plates, I sometimes get a tad...confused. I was just glad I had pants on.

I would like to think if I were replaced by an imposter, my doppelganger would have more energy, more patience, could figure out elementary school math and would be a better cook that I am. But I guess we need to keep this whole thing semi-believable.

Eeep.