Spit on, peed on...and other fine freedoms.

Yesterday was the 4th of July. You know, Independence Day.

It is a day to commemorate all the freedoms we enjoy.

This particular Independence Day I discovered it's also a day to abuse those freedoms.

Take this journey with me through a rather unique day.

First stop every 4th of July for us is a good down-home parade. This year would be no exception. There's just something magical about donning red, white, and blue along a dusty street as sweat dribbles down your back pooling into the seat of your canvas folding chair as you watch vehicles roll by and kids dive for candy, dodging the wheels of those said vehicles!

On a side note, there's a couple things about parades I don't quite understand.

1) Why do the horses go first? Shouldn't they be the last entry, based on - ahem - what they leave behind? Just doesn't make sense to have them trot along first, relieve themselves and then have the rest of the parade participants have to drive, walk, roll or dance through it.

2) When did floats evolve into some guy slapping a sticker on their pickup truck and calling it good? I know those rolling trailers plastered with streamers and decor are a lot of work to assemble, but it's Independence Day. Put a little effort into it, people.

So if anyone has an answer to those, I welcome your comment.

Okay, back to the joy of parades. A good parade will always have its mix of oddities. Take this example:

A droopy-armed Statue of Liberty? Okay, that's just funny.

And then there's always a parade entry bordering on ridiculous:

If this is what the tooth fairy actually looks like, I'd lie awake at night too. Only in sheer terror, not giddy expectation! This guy is hoping you'll bring your family to him so he can work on your teeth. Or help you in your next Lil' Miss Pageant, I'm not sure.

But eventually the festivities ripened (literally - the sanitation dept is the final participant, plodding along slowly as everyone deposits their wrappers, bottles and various trash.)

We make the long, hot trek back to our vehicle and crank the air conditioning to the point of hypothermia. Whew! Can't wait to go home and get started on preparations for our 4th of July party.

There are games to plan, condiments to cut and drinks to bury in ice. But what would a good party-prep day be without an injury? I wasn't sure at the time what I did to cause such excruciating pain on the top of my foot, but I hobbled through the party gathering more sympathy than necessary (I mean, really. I couldn't even remember how I hurt myself!).

It wasn't until I fell into bed after midnight that it dawned on me that when I was getting folding chairs out of the storage room, one of them slipped and fell on my foot. At the time, I was too much in a hurry to get things set up and didn't have time to nurse any wounds, so I kept going. And didn't give it another thought...until I nestled into my pillow to unwind from the day.

So we throw a big shin-dig. Lots of people come. We eat. We play crazy games. We have fun. All the while, I wince in pain.

At nightfall, our family packs up and heads to see the city's fireworks display. I find an open spot for my family of 5 to snuggle in and take in the sights and sounds...and the "freedoms" around us.

One being the family behind us. Enjoying sunflower seeds. As I leaned back into our blanket on my hands, their night included the freedom to spit those seeds at my arms. The sensation of someone's spit sunflower shell stuck to your arm is, well, pretty nasty.

I was more amazed at the continuation of it even after I attempted to voice my displeasure about it.

But that was the least of my concerns. Because not a single firework had exploded yet when suddenly I feel a very warm sensation running down my legs. My 3-year-old, sorta potty-trained son is on my lap.

When we had him use the bathroom prior to leaving for the fireworks, he didn't need to go. I knew I should have thrown a pull-up on him at the very least, but I was confident he would tell us if he needed to go. After all, he'd been doing so well the last couple of weeks! But it was late, the child had been running nonstop all day in the heat, and he was tuckered out. Getting to a bathroom was not on his radar one bit.

So I became a human toilet. It's a free country, after all.

Easily the most uncomfortable fireworks experience of my life. My son wasn't fazed a bit.

So the evening ends with me hobbling back to our vehicle on my bum foot, soaked with urine which is now catching the breeze and giving me a chill, longing for the moment I will be in my shower, letting suds wash away the layers of "freedoms" penetrating my skin.

Fortunately, today is a new day. I was able to get out of bed without wincing in pain - my foot felt fine and I even ran 4-1/2 miles to burn off that extra dessert I consumed last night.

Not bad. Parade sweat, sunblock, sticky candy residue, dust, spit, pee AND foot pain: gone.

I may just wave that flag of freedom now.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder...at any age!

If you've got kids, then you've got sibling rivalry.

I've talked to enough other moms to know that kids will fight, it's just in their DNA. I'm typically amazed at how quickly the bickering can begin at my house, though. Thirty seconds into breakfast and someone is offended that their sibling is "looking" at them.

Yes, actually noticing you're at the table is a harsh crime, I know.

Of course there are the all-out brawls that require me to run some interference. I have two boys, after all, and sometimes a full-body tackle is their way of saying, "Hey, I like you and wouldn't mind having your attention."

Their sister is not fond of this type of bonding. She's female. She'd prefer verbal communication.

But amidst all the pinching, punching, name-calling and hair-pulling, I believe they still love each other.

And last night proved it.

My daughter was off to a sleepover.

I had no idea this would cause her brothers such emotional turmoil.

Within seconds of her departure came the waterworks. Oh the sobs! The heart-wrenching cries for their sister.

"I miss her!" managed to escape their lips between blubbering wails.

I managed to get them calmed down enough to carry on with the evening's activities, but then bedtime arrived.

And the floodgate of tears opened once again.

My older son recently had his tonsils removed, so all the violent cries sent him running to the bathroom to spit up blood.

I know. Ew.

But at least it was a good argument for him to calm down - his health depended on it!

I attempted to phone their sister in hopes that a 'good-nite' greeting may bring rest, but the phone was left unanswered.

You can imagine the disappointment.

They finally drifted into dreamland when I told them the sooner they fall asleep, the sooner it will be morning and she will be home.

But wow. As sad as I felt for them (and myself - to be honest, I was missing her too), I couldn't help be full of incredible joy.

My kids genuinely like each other.

Whew. What a relief.

Plus you know I'm going to use this to my advantage the next time they're at each other's throats and declaring, "I wish you were never born!" and other hurtful phrases they love to blurt out in their anger.

Because I'm hoping a little reminder of how it feels to be apart may offer some perspective. That is, if I can just get my son to release his sister from that headlock.

Tales of a Sandbagger.

I hurt.

There. I said it.

The thing is, when I started this whole process I was strong.

Nearly invincible, really.

I was pitching sand with that shovel like a sugar-crazed kid in a playground sandbox. (Well, I was out-shoveling the old guys, at least.)

And food?! Nonsense! I scoffed at the need to eat! I'd plow through my shift simply hydrating with water. By the end of the day all I could think about was getting out there and doing it again the next day.

Then the next day came.

Or I should say, the middle-of-the-night came. And a strong sensation of soreness penetrated my brain simply because I moved my fingers.

My fingers?! I was suddenly struck with fear.

If my fingers hurt this badly, what will I feel if I try to move my whole body out of this bed?

Sure enough. When morning came, it wasn't an easy transition to an upright position. But I popped some ibuprofen and committed to venturing out for another day of sandbagging.

I moved much slower this time. And lunch and snack breaks were a welcomed reprieve.

The 40 mph wind gusts whipped sand in my eyes. The cool morning air on my exposed neck left a miserable chill. Every lift of the shovel loaded with rain-soaked sand sent sharp pains through my lower back.

Unlike the previous day, I was not thinking about what more I could do...I was thinking about how surely someone could make this process easier. Like, what about making a machine that spits out sand into bags on an assembly line - kind of like in a candy factory? All we have to do is grab the bags as they roll off the conveyor belt! Easy as pie! Literally!

I know they have those fancy spider machines, but today it wasn't even all that feasible to use them due to the strong winds. It just blew sand around. Besides, those machines still require a lot of people to grab the sand as it falls.

I couldn't help think that in 50 years when our kids are doing this again for some freakish flood, the old geezers like me will be saying, "Remember back when we had to shovel the dirt into the bags by hand? And they needed hundreds of volunteers? Now they can get the same work done in a quarter of the time with a quarter of the people!"

Hey, when you're tired, sore, and freezing...your mind takes some travels. It's probably therapeutic.

But just when I felt like I couldn't fill even one more bag...I'd look up from my work and see...

...the mountain of sand they're expecting us to get into bags in the next 48 hours.
...a group of National Guardsmen and women who never seem to tire, despite working around the clock.
...a young boy gripping his plastic shovel and grinning from ear to ear - ready to make a difference.
...another trailer pulling into the site, its occupants full of hope upon viewing all those sandbags.

And...a group of 'newbies' - asking for a tutorial on their first sandbagging day.

We'll let them skip meals and charge on through. After all, it doesn't really matter what tomorrow will bring.

Because today they're invincible.

And until someone invents that sand-spitting conveyor belt, they'll have to be.

Roll Call

So you probably heard the world was supposed to end this weekend.

News flash: It didn't.

Which kinda bums me out.

I mean, I'm in the middle of laundry. I don't like to do laundry.

And I've got some deadlines looming this week that would be really great to blow off.

But my kids would probably be mad. It's their last week of school - so, translation: it's a week of parties.

And who would want to leave all that?

Considering their sugar high should bring them home in a state of uncontrollable excitability, uh, the answer would be me.

But here we are. No rapture. No end of the world. No good excuse to miss my deadlines.

I guess if I'm a little disappointed, that Harold Camping guy must be devastated.
 
Although he probably isn't done predicting stuff.
 
And at 89 years of age, he doesn't have all that much longer on this earth anyway.
 
But cheer up, Harry.  We all make mistakes. It's not the end of the world.

Fill the water cooler with Kool-Aid and see what happens.

When you spend a lot of time with a three-year-old, you learn a few things. Mainly, you learn what is really important.

For instance, when you get up in the morning, there should always be someone there to hug you. I practically incite a revolt any morning I don't get to my son's bedside quite soon enough.

I've also discovered wardrobe decisions should be based on one thing and one thing only: comfort. My son has no qualms whatsoever in wearing the same outfit every single day, even if it is a Spiderman t-shirt and shorts in the middle of January.

Eating a meal should always be regarded as a social event, perhaps even sliding into the realm of being a spectator sport. If I can make you laugh at how I eat a noodle, then the meal is a grand success.

Since we're on the topic of food, if I lived like a 3-yr-old, I would inhale a bag of potato chips believing it equates to numerous servings of nutrient-rich vegetables.

Never resist a compliment. Instead, agree wholeheartedly. Whenever I tell my son, "You did a great job!" it typically evokes an “I know! I'm amazing!” Where does that healthy self-esteem go when we hit the junior high years?

Speaking of self-esteem, every mirror should be an invitation to strike a pose, make a silly face or simply just stare at yourself for a solid minute or two. In no way should this appear self-indulgent.

Let's not forget the abundance of creativity oozing from this pint-sized person. Based on this fact, nothing should be off limits as a canvas when you have a crayon, marker or other writing utensil in hand. Give your home some character.

Consider the joy of sticky treats. A sucker, popsicle or gum should be all you need to lift your spirits in an instant. Just think of the weight we'd lose if we reached for one of these instead of that soda or latte? Go ahead - walk into the conference room tomorrow with a popsicle for every attendee. You'll be the office hero, I guarantee it.

Or at least my three-year-old will guarantee it...

with his popsicle-smeared grin.

Which reminds me of the final lesson today from three years of endless wisdom:

Smiles should be as automatic as breathing.

If they're not, you need to find yourself a three-year-old to hang out with.

A Day at the School Cafeteria...RIP Kiwi Fruit.

I decided to join my first grader for lunch at school today. My first clue that indicated this decision was not my finest was the high decibal of noise upon entering the cafeteria. I really don't think I could eat day after day in that kind of noise.

Kids adapt quite well, though. However, there are some things they simply can't adapt to. Allow me to explain.

I'm not sure what kind of students the administration thinks they have in these schools, but last I checked, mine wasn't Edward Scissorhands.

Because apparently that's what they expect.

I'm in line with my son, curious as to what is being served on this fine Thursday. First stop - fruit. Mmm...the kiwis look quite yummy. They are whole kiwis cut in half. But not peeled, mind you. This is important information to note.

They also have a cup of mandarin oranges, but I pass on those in light of the vibrant kiwi.

Next stop: baked potato.

Hey, I'm impressed. They look pretty good. They're just the right size - not those gigantic ones we stuff ourselves with at a potato bar. Plus they're not crazy hot, just warm enough not to burn those little tongues.

And finally, a stop at the shredded beef sandwich. It doesn't look too bad, albeit plopping it on a bun with an ice cream scoop causes it to lose some of its appeal, but I'm not at the local steakhouse afterall. I'm in a public school.

Now for the critical step of this journey. I meander over to the condiments and silverware section. I consider adding BBQ sauce to my sandwich, but then figure I'd probably just make a mess with it, so I pass. I grab my pad of butter and a fork and...that's it.

Wait a second. Just a fork?

I look at my tray. Kiwi. Not peeled. Baked potato. Not cut opened.

Uh, this is a significant quandary. What are they worried about? Do they think these kids are going to clear their trays and then board an airplane? What's with denying us a simple butter knife?

My son leads me to a table and we slide in next to easily the most obnoxious child I've been around in quite some time.

On a side note: I soon find out this is the same boy that has been picking on my son on the school bus, bullies him to the point of forcing my son to do things he knows are wrong and therefore gets him into trouble.

Bully Boy eats his oranges and then proceeds to make rude jokes while dissecting his sandwich, smashing the meat and poking his potato as if attempting to kill a wild animal.

I lean over and whisper to my son, "Doesn't he annoy you?"

My son shrugs and nonchalantly responds with, "No."

To myself I'm thinking, I've only been here 5 minutes and I want to drop-kick Bully Boy.

But back to my initial dilemma.

I attempt to cut open my potato with my fork. I look over to see my son slowing pulling away layers of his potato peel. I tell him that will take forever, and we don't peel our potatoes with our hands.

I assist and cut his open with his fork too. As I do this I think, When I'm not here, how does he even eat it?

I finish my sandwich - which, by the way...I should have taken the risk with the BBQ sauce because that was some seriously dry beef -  and potato and then pick up my beautiful kiwi.

It really looks tasty. It's bright green. Juicy. Scrumptious.

But with no knife...it's also unattainable!

So I grab the only utensil allowed and proceed to mangle my poor little kiwi with that over-worked fork. By the time I'm done, my hands are covered in juice, the kiwi is so mashed and unrecognizable that I feel like there should be a moment of silence for the deceased little thing.

As I lick my fingers to try to salvage some of the goodness, I look up to see about 20 little eyes staring at this crime scene.

And a boy holding his own kiwi with a look of complete bewilderment on his face. He digs in with his fingernail in hopes of shaving back that fuzzy coat.

That wasn't working, so sadly...he just put it back on his tray and got up to leave.

Two kiwis. Two deaths.

One by massacre.

One by abandonment.

Oh dear school dietician, will you please supply knives or else pre-cut the food for these young children who struggle with decent manners as it is?

If not, I will be scanning the lunch menu a lot differently from now on.

If there's a food item that will require slicing of any kind, I will pack a home lunch.

I'm just saying no to kiwi homicide.

Not cryin' over spilled milk

Can someone please explain to me how 4 ounces of milk, once spilled, multiplies itself to a gallon?

I made a poor judgment tonight and let my 3-yr-old stuff a straw into his cup of milk. But the straw was one of those "silly" straws - about four feet long and way too top heavy.

And since the child still hasn't grasped the concept that straws do not magically turn an open cup into a sippy cup, he proceeded to dump the cup of milk all over himself, the table, the chair, the floor, the deck, the backyard, into Canada...well, you get the picture.

Milk EVERYWHERE.

It's remarkable, really. How that little bit of milk can flood an area, ooze into every crevice, and cause such a panic.

All because of a bad choice on my part to allow that straw.

But when I tell him a straw is not a sippy cup and he needs to keep the cup flat, his response is, "But I want my head up because I want to see your head, Mommy."

He wants to see my head.

He wants to keep his eyes on me.

How do you stay mad at that?

I sure don't. I may not cry over spilled milk, but I do cry over the delight of my little boy.