It was the Best of Times. It was the Worst of Times. And, There was a Coffee Maker.

A couple of days ago, my Keurig coffee maker became possessed by a demon.

I tried to fix it the way I fix most broken things in my life. I googled it.

I used every troubleshooting technique I could find on the world wide web, because I love my Keurig and I was going to perform CPR until someone pulled me off of its cold, dead body.

But, finally, even I had to admit that I needed more intervention that the internets could provide - and, as much as I love you, Coffee Maker, I just can't clean up the reservoir-full of water that you keep spitting on my counter in the name of "Priming" yourself one more time. So, I called Keurig to tattle on her bad behavior. (That's right. I just made my coffee maker a girl. Because we're like sisters.)

The rep listened to my woes and said, "Sounds like you've done every troubleshooting tip I could have suggested for you. How about I just send you a new brewer?"

Um. Yes, please?* Wow. Well done, Keurig. THAT is customer service.

Now. Where is the nearest Starbucks? This is going to be a rough two to three business days.

*Turns out my loyalty toward this particular "sister" coffee maker wasn't so strong after all. She's going to be replaced. By a better sister.

Would it be bad to use this as a cautionary tale for my children?

*clink clink* [coins in the Therapy Fund... coins in the Therapy Fund...]

The Liquor Store - Bring Your Kids!

The man working at the liquor store gave my kids lollipops.

a) Yes. I had my kids with me at the liquor store. Just a continuation of the Klassy theme for 2012. (Actually, I was buying brandy for a recipe. But, I don't know why I'm bothering to tell you that. I hardly believe me, and I was there.)

b) Now I'm afraid the liquor store is going to be my kids' new favorite place to go. They'll probably ask to go there when we're at school... or church.

c) Why does the liquor store man have candy for the kids?!

And, on a completely unrelated note: No one carded me. Again. I mean, I could have had Spencer when I was *doing the math...* 12. Or I could have been their babysitter. (Note to self: I have got to get them to stop calling me "Mom" when I'm trying to look underage.) Anyway. The liquor store hurts my self-esteem.

*clink, clink* Coins in the therapy fund.

source
This is not my baby.
This is, however, hysterical... and disturbing...

Learning Valuable Life Skills: The Barfing Version

Lulu's sick - throw up sick. Poor girl has skipped dinner the past two nights and she asked to go to bed last night at 5:30.

But, come the mornings, she feels slightly better.

Yesterday, she followed me into my bedroom when I went to get dressed.

"Mama! Since there are no boys around, we can have 'Girl Talk!'"

"Yes. We can! What would you like to talk about?"

"Ummm." And, then she left the room.

About ten minutes later (I have to believe it was just because there wasn't anything good on the television), she came back.

"Mama! You got dressed without me!"

"I'm sorry! Did you want to help me pick out what to wear?"

"Yes." [Evidently "Girl Talk" = "me telling you what to wear."]

"Oh. I'm sorry. But, is this okay, what I chose?"

"No."

Oh.

At least she was willing to compromise from the short-sleeve cotton shirtdress that was her first choice - seeing as how it was 40° yesterday. She really did make me take off the boots, tights and sweater dress that I was already wearing. Although, she did thoughtfully tell me, "You can keep your underwear on."

Well. Thanks for leaving me that little piece of dignity.

But, I'm am proud to tell you, this girl is a champion barfer. She'll run herself to the bathroom (or grab her bowl), throw up, rinse her mouth and go back to the couch to lie down. The most she'll ask for is someone to "hold [her] hair."

Why do I think this is giving us a terrifying glimpse into her college years? I never really thought that I would be bragging on my daughter's ability to "puke and rally."

Shawn is out of town [I think I'll save him some barf, though, so he can have the full parenting experience]. I had book club last night. Don't worry. There is no part of my maternal instinct that considered missing my night out because I had a sick child. But, I did start to question whether I was a good mother when I left the babysitter with the words, "If she throws up, I promise I'll pay you extra!" But, I felt confident that Lulu was in capable hands when the babysitter responded with, "Don't worry. I'm sure little kid barf is way less gross than drunk college girl barf." And, I told her that, just like a drunk college girl, Lulu would really just need someone to hold her hair.

*clink clink* (That therapy fund is just growing and growing.)

Thanksgiving Recap

So. Thanksgiving.

It began Friday when the kids got out for the holiday after the special Grandparents' Day chapel service. Shawn and I started preparing for all the family that was willing to come to us, to come to us.

But, then we realized they weren't coming until Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving. And, my step-sisters and their families would be down at my mom and step-dad's come the Saturday before Thanksgiving. There really wasn't anything keeping us from going down for a little visit save a two-hour car drive. But, we can make that interstate drive with our eyes closed by now.

We did have to stick around for Lulu's finger check on Monday. But, come Monday evening, we were a-visitin'! And, Tuesday, we had Thanksgiving. (My mom is so good about "the date on the calendar doesn't matter. We can celebrate whenever we're all together!") And, so, we all stood around the kitchen on Tuesday and cooked a Thanksgiving meal together. It was awesome.

Also, while we were there. We stumbled upon Uno Attack. Do you people have this game?! Well, you should! It's plan ol' Uno but instead of a "draw pile" there is a machine that randomly shoots cards at you - it will give you no cards up to, well, we got twelve cards one time. So fun for kids 6 to 96 to be able to "attack" their loved ones!

Quote of the visit: "Come lick my finger and tell me what it tastes like."

We awoke Wednesday to hit the road home and welcome our own guests: Shawn's cousin, David, his wife, Anna, and their little girl, Cora; Shawn's aunt and uncle, Reda and Bill; Shawn's brother, Will, and his son David; and, of course, Shawn's parents live here, David and Marie. (Notice there are three Davids? One would assume this would cause mass confusion. But, somehow we manage. I guess because there's Little David and the two Big Daves have different last names. Or we, as a collective family, are brilliant and not very prone to confusion. One of those...) Shawn's other cousin (Reda & Bill's daughter) and her boyfriend would have been here but there was a little too much vomit coming out of them to make for a pleasant car trip... wait... I've probably said too much... And, Will's wife and daughter, Cynthia and Kristen, didn't make it this time either. We'll give everyone a pass... this time... but, we expect bright, shiny (vomit-free) faces at the next family-gathering!

This little group of Shawn's family have always been so gracious to come to our house for Thanksgiving the past... four... or is it five?!... years. And, they made no exception this year even though we moved the party two hours further away from them!

They kept saying we were the best hosts. But, seriously. They are the best guests. Case in point: I tried to rescue this mangy, little, mean, rat dog that was wandering the neighborhood one night. But, it wouldn't let anyone touch it, so I just lured it into the garage with a piece of turkey and trapped it there. However, by the time we figured out it didn't belong to anyone to whom we thought it belonged and was really just a mangy, little, mean, rat dog, it had torn open all the bags of Thanksgiving trash that were in the garage with it. However, somewhere in the time that I was told of the mess and turned around to deal with it, Shawn's uncle and cousin had cleaned up every ounce of the mess. Now those are good guests.

And, that's just one example. That doesn't include the hostess gifts, the laundry, the counter cleaner because they noticed we were out, the cooking, the taking us out to dinner, the fun games of Uno Attack (Oh yeah. We bought our own.), the black-Thursday night/Friday shopping adventures, or Anna, the professional photographer, taking our family's picture as a "thank you" again this year...

I'm telling you. Good guests.

And, cute kids.

Quote of the visit:

This one needs a little background.

We needed bread to make sandwiches from the Thanksgiving leftovers. So, after Anna took our pictures, we stopped by Walmart. I ran in while the kids, Shawn and Anna waited in the car.

I came back and announced to Shawn and Anna, "I think I made a new best friend. He was wearing a skull cap, had a crazy eye and I think he was a little bit drunk. But, we had a great time in the check-out line together."

Shawn asked how I knew he was drunk and I told him that he was buying mixer and, when asked (by me) if it had reached the point of Thanksgiving when it was time to start drinking, he replied, "Oh it already reached that point a long time ago."

Spencer piped in, "What's mixer?"

I said, "The stuff you use to make 'grown-up drinks.'"

Spence said, "What's drunk?"

I said, "When you drink too many 'grown-up drinks.'"

And, I truly believe Spence's next statement was meant to demonstrate how he could use his new-found word in a sentence. But, what came out sounded for all the world like he had just figured out his mother. Like all his many, many questions were answered when he looked right at me and said,

"You're drunk."

A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words (in Therapy)

My childhood pictures keep appearing on Facebook (Brandy!). And, it has led me to a couple of conclusions about my girlhood.

#1. Evidently, the only way anyone could get a young me to look at the camera was by yelling, "Alison! BOO!"

It looks like it made my older sister, Brandy, a little nervous, too.

My mom on the other hand... quite pleased about people startling her toddler.

I actually added the next one to Facebook myself, with the comment,

"Holy $#!t! Do you see Grandma?!"

And, also?

#2. Someone should have stepped in and stopped all the neckwear!

WTH, people?! "Chippendale Dancer" and "Late Night at the Office" are not really "looks" we should be trying to achieve for our pre-teen daughters.

For all of the brilliant comments the following little beauty elicited, click here.

Forget the kids. This time I'm throwing the coins in my own therapy fund.

I Don't Do Tired Well

It doesn't look pretty on me. at. all. Just ask anyone. Anyone who's ever met me.

I even try to warn the kids: "Mommy is very tired tonight. Please help me so I don't get frustrated."

The other day we stopped at Sonic on the way home from school. The kids asked why and I told them, "I'm very tired. I'm going to get a Diet Dr. Pepper. It has caffeine in it. I hope it will help wake me up so I won't get frustrated with ya'll too easily." (I'm nothing if not honest - that's something, right? Yeah. Yeah. I know. Coins in the therapy fund. *clink* *clink*)

Yesterday, I was tired - again. Bone-numbingly tired. I have no idea why. But, it was like the cumulative tired of the past three months came crashing down on me yesterday afternoon. T-I-R-E-D.

I got the kids home from school. Every day, when we get home from school, Spencer gets a snack and then he does his homework. Every single day. I told him to get his snack then start his homework while I finished vacuuming.

I finished vacuuming and found him. Playing in the garage. On his new skateboard. I. flipped. out. I told him he had "no idea how angry" I was. I told him that that skateboard was "this close to going into time-out for a WEEK!" I was mad.

He came inside - contrite and repentant. He sat down to do his homework. I got back to finishing my housework. And, I hear his rational, calm voice say, "Mama?"

"Yes?"

"Maybe you should get a Diet Coke. You seem a little tired."

I didn't know if I should laugh... or get a Diet Coke.

Moving Update: Peaceful

So. I must be coming across as such a basket case that people have begun praying for me. (Which is good. Because I am a basket case and I do need you to pray for me.)

But, people, I have felt the prayers. I awoke this morning, so overcome with sadness. Today would be filled with so many "lasts." And, Shawn didn't make that last flight home (although, the mediation was successful - can I have an "HALLELUJAH!"?), so he would miss the kids' last day at school. I was so overwhelmed that it felt like my arms were floating. That's about the time the first person told me they were praying for me.

The kids and I got in the car to drive to school. (Here's the part where I would like to be able to tell you that I lovingly herded them through our morning routine without shouting and snapping their heads off, but that would be a lie. I was stressed out, we were running late and I took it out on the innocents in my path. Parenting Fail. *clink clink - coins in the therapy fund.* I did apologize to them. *taking some coins out for a Starbucks*)

In the car, Elizabeth was holding her stuffed poodle and Spencer was holding his nutcracker. This is the conversation I overheard:

"Nutcracker, do you want to go on a date night?"

"No."

"Ok. Do you want to have a sleepover?"

"Yes."

"Ok. Come on. Let's go to my room."

Ok. That's just funny. I don't care who you are. That poodle is a Good Time Girl!

I smiled.

I got to school and there was a letter labeled "Ali Johnson" in Elizabeth's cubby. It was quite a few pages. I opened it and read:

"Oh! The Places You'll Go!

by the incomparable Dr. Seuss

Congratulations!

Today is your day.

You're off to Great Places!

You're off and away!..."

It was the poem Oh! The Places You'll Go! with a note written at the end. I gulped and crammed it back into the envelope from which it had come. I gulped. I gulped. I blinked. I smiled and blurted out a goodbye to Elizabeth. I walked out and thought, "Who DID that?!" I went to the last page and saw the signature. I sought out my friend, Elizabeth's teacher from last year, Lindl and yelled at her for trying to make me cry on the last day of school.

We both laughed.

It was only moments ago that I finally felt like I would be able to read the note she added at the end of the poem without crying. It was so undeservedly kind. And, she asked me at the end if I needed to go potty (a reference to the little Ali that was in Elizabeth's pre-3 class last year. Every time Lindl asked, "Ali, do you need to go potty?" I thought, "Did she really just ask me that?" It took a good two weeks before I stopped being confused every single morning at drop-off).

I laughed.

The 1st graders had a Going-Away Party for Spence. They each told him something they liked about him or a memory they had of him. One little girl said she liked Spencer "because sometimes he really looked cute."

I smiled.

Then this happened on Twitter:

I laughed.

Our darling, sweet chaplain said a prayer specifically for our family during the Lessons and Carols service. It brought me peace.

Priscilla sat with me at Lessons and Carols. She reminded me that I accidentally groped her the other night and my finger got hung in her bra.

I laughed. hard.

It's so easy to be tough when the kids are around. If they saw me sad about this move, they would think, "Wait. What? You're taking us to a SAD place?!" So, I put on a smile. I say we're off on our new adventure. I tell them to tell the people who love us that we'll be back to visit! And, I ignore the ache in my chest.

But, now I'm sitting here alone. The kids are off playing with friends down the street. Movers are packing all around me. And, you. You are praying for my family and me.

There's still the ache in my chest. But, things keep making me smile and laugh.

I am at peace.

Turning Over a New, Imperfect Leaf (Shut Up. It USED to be Perfect. Yes It Did.)

I'm tired. I try to post every weekday.

Lately. Life is busy. Busy. Busy. Good! But, busy.

So, I sit here at 11:45pm trying to get Wednesday's post in before it's too late. And, my eyes droop. And, my thoughts? Not coherent.

No post today.

So, sue me. I'm not perfect.*

*I just heard somewhere that you do children a disservice by allowing them to believe you're perfect. Then they think anything short of perfection is failure. So, see? I'm helping my children know that you don't have to be perfect to be worthwhile. (Not that I would let them read this blog... See? Thoughts. Not coherent.) Anyway... I'm going to take some coins back out of the therapy fund - and I'm going to buy myself something pretty. As a reward for being imperfect.

I would really NOT prefer the view through your eyes right now

Lest you think my wit and charm pervade all aspects of my life - they DON'T. (Although, I'm not quite sure how showing you my moldy bread is witty or charming.)

It is never more apparent to me that God gave me children to help teach me patience than when we are loading into the car.  It just takes longer to get three or more people out the door than, say, one.  So, I try to account for that.  I always tell myself we're leaving ten minutes earlier than we need to; so when we're running late (and we're always running late), we'll still be on time.  We never are.  And, I loathe being late.  Add to that my children's "woolgathering" and it pushes me to the brink when I'm trying to get us somewhere in a timely manner.

Fortunately for me, my car is usually parked in the garage.

Unfortunately for me, today it was parked in the driveway.  So, when my head spun around and I bellowed, "Get in your seat and get yourselves buckled right now," I was able to see the painter across the street look up to see who exactly was flippin' out in the neighborhood. Viewing it through his eyes, I realized that I looked like a bossy lunatic.  It was not a proud parenting moment.

Fast forward to the pool.  Elizabeth screamed at her brother like she was possessed by a legion of demons.  I put her in time-out.  And while she wailed (and by "wailed" I mean... WAILED), I sat one chair over from her with my arms crossed, ignoring her until it was over... while every other mom at the pool bore witness.  It was not a proud parenting moment.

Then, once it occurred to me to feast on my public parenting shortfalls as blog fodder, I tried to get pictures of them frolicking at the pool (mainly just to prove that they are seemingly well-adjusted children despite their unadjusted mother).  While trying to get said pictures, I may or may not have been overheard to have said, "You can't use your candy token until you let me take a good picture of you."

Geez.  It was like my public display of shameful parenting was becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy.

These are the best pictures you can attain of children (with a phone camera)

when you ask them to "be still" while frolicking at the pool.  Yeah, right.

This one may have preceded the "no candy" comment.

Evidently, Spence has a big problem with paparazzi.  Who knew?

Uncovering Childhood Memories

We were at my dad and step-mom's house for dinner last night.  Our niece Abby played a little joke on my dad and he said, "Oh, you..."  I really expected him to finish the sentence with "Puke Chunk."  Puke Chunk?!  What the hell?!

Then I realized my dad used to call me PUKE CHUNK when I was little and would give him a hard time.  As we all laughed hysterically at my recollection, he admitted that indeed that was one of his pet names for me.  Talk about a repressed childhood memory.  But, luckily for me, last night was the first time I wrapped my head around just how GROSS that phrase is.  When I was a kid, I just thought it was a term of endearment.

I feel like so many questions have been answered all of a sudden.  And, I feel like maybe my dad owes a few coins to the therapy fund himself!

Here I am with my big sister, Brandy.

Daddy's little "Puke Chunk".

Busy, busy, busy

I vaguely remember the end of school being just this busy last year.  But, then, it's such a blur of activity, my memory is a little overwhelmed.  But, here's a brief recap of the past week:

Kindergarten performed the homily in chapel on Wednesday, Cinco de Mayo.  As I'm sure you'll remember, they've been studying Mexico and had some pretty awesome stuff to share, including the song "Si, Cristo Me Ama."

On the same day, the Kindergarten tumblers performed.

The next day, Thursday, was a groundbreaking for the new Learning Center our school is building.  Spencer got to be the Kindergarten boy representative - and wear a hardhat.  Our little introvert didn't even mind being the center of attention if it meant he got to dig in the playground with a golden shovel!

Spence and Lizzy

Friday was the Preschool Mother's day tea.

Saturday, I had a church meeting and Shawn needed to help his dad "work" some cattle.  So, he took the kids to Amarillo with him.  Elizabeth got to hang out with G'ma and Spencer helped the menfolk.

Having not grown up in a ranching family, I'm a little hazy on the details of "working" cattle, which is probably for the best.  But, the best I can gather is that the calves get immunizations, branded and, if they're male, they get "cut".  *gulp*  I wondered if that would traumatize my City Boy.  But, evidently, when they met the girls for lunch, Spence was really proud to tell G'Ma that "G'Pa cut off the cows' nuts."  Then he told her not to tell Mom because that was pasture talk.  (Sorry, G'Ma, guess they forgot to tell him that G'Ma doesn't need to hear pasture talk either!)  That night, Shawn and I went on a date and Priscilla told us that, at the end of prayers, Spencer said, "And God bless the cows that got their nuts cut off."  (We talked to G'Ma the next day for Mother's Day and she said all the calves were just fine, so your prayers must have worked, buddy.)

Elizabeth even had her own special cattle experience.  They were looking at some calves through a fence and one pawed the ground.  EA decided it was dancing, so she did her recital dance for it.  Later, whenever Spence would approach the fence, the calf would move away.  But, if EA went up to the fence, it would stay.  Awww!  It liked your dance, Lulu!  She's our own little "Calf Whisperer".

Sunday was Mother's Day and I was treated most fabulously by my darling brood.

Monday I took my car in to get its regularly schedule tune-up, and to get the side-view mirror fixed from where I slammed it into the side of the garage (just keep reading, we don't need to dwell on that).  Luckily, my back breaks are worn down, so I get to buy new breaks, too (I really hope you can read the sarcasm in that).  *Cha. Ching.*  I'm sure I need to drop some coins in the therapy fund for Spencer's calf cutting experience, but I can't afford it now.  He's on his own to find a way to deal with this one.  Mama's broke.

So, Shawn's at the mercy of the kindness of his co-workers if he needs to go anywhere during the work hours since I've commandeered his car.  Hey.  I still have to get things done around here.  This household doesn't run itself, you know.  And, it requires a vehicle to shuttle these little people around.  (And, to go where I want to go.  What?  Who said that?)

Maybe life will slow down once summer gets here.  Oh, who am I kidding?

Here's to the beautiful insanity!

Easter Bunny from Hell

We just received this picture in the mail from the Easter celebration at our country club.  Honest to goodness, I think I should submit it to awkwardfamilyphotos.com.

This photo has not been altered in any way.  The authentic 1960s feel is genuine - I think it's a combination of the gold sheer curtains, the burgundy chair and the horrifying clashing effect of my children's finery.

Now, why I allowed my children to sit on the lap of a man-eating rabbit that is clearly suffering from mange, I'm not sure.  And, I don't remember feeling that Elizabeth was in mortal danger, but I think I probably should have.  That thing was obviously moments from biting her head off - the flash must have distracted him just long enough to allow her to escape.  Sadly, it looks like Spencer was fully aware of the perilousness of the situation.

This is just cruel parenting at it's finest.

*chink, chink*  A few more dimes for the therapy fund.  "...and I remember this time that my mom made me sit on this horrifying, dirty bunny and she told us we couldn't hunt for eggs if we didn't smile and let someone take a picture..."

Self-Portrait

This picture came home in Spencer's bag.  It's a self-portrait.

My heart sank.  I wondered if I knew anyone who would know the name of a good child psychologist so we could delve to the bottom of why my son felt compelled to draw a picture of himself with his face scratched out.  And, I listened with half an ear for the telephone to ring with his teacher asking for a conference.  I mustered all the nonchalance I could and said to him, "Hey, Spence?  Did you draw this picture of yourself?"

He said, "Yeah.  I'm a football player."

Well, of course you are.  Maybe I'm the one who needs counseling.

Who's Really Playing Here?

We got invited to a playdate today.  Yay, playdate!  It was time for a distraction from Spring Break.  There were probably ten mommies there with their kiddos.  And my darling friend's house is a very kid-friendly environment.  It's a good thing, because there is a chance my kids couldn't have torn me away from the food table and talking even in the event of an emergency.  There might have been one point where I told Elizabeth to "rub some dirt on it" and sent her back out to play.  There was definitely a point where I looked down and found I was holding Spencer's ballcap in my lap and said, "When did he give me this?"  Oh well, they were in heaven in their own little kid mosh pit.

I was in heaven with "the girls".  It always feels so comfortable to talk to people who have gone through so many of the same things.  We can talk about the specifics of childbirth without sending anyone shrieking from the room.  With just about every topic... We know.  We understand.  We care about each other.  It's nice to get together and be reminded (even if it is in the midst of controlled chaos and pandemonium).

You girls do my heart good.  But, I probably could have done without the twenty-seven pounds of carrots, cauliflower, celery, crackers, dip, ricecakes, goldfish and honey grahams...

Cleaning Up the Child's Way

What is it about picking up that is completely baffling to a child?  I've taken to sitting in the playroom and watching (instead of jumping in and doing it all myself so it gets done "right") while the kids are supposed to be picking up.  O.  M.  G.

Elizabeth picks something up to put it away, but instead ends up telling it a story about where it's been and where it's going to go to be put away.  She will also run things back to her room one. at. a. time.

Spence will pick up.  But, his organizational system is involved and complex and multi-faceted.  The blocks can't just be stacked.  They must be stacked to architectural perfection.  The Legos can't be put away willy-nilly.  The space station must be rebuilt.  The cars must be parked at the starting line.  The airplanes must be ready for take-off.  You get the idea.

Then, when the final pronouncement is made that they have completed their task, I can count no fewer than twenty items still laying on the floor (not hiding or anything...).

I know this is a learned skill, but it's really hard to let them learn it when I just want to shriek and do it myself.  OCD, much, Ali?  And, keep me accountable here, it would be wrong to declare all their toys off-limits so they never make a mess again, right?

*chink, chink*  Putting more coins in their therapy fund...

Tooth Fairy Trouble

Spencer lost his second tooth!

But, this forced us to face a parenting pitfall we had stepped right into.  When he lost his first tooth, we had the perfect storm of Tooth Fairy payment.  First, we had just been on vacation with some friends whose son finally lost his double tooth after months of begging and pleading, rocking and pulling.  They were so excited and, as a result, the Tooth Fairy gave him $20 (which Spence witnessed).  Secondly, the night Spence needed payment for his first tooth, the "tooth fairy representatives" found themselves with only twenty dollar bills.  Whatever.  After a quick Google search of the number of baby teeth in a human head, rationalization that they never fall out at the same time, and the acceptance that we were too lazy to go get change that late at night, the Tooth Fairy left Spencer $20, also.  All was well with the world.

Until... the next day at school.  When Spence announced to his class, of whom he was the FIRST to lose a tooth, that the Tooth Fairy brought him twenty bucks.  Now, you can imagine, the Johnsons were not the most popular parents on the block that night.

So... we quickly discovered that the Tooth Fairy is given a "tooth budget" each night.  And, it just depends on how many kids lose their teeth on any given night as to how much she's able to pay.  Completely reasonable and understood.  We thought.

Until this morning when Spencer walked into our bedroom, crestfallen, and said, "She only left me five dollars."

(If you'd like to know this thought process:  I thought we would have to change the amount with every tooth to make the story feasible.  But, I didn't want to give him $10 this time and $5 the next - he'd surely be disappointed if it just got worse and worse.  He would completely balk if we went with $1 after $20.  So, $5 it was.  Again, complicated in my head.)

I said, "Wow!  She must have had more kids last night.  But, you can still buy lots of stuff with $5 (especially if you combine it with your overflowing piggy bank, Mr. Moneybags).  Wanna go shopping tomorrow?!" 

This seemed to placate him.

But, seriously, I'm sorry he's disappointed, but I can stand my ground on this.  Don't be ungrateful, kid.  I only got a quarter for my teeth.  It's time to learn to live with disappointment.  Life ain't perfect.

Clink.  Clink.  That's the sound of more money being dropped in the therapy fund.

So, if the Tooth Fairy hasn't visited your house yet, heed my warning.  Don't set the bar too high.  No one will be happy with you.

P.S.  Elizabeth wants you to know that she has teeth, too.

Can't a guy get a little sympathy around here?

This really goes without saying, but my sister is a fabulous aunt.  I could go on and on, but I'll leave it at that - fabulous.

Which makes this even funnier...

Spencer fell and had a bit of a dramatic reaction about it

(and it didn't help his drama that I happened to be standing there with camera in hand).

Once the crisis had passed, he got up and left.  And, this is what his beloved Aunt B did next

(unfortunately for her, I still had that camera in my hand).

Immitation is the most sincere form of flattery, right?

Ummm... B?  It might be your turn to toss a few coins in the therapy fund.

Spencer - not our ham

The Friday before school dismissed for the Christmas break, our school had the service of Lessons and Carols.  If you don't know what this is, it is a chapel service where they alternate reading a scripture and singing a holiday carol.  At school, each of the lower grades and the middle school choir took turns singing the carols.  There is serious danger of heart-melting.

After the service was over, my dear friend Jennifer came up to me looking quite rattled.  And, Jen's not the rattled type.  She said, "Is Spencer ok?!"  Apparently, after Kindergarten finished performing (during which he did the best public group performance I've ever seen him do.  I mean, really!  Big arm movements, I could hear him singing loud.  Awesome!) he returned to sit on the ground with his class.  I couldn't see him, but Jen could.  She said he went completely pale and his eyes rolled back in his head.  He started to tip over, but then he seemed to snap out of it.  She said, honestly, she almost kicked her shoes off and was plotting her course over the people in front of her to get to him.

I asked him about it later and he ducked his head, came in for an embarrassed hug and said, "I was just embarrassed!"

OK - three things about this:

1) My heart BREAKS that my child is so scared of performing in public that the relief of being done with it almost makes him pass out. I kind of want to wrap him in his "bungie" and tell him he never has to do it again!  (And a little part of me wonders if I got the wrong baby at the hospital. Thank goodness he looks just like his sister.)

2)  I must not try to overcompensate for his fear.  I must not tell him daily, "You know performing for people is no big deal!" or "What about performing makes you so nervous?" or "Next time, bend your knees and keep breathing.  You don't want to be the kid that falls off the back of the bleachers!"  I'm quite sure I could obsess him right into a case of agoraphobia.

3)  The bits of my broken heart completely swell over dear friends like Jennifer who care so much for my child.  There is no doubt in my mind that my completely socially-acceptable, more-class-in-her-little-finger-than-I-could-have-in-a-lifetime friend would have gone over the tops of people to get to Spence if he needed help.  (And, then there were her multiple texts checking on him and her threat to call if I didn't answer said texts more promptly.)  But then, when I stop and think about it, I can come up with at least ten other people that would completely disregard their social decorum if either of our kids needed them.  It's a little overwhelming to wrap your head around when you try to think about it.  It chokes me up a bit.

So, my conclusion.  We'll be thankful we go to our amazing school where they help kids get comfortable with public appearance (did I mention that each member of the graduating class gives a commencement address - and any one of them is good enough to be the sole speech?)  I will let them work their magic and try to keep my neurotic mothering out of the way.

But mostly, I'll be thankful for the blessing of our friendships with people like Jen.

Isn't parenting hard enough?

OK.  So here's my thought.  Don't we parents have a hard enough time trying not to screw up our kids without the help of professionally-made products?

Thanks to my sister, Brandy (yes, read all the dripping sarcasm into that that you want), we are now the proud owners of an "Elf on the Shelf".  If you don't know about this Christmas treasure, it's a little stuffed elf that sits in your house and "watches" the kids for Santa.  Each night he reports to the North Pole and returns to "hide" in a new spot.  The kids wake every morning to find his new hiding spot.  Well, we've only had our guy (lovingly named "Jingle Bells" [first name: "Jingle", last name: "Bells"] by our estatic children. Okay.  So, that's reason enough to do it.  But, I digress...) We've only had "Jingle" THREE nights and I already almost forgot to move him.  How am I going to get through YEARS of this "tradition"?

Oh well, guess it was about time to flick a few more coins into the kids' therapy funds anyway.