Finding a dead squirrel in one’s tomato patch seems rather innocuous, particularly when one owns a ferocious crackhead beagle. In this case, the dog had nothing to do with the squirrel’s untimely end—she’s too bent on eating the air conditioning man. This particular rodent and his friends died because they didn’t take the hint and get the hell out of our tomato patch.

Mr. Jenn takes great pride his garden and in the neighboring wildlife. He always yelled at the dog for digging around his veggie plants and chasing critters. When deer began to nosh on our turnip greens earlier, Crackhead napped on the porch.

“Damn useless dog,” Mr. Jenn, Lord of Mixed Messages, muttered.

He then enlisted Lil’ K.’s help in constructing a scarecrow. The deer moved on.

When the squirrels discovered the ripening tomatoes on the thirty-three vines Mr. Jenn planted, he tried peeing on the scarecrow in hopes that the scent would scare them away.

Later, we found a green tomato with a squirrel-sized bite in it. I looked up into a nearby tree and discovered several more tomatoes sitting on a squirrel feeder Mr. Jenn constructed last winter. My dear husband, who apparently fancied himself Walt-Freaking-Disney or something, had to take action quickly or he was going to lose the several pints of salsa and quarts of tomato juice that I preserve each summer.

He tried putting a fake owl beside the scarecrow. The following day, we found chewed-up tomatoes under the owl.

Shots startled me at the buttcrack of dawn the next morning. My husband had disappeared, so I crept to the garden, making sure the Mayans hadn’t confused their dates. I found Mr. Jenn in his underwear, aiming his .22.

“The little bastards should have left when I asked nicely,” he whispered.

POW! A squirrel and a tomato fell out of the tree. Apparently, Walt-Freakin’-Disney no longer wanted squirrels in this” small world!”

I know that some of you are pro-vaccine, and some of you might be against them; I’m not cashing in on the debate today. I just want to hide behind my horny books. I’m just dealing with my own personal fall-out from terrifying my children for their own good yesterday.

I didn’t tell Lil’ K. about the afternoon plans until I absolutely had to; Lil’ P. is too young to get it yet, although after yesterday, he probably has a good idea of what’s going to happen to him when we pull up to a particular white building in the future. We carried on with picking blackberries and swimming lessons as we would on any other day.  I thought about keeping quiet about the whole doctor thing until I hit office parking lot, but I decided against it.

“Mama, why can’t we swim a little longer?” asked Lil’ K. when her lesson was over. “I wanted to show you what I learned today.”

“We have to do something now,” I said vaguely, feeling like an asshole.

“Not extra swimming today?” asked our swim teacher raising her eyebrows at me. We hang around in the pool for a while every day.

“We have to go to the D-O-C-T-O-R,” I spelled grimly.

“Oooooooh,” she said with a knowing nod.

I nodded back, Lil’ K. looked up just in time to catch our exchange.

“I don’t want to go to the O-C-T-D-Q-Z,” she told me, eyes widening.

“Where is that?” I said, grinning at her. “I don’t know what the O-C-T-D-whatever is.”

“I don’t want to go. I don’t like it,” she told me. “Where are we going?”

I thought about holding her off. I considered lying, but my kid can read me like a book. I knew I was in for a major meltdown in the pool locker room, but her trust in me trumped the annoyance of a few tears.

“We’re going to see the doctor,” I told her. She covered her mouth with both hands and gasped as if I’d just told her we’d decided to take away her birthday for the upcoming year.

“Do I have to get a shot?” she asked from behind her hands.

I could have said that she didn’t. I could have said I didn’t know. I could have been evasive. But I did know.

“Yes,” I answered. “You have to have them so you can start preschool next year.”

The wailing ensued. Everyone was staring, probably wondering why I hadn’t lied. What a stupid mama, they were probably thinking. Now we have to listen to this kid screaming like she’s getting the shot now.

I consoled her as I dressed her. I promised to give her some quarters toward the Dream Light she’s working for this summer if she would be a brave girl and stop crying. I may as well have tried to stop an 18-wheeler by standing in front of it.

I thought about this some more as I was putting Lil’ P.’s clothes on. Why should she stop crying? She’s about to get stuck by a needle four times. I wanted to cry too. Lil’ P. saw her concern and began screaming in concert. I dragged them both out of there as quickly as I could. I longed to go hide somewhere with my Kindle and a dirty book.

To abbreviate this long story, we made it through the appointment. It took the nurse forever to draw up all the shots. Each kid had a tray of four. FOUR! I had to restrain their screaming little selves for four!!!!! We made it through. I took my sniffling, trembling, little children next door to the 7-11 and bought them cookies and doughnuts. I know, I know—nothing like creating a food addiction, right?

As I drove home, I realized how lucky I am that pain is so alien to my kids that they scream at the sight of shots. What if they were so sick that they didn’t care anymore who prodded them? What if they had had so many needle sticks that they barely noticed when another invaded their skin?

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a church-going woman—the floor could open up if I walked in. BUT I pray regularly, like ALL day long. I sent up many prayers of thanks at that moment. I also drove along in humble reverence and respect for the mothers and fathers who watch, restrain, and wipe the tears of their children who must endure this life-saving medical crap every day of their lives. I also thought about the looks on the faces of both my pediatrician and the nurse as they made my kids cry. I’m so thankful they have the strength, day in and day out, to administer good health to screaming kids in whatever form necessary.

“You know, Mama,” Lil’ K. began, her mouth full of cookie, “these Band-Aids are pretty sparkly and cool.”

“Dis,” added Lil’ P. I could see him spewing crumbs, as he touched his own silver bandage.

“I love you, Mama,” said Lil’ K.

“Luya,” added Lil’ P.

“I love you guys, too,” I told them. And they know everything I say is true.

I thought about scrubbing my truck when I left a July Fourth celebration and saw the passenger window, door, and mirror covered with bird poop.

“Aren’t you embarrassed?” Mr. Jenn asked.

“Not particularly,” I answered.

The next day, I turned the water hose on the crap. I didn’t have enough water pressure or motivation to scrub it off. My energy waned even more when I looked inside. I’m just compulsive enough that if I choose to wash the outside, I should clean out the interior, too. Snicker.

Since the Mayans said the world could end, I realized I drive the premier bug-out vehicle and that cleaning it out would prove erroneous. Inside, I saw a diaper bag stocked with diapers, wipes, spare kids’ clothes, one of my bathing suits, Lil’ K.’s video game, extra batteries, and applesauce. I found the equivalent of an order of fries and some chicken nugget chunks in and between the car seats. The floorboards in the backseat sported a book of hidden pictures, a pink pony, underwear, potty training pants, four little cars, Spiderman, a ball, and a raccoon. I also noted the double stroller, a dozen water bottles, more underwear, a dog collar and leash, and a potty chair in the back. All I needed was my Kindle stocked with my semi-pornographic novels so I could be happily horny at the point of my final expiration.

To make a long story less than 333 words, I choose to spend my remaining hours on earth lounging in the kiddie pool with the kids in smug celebration of my preparedness, faded bird poop, and complete lack of embarrassment.

Our day with Lil’ P., the child in question, began after Mr. Jenn took the Big Worrells fishing early one morning. Upon their return, they introduced the Little Worrells to their catch. Lil’ K., having caught some sizable fish of her own, was somewhat unimpressed. Lil’ P., on the other hand, nearly lost his mind with fascination.

Yes, my son made out with the dead fish. We didn’t predict that this would happen. Big A. merely held the fish up for his inspection, and before she could move it, he gave it a great big MUAH. I’ve been trying for months to get him to kiss me like that, to no avail.

It may not seem so unusual to see a little boy playing with a dead fish and spreading slime and scales across a kitchen floor. However, when the fish made it to the spot on the floor by way of the child’s head, things get a little more interesting. In another unpredictable move, Lil’ P. opted to scrub the fish across his head, drop it down his back, and let it slide across the floor so he could try to recapture its floppy slipperiness. Notice the odd part in his hair. The other side is stuck together with fish scales.

Our first bath of the day transpired before ten o’clock. Do you know how hard it is to get fish scales out of a child’s hair?

Mr. Jenn took the kids into the garden while he picked vegetables. In order to keep Lil’ P. happy, he gave him a bucket. Lil’ P. turned the pristine, clear water into this muddled nastiness in about three minutes. On to our next bath–Mr. Jenn may not be gettin’ any tonight.

You know you’re a mother to a boy when you drag him in the bathroom with you so you can pee. He escapes, and by the time you catch him, he’s in imminent danger of cracking his head open. You forget that you didn’t flush until your husband/child/neighbor/mother-in-law/air conditioning man reminds you a few hours later.

How the hell did he get that?

I guess I should have let him keep it.

The bowl might have kept him out of here.

Finally, you know you’re a mother to a boy when you forget you even own thong underwear until your son goes digging in your closet and comes out with a pair on his head.

I’m linking up with http://www.mamakatslosinit.com/blog/ for another wonderful world famous writing prompt this week. Check out the wonderful writers over there!

“They just want attention,” Mr. Jenn would always say when Big A. and Big T. would swing from the ceiling or chase each other around the house with sticks. Mr. Jenn happens to be in law enforcement so he has a commanding presence. He could always shut down bad behavior just by making an appearance in the room, but he also knew that much of the Big Worrells little kid foolishness was just their way of asking for our time and attention. During those nutty times, Mr. Jenn would stop what he was doing, get in the floor, and just play for awhile. Inevitably, Big A. and Big T. would calm right down. The other day, our small children, Lil’ K. and Lil’ P. were creating mayhem of their own while I was trying to clean the house.  Lil’ K. was chasing Lil’ P. with her dragon sword and Lil’ P. whipped around and pulled out a chunk of her hair. After correcting both parties, I took them outside and chased them around (with the dragon sword) for about half an hour until they fell on the ground giggling and went in for a nap. Mr. Jenn has taught me to allow our children to make us put down our adult problems and play for awhile. Even five minutes makes a big difference.

“Mr. Jenn was the best room mother…er…father ever,” sighed one of my colleagues at school the other day.  I had seen Mr. Jenn bringing in cupcakes and cookies to Big A.’s and Big T.’s classes on several occasions before we officially became “an item.” From the time he enrolled the kids in the elementary school where I taught, he was always there. The agency he works for encourages all employees to be active in their children’s schools; upper management also requires officers to do wildlife and law enforcement-related programs for kids. Mr. Jenn would come in to school with deer, bear, and turkey mounts to teach our students about wildlife management. In addition to sweets, he often brought live squirrels or snakes to Big A.’s and Big T.’s classroom parties.

Since we’ve been together, there are few performances or sporting events involving our big kids that he’s missed.

“I just want to be in a parade, though,” he’s been saying. “I want to fix that old truck up [the brown, rolling, jacked-up engine-less turd housed in our basement], hook it to my trailer, and haul a bunch of kids down the road. That truck would look good pulling a float, don’t you think?”

Since Big A.’s and Big T.’s float pulling days are probably over, we’ll have to see if Lil’ P. and Lil’ K. need a trailer in one of our community parades. Hopefully, they won’t mind being pulled by a large cow pie on Mickey Thompson Super Swampers.

Aside from his Room Dad duties, he also coached Big T. in baseball and football. He was also man enough to finally admit that neither sport was Big T.’s thing, so they both took up golf together. On his first attempt at golf in my parents’ back yard, Mr. Jenn launched both the ball and the head of his driver right smack into my dad’s tomato plants. Even though he initially sucked at golf, he was delighted when Big T. made the high school golf team. Mr. Jenn has certainly embraced the sport and plays with Big T. and enjoys free-for-alls and reckless golf cart racing tournaments with all his cop buddies.

Time, attention, and lots of playing seem to have worked with the first wave of Worrell kids. We can only hope that our second two turn out as wonderfully as the older ones. If the first twelve years of parenting with Mr. Jenn are any indication, we are in for a hell of a lot of fun in the next eighteen or so. Happy Father’s Day, Babe! I love you!

Anyway, I began the First-Monday-of-Summer waiting for the sweet little old man with the air conditioning tester and the tools to show up. Not one to waste a second, I began scrubbing the pantry/laundry room. To interrupt myself for explanation purposes, I love to can the veggies from our garden. I bought some cheap Fart Mart shelves on which to store the jars of string beans, tomatoes, and whatever else I can pickle the hell and botulism out of.

As I cleaned the floor around the largest shelf unit, I noted that the entire bottom had caved in on one side. If the thing chose to collapse while I was putting in one of the six million loads of laundry I do each day, I faced certain death by Mason jars of pickled beets—a notable, albeit painful, way to expire.

I cautiously dropped the F-bomb because I didn’t want the vibrations of my shaking rage to further weaken the delicate pyramid of jars obviously far too heavy for my damnable shelf. I spent the better part of an hour pulling all the food and jars off all the shelves in the pantry and stacking them in the kitchen. While carrying out this tedious time suck and sweating to death, I heard a disturbing series of pings, clinks, cracks and giggles. Upon checking out the noise, I learned that Lil’ P., who recently turned sixteen months, had just invented a game called Mason Jar Bowling with a golf ball he apparently pulled out of his ass. I say this because I had recently cleansed the house of these annoying television screen shatterers after realizing that Lil’ P. can fit a whole golf ball in his mouth. His big sister, Lil’ K., stood egging him on with a plastic golf club and laughing her head off at him.

“He’s pretty good, isn’t he, Mama?” she said, pointing to a cracked jar with string bean juice slowly leaking out onto the floor.

Again, it’s necessary for me to interrupt myself. I had planned all these educational good times for Lil’ K. and Lil’ P. this summer—reading, making crafts, and Other-Activities-Not-Involving-Nick-Jr.-or-the-Disney-Channel. Instead, I began our summer by setting up the Hellion Corral in the living room, piling it full of toys, loading both kids therein, and turning on a Max and Ruby Marathon. I bribed Lil’ K. to entertain her baby brother in the fence for the next few hours by promising to download a video game for her Leapster Explorer. Whenever y’all are ready, I’ll accept my Parent-of-the-Year Award.

About this time, Mr. Air Conditioning came up the driveway. As soon as I heard the barking and snarling, I realized I’d forgotten to put our crackhead beagle in her pen. Lil’ P. suddenly found a weakness in the fence, scaled the section, and pulled the whole thing over. I grabbed him before he cracked his head on the floor and ran outside to deal with Crackhead and Mr. A.C.

I found Mr. A.C. cautiously walking back to our outside unit with Crackhead snapping her teeth at his heels.

“Just ignore her, and she’ll stop,” I told him after welcoming him to our House of Nutjobbiness. Mr. A.C. would have nothing of it. Crackhead could smell concern and fear which fueled her barking and snarling. Mr. A.C.  kept swinging his electrical tester thing in the general direction of her head, which did nothing but further piss her off. At one point, she leaped with such passion that she farted explosively, paused for a second to look at her butt, then went right back to Defending-the-Homestead Mode.

Lil’ P. pointed at her. “Mudbutt, buttcrack, poot,” he noted helpfully.

Luckily, all the commotion roused Big A., my stepdaughter, from her fitful, warm rest, and she and Lil’ K. came outside to see exactly how the world might be ending. The girls called to the dog, and we distracted her enough to get Mr. A.C. back to his truck. Once she thought she’d chased the Bad Man away, Crackhead let us catch her and put her in her pen. Mr. A.C. then replaced the capacitor on our unit in about five minutes. I paid him, offered him a jar of pickles, then sent him on his way.

Big A. had since readied herself to go meet one of her college girlfriends for lunch. She kissed us all, hopped in her Jeep, and ran off to be carefree before busted shelves, falling jars, golfball throwing boys, crackhead dogs, and broken A.C. units replaced her adolescence with wrinkles, saggy boobs, and constipation.

Just as I got the fence repaired and both children safely sequestered back inside, I hear feet running up the porch stairs. Big A. burst through the door, breathless.

“There’s a mouse in my car,” she told me. “THERE’SAMOUSEINMYCAR!!!!!!!!!!!!”

She had left it here last week when she went to the beach with some of her friends; anything that stays parked out here in the woods for any length of time over fifteen minutes or so gets a mouse. If you doubt this, see my earlier post on Mouse Turds.

“I saw something moving in the passenger floorboard, then I saw its tail!” she cried. “It climbed up under the dashboard. If it crawls across my foot, I’m going to wreck.”

I had been texting Mr. Jenn at work throughout the morning with a blow-by-blow of each debacle, so I texted him for advice on the mouse.

“THERE’S A *&^%%$##@#$%^^ MOUSE IN BIG A.’S *&&^%^%$$# CAR!” I typed.

“BWAHAHAHAHHAHAHA!” he texted back, ensuring that he may never ever get any more lovin’ from me in this lifetime.

I popped the hood, beat on the dash, revved the engine, and knocked on the wheel well. I drove the Jeep up and down the driveway, hoping to scare the little bastard out of its hiding place, but having no idea what I would do with him if he showed himself.

“I don’t see or hear him,” I told Big A. when I returned. She continued to rev the engine in the driver’s seat. She was talking on the phone to her boyfriend, and I heard laughter on the other end.

“I’m so glad you find this funny,” she said as more chortling ensued.

“Get used to it,” I told her.

“Well, I guess I’ll try it,” she said, carefully putting the car in gear.

“Stay calm if he comes out,” I told her. “Don’t wreck—remember he’s much smaller than you.”

She nodded. “You just never know what’s going to happen around here, do you?”

“To steal from a gifted and hilarious blogger, Le Clown—every day is *&^%$ magical*,” I told her. And so it is.

*Le Clown has two worthwhile blogs, and both are linked here. Happy reading!

http://mylifeandkids.com/2012/06/finding-the-funny-22/

I’m lucky in that both my little kids snooze through the night (knock three times on my wooden head as I type this). Lil’ K.’s eyes have always opened with this deafening pop by the time the morning star moved into position to shine the tiniest ray of light through her window.

“Mama!” she would stand up in her crib and holler atop her little lungs when she got a bit older. “MAAAAAAAMMAAAAAAA! ‘Tum dit, ‘tum dit!”

Talk about an alarm clock with NO snooze button!

Faithfully, I would haul my sleepy carcass upstairs to “’tum dit” her and tuck her into bed with me. Once I was done nursing, I would shove a bottle in her mouth to buy Mr. Jenn and I some more sleep. We both swore that we would not use the TV as a baby-sitter, but after many months of sleepless Saturday and Sunday mornings, we decided that something had to give.

Mr. Jenn tried to keep her quiet with some cartoons on our bedroom TV. Lil’ K. had no interest.

“Thoooooo-mas,” she would tell me after 35 seconds of cartoons. “Peeeeeee-pole. PWAY!”

The only thing I wanted to do with Thomas the Tank Engine or Little People at 5:45 a.m. would be to stage an enormous train wreck so I could go back to sleep.

Our luck changed just after Lil’ K’s first birthday, I flipped to a dog show on Animal Planet, and Lil’ K. stood transfixed.

From then on, Lil’ K.’s morning wake-up call changed. “Maaaaaaaaaamaaaaaaaa! ‘Tum dit, ‘tum dit!’ she would scream. “DOOOOOOOOG!”

I would then drag my tired ass upstairs by the light of Venus (or whichever planet happened to be posing as the morning star on that given day) retrieve Lil’ K., park her in her high chair by the TV in our room with Cheerios, and flip on the dog show. She would sit mesmerized by poodles and St. Bernards alike as they pranced around the show ring every weekend around five in the morning. Problem solved. Mr. Jenn and I could pretend we were sleeping, even as Lil’ K. would get excited and kick in her high chair as the beagles pranced by.

“Ca-head! Ca-head!” she’d cry, pointing to the dogs that looked like our very own Crackhead beagle.

“Mmmmmm,” one of us would mumble and roll over at least until 7:30 or so.

1. Strewed/ strewn, or as Mr. Jenn says–STROWED. I picked all the cars, Little People, and dolls up this evening and vacuumed. I enjoyed walking across the living room without breaking my foot for about five minutes before the kids covered the floor with blocks. Lucky I love all the pretty colors.
2. Junk, or as Mr. Jenn says—JANK. Our basement is filled with mess we don’t need, including a jacked-up huntin’ truck with no motor. We have all this crap because we are hoarders nostalgic. Mr. Jenn and I both have older Family Furniture that belonged to People We Love before they passed away or had to move in with other relatives due to poor health. I went into labor with Lil’ K. after a bouncy ride in that stupid truck. The engine blew soon after, but neither one of us can seem to let it go. “I’m going to fix it,” Mr. Jenn keeps saying. “Some day.”
3.   Giggly—even Mr. Jenn can’t think of a better word. Someone’s always cackling around here, usually because someone farted or pooped their pants.
4. Smelly—see number three.
5. Um…Interesting—I have tacky taste. Aside from the family deer heads, Mr. Jenn has much more boring classy taste than I do when it comes to decorating. Our house is a pretty good blend our personalities. Antique tables contrast my flip-flop lights, flamingoes, and peeing dog. Big A. and Big T. gave me peeing dog for Mother’s Day early in our relationship. Peeing Dog “urinates” on things that displease me, like newspaper articles about educational budget cuts, the pile of blocks on which I tripped and nearly busted my ass in the power outage the other night, reduced fat Oreos, and the vacuum cleaner.
6. Active—our living room in the site of rhythmless dancing, wrestling, and God-awful interesting karaoke when friends visit. I can almost sing “Money, Money” on tune after I’ve had a little Captain in me.
7.  Wooded—Trees surround us on all sides. This is LOVELY in the summer because there’s always a breeze. It sucks ass in the fall because it takes DAYS to rake all the leaves. I helped induce my labor with Lil’ K. by raking then entire yard and deck before taking a ride in the rolling turd of a truck we have down in the basement.
8. Crabs—not the kind that requires prescription ointment, Silly! Steamed crabs! We have a long cafeteria table saved from a school auction that we cover in newspaper so all our friends can pick hard crabs with us. Mr. Jenn steams them with the perfect amount of Old Bay seasoning—he makes a good point when he says his crabs will make you slap yo’ mammy.
9. Frogs, fireflies, and owls—we love to light a citronella candle, sit on the back deck or the front porch, and listen to much better karaoke from the other residents who surround us.
10.  Family—we love an excuse to get everyone together for a good feed. Mr. Jenn cooks everything from fish to venison, and accompanies it with the best damn collards I’ve ever eaten. The man can cook circles around anyone I know. I’ll make a pasta salad. Y’all come eat, hear?

Lil’ K., who’s four, has been around longer that fifteen-month-old Lil’ P., so she’s had plenty more opportunities to embarrass me than he has. She was also far more verbal than he when she was his age. Whenever we would see people I knew around town, she would place herself between the new person and me, wrap her arms around me, scowl viciously, and say, “MY MAMA!” Most of the time, it was kind of cute.  Adorable, that is, until I was riding her around in a shopping cart at Wal-Mart one day soon after I had weaned her. I ran into a retired teacher with whom I’d worked. I had also graduated high school with her son, so I was really pleased to see her. She qualified as a Person I Wanted to Impress. She greeted Lil’ K., and oohed and ahhed appropriately. The lady asked if I was still nursing, and I told her that we had finished. Lil’ K. put on an unusually evil grimace, grabbed both my boobs, shook them with a fair amount of violence, and shouted with crystal clarity, “MY BOOBIES!” Passersby stopped suddenly, bashing carts into people in front of them. I guess the sight of an effusive baby groping two still-swollen boobies was a little much for even the Wal-Mart crowd.

“My,” blushed the Lady I Wanted to Impress, “I wouldn’t think of taking them from you.”

Lil’ K. dumped another humdinger while we were shopping with my mom at an upscale children’s boutique. We were in the middle of potty training, and Lil’ P. had just arrived on scene a couple of months previously. Potty training had been a miserable failure anyway, and his entrance had set us back even further than we already were. I had entrusted the whole process to those training pant thingies for the day, and I had my fingers crossed. No accidents yet.

I parked Lil’ K. in the play area at this ridiculously expensive store while Mom and I scoped out the styles we were going to look for on E-Bay. My mama didn’t raise no dummy when it comes to finding deals, y’all. Anyhow, as I moved through the store with Lil’ P. resting blissfully in the baby pack, I began to smell something akin to a cross between a broken sewer line and a bushel of dead crabs. I examined Lil’ P. and quickly realized he wasn’t the culprit. I followed my whiffer over to the play area where Lil’ K. was happily undressing all the dolls. I nearly fainted.

“Is there something you need to tell me?” I asked her.

“Nope,” she said, surrounded by naked, high-dollar baby dolls.

“Come with me right now,” I told her.  She emitted a long wail that shook the walls of the place, and all the ladies shot me disapproving glares.

I hoisted her over the gate and felt something mushy on her leg. I noted a smear on the expensive little chair she’d been using. Apparently, this was no ordinary mudbutt.  My dear mother came over and started to snicker. She snatched a few wipes from her purse and snuck into the play area to deal with the chair. I couldn’t very well sneak my screaming daughter off to the bathroom, but I did manage to swipe her leg clean enough to move through the store without causing anyone to puke.

There aren’t training pants today that could have contained what Lil’ K. expelled that day. I used an entire pack of wipes to clean her up. Being a good citizen and all, I took the fancy little trashcan out back to the Dumpster and suggested that the store owners light a candle. Lil’ K. screamed like I was killing her, and naturally, Lil’ P. was disgusted by his untimely wake-up call and joined in with her. My dear mother howled.

“What in the hammered down hinges of hell do you find so funny about this wholly shitty situation?” I asked.

“Watching your children crap on you and scream more than makes up for the time that I dressed you up, curled your hair, and took you shopping at Miller and Rhodes,” she began. “I needed to buy some make-up, so I told you to climb up in the make-over chairs and spin around for awhile until I was done. All the little ladies who worked there and those who were shopping thought you were the most precious little thing they had ever seen.”

Mama sighed at the recollection. “I got you situated in the chair. You arranged all your ruffles around you, poofed your darling little curls, and gave the most put-upon sigh I’d ever heard. In front of all those ladies, God, and everyone wandering around Miller and Rhodes, you snarled `AW THIT!’ at the top of your precious little lungs. The world must have stopped turning long enough for everyone to look at the beautiful little girl with the foul mouth.”

She looked at me and grinned. “Not much has changed, has it?”

“Nope,” I said, wiping poop off my hands and grinning back, “These kids will surely get me back tenfold.”

“I hope I’m around to see them as teenagers,” she cackled. “Nothing would please me more.”

Upon arrival, another Ballet Mom and I collected our fifteen three- and four-year old charges and herded them all to their seats. Other parents had to sit elsewhere in the already packed auditorium. A close friend of mine was sitting with her daughter’s class in the row behind ours. Once seated, we had about ten minutes or so until the show began.

Mrs. B., the dance teacher for all 125 ballerinas present for this momentous event, checked to make sure we had accounted for all the dancers in our class. Mrs. B. is probably on her third generation of students. She taught all my cousins and me when I was Lil’ K.’s age. She is currently in her 70’s and still pulls on her ballet slippers four nights per week to teach and choreograph our little dancers. Don’t get me wrong—this is not the New York City Ballet by any stretch, but it takes a hell of a woman to single-handedly wrangle 15 preschoolers into a line to teach them to point their toes and twirl. Mrs. B. only allows parents to watch practices once in the fall, and at the rehearsal in the spring. The fall practice was a bit of a cluster. Little girls were running everywhere, hiding behind the stage curtains, and generally swinging from the rafters of the school auditorium where they practice. Yet somehow, she had gained control and had them ready and eager to perform. Could we keep them under control for ten minutes? Not likely.

Within the first minute, one tried to escape.

“I’m going to find my mommy, now,” she told me with a devilish gleam in her eyes.

“Oh, no, Mommy wants to watch you dance,” I said. “Hang with Miss Jenn for a few minutes so Mommy can see what an awesome little dancer you are.”

“NO! I’m going to find my mommy,” she said again, grinning as she attempted to crawl between my legs. I snapped them shut just in time.

“No, you’re going to sit with me,” I said, blocking her into a corner seat. I noticed that my friend, who had been sitting with her daughter’s class right behind me, had disappeared. I could have used her moral support as the other mom for our class was texting at the opposite end of the row. I counted ten of our little girls bouncing the auditorium seats up and down. One had climbed on top of the chair back, and I caught her before she attempted to crowd surf on the ballerinas behind us.

Just as I snatched up another kid trying to slink away to her mama, my friend came charging back down the aisle.

“Ohmygosh, ohmygosh, ohmygosh,” she cried. “Some guy just threw up down my back.”

“WAH?” I raised my eyebrows up into my hairline. “HUH?”

“He was trying to push past someone bringing a double stroller in and couldn’t make it to the bathroom. He got me and two other people,” she explained.

“WTF?????” I asked. “Was he drunk?”

“I don’t know, but my mom helped me strip down and wipe off in the bathroom. I used that handwash stuff and paper towels to clean my dress and myself. Thank God my mom was here!” she sighed, her face the color of the cinder block wall.

“I am sending you a mental shower,” I told her.

“I am standing under its warm water running straight Clorox on myself,” she answered. “Only here, right?”

I want to believe the dude had the stomach flu, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t. Only in this Podunk village of ours would someone show up drunk to a ballet recital and puke on the Dance Moms. I love my home.

Just then, the lights dimmed on the vomit and all the wriggling children. The first adorable class of three-years-olds sashayed across the stage, and I heard a crescendoing wail from one of my charges. I reached for her and began to pat her back.

“I want my mommy!”she sobbed. I had no clue where her mommy was .

“Mommy can see you, and she’s so excited about watching you dance!” I whispered, picking her up and putting her on my lap. “Let’s watch these dancers together. Aren’t they great?”

“I. WANT. MY. MOMMY!!!!!!!!” she screamed as I bounced, patted, and talked. I pulled toys out of the Bug-Out-Ballet Bag for her, and she threw them back.

The screaming lasted throughout the next act, and no one came to claim her. I continued bouncing, and I noticed eye-make-up rolling down her face. I tried to mop it up with one of the baby wipes I had in the Bug-Out-Ballet Bag.

“Mommy, why is she crying?” asked Lil’ K., looking concerned. I hoped she and the rest of my crew wouldn’t turn into sympathy criers.

My friend sighed behind me. “I wish I had some ideas! They’ve been covered up with barf.”

I snickered, and so did she. The kid continued to wail at the top of her lungs. In her defense, the whole concept of the evening was terrifying. Imagine being three—your mom has to drop you off with strangers, the lights go out, AND you have to get up in front of an auditorium full of people and twirl. Still, what the hell was I supposed to do?

I finally picked her up, put her on my shoulders and let her wail, hoping someone in the throngs of people would claim her.

Echoes of wails rang out, and I led her out of the auditorium when her screams began to drown out the music. Thankfully, her mother claimed her in the hall.

I returned to my group to find that I was a class behind in getting the girls to the stage. My other mother stopped texting and helped me herd them backstage. The crying child sat with her mother and continued wailing.

I hugged Lil’ K. before she went on. As she skipped out on the stage with her class, she turned to wave at me. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I watched her leave. This would be the first of many goodbye waves as she embraced independence and left me to watch her shine. She performed brilliantly–twirling, and arabesque-ing with all the perfection a typical four-year-old can muster. At the end, she blew the audience an enormous kiss with both hands (not part of the choreography), bowed with flourish, and left the stage before the others.

She leaped in my arms, and said, “Why do you have black stuff running down your face like that little girl?”

“Just sweating a little,” I told her. “You were amazing.”

“Can we do ballet again next year?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I told her.

Parks and Rec Ballet Recital Day in my town begins with a dress rehearsal the morning of the Big Night. This gives all the moms a chance to practice the curling and pinning necessary for this momentous event as well as give tragedy the opportunity to strike as it almost did us in the form of our beloved crackhead beagle.  Lil’ K. was sporting an amazing array of boing-boing curls and shiny new pink tights as I carried her to her car seat for safe keeping. I had already strapped Lil’ P. in when I noticed that a green booger the size of Utah had suddenly taken up residence on his face. I quickly headed around to the front seat of my truck, dug through carefully poofed costume and hair accoutrements, and produced a pack of Boogie Wipes. I flarked up and left the front truck door open as I hurried around the other side to get rid of the growing gob. As Lil’ P. pitched a royal fit, shaking his head and booger everywhere because he likes to keep his nose creations on display, I noticed the crackhead dog jumping up into the front seat onto the sacred ballet costume with muddy feet. I swore at her so loudly that the earth shook.

“Don’t say that, Mama,” said Lil’ K.

“Sum bit, sum bit, sum bit,” Lil’ P. cried from behind the wipe which I still had attached to his booger.

The damn dog attempted to snatch and run with a ballet shoe, but the open ballet bag gave way and spilled combs, extra tights, shoes, and bobby pins all over the floor of the truck and the ground. With aerial precision that would have rivaled a Barnum and Bailey production, I dove over the seat, placing my now-booger covered body between the dog and the costume. I yanked the ballet shoe back to safety and snarled at Crackhead with such alpha dog viciousness that she took off with her tail between her legs.

I then found myself stuck. With both feet in my children’s face and my ass wedged in between the two front seats, I realized, with great regret, that pin curling practice had stressed me to the point that I had  eaten about a half-dozen cookies the previous night. From my awkward vantage point, I surveyed the damage to the costume. With a sigh of relief—a small sigh, mind you, as I was too jammed to have room to draw a breath gusty enough to herald my gratitude to the Lycra gods—I noted that all dirt marks were on the inside of the costume. I wiped them off easily with a Boogie Wipe. The pink coating on the underside of the toe of Lil’ K.’s ballet shoe had peeled back slightly, but no one would notice.

“Thank you, God, thank you, God, thank you, God!” I said. I swear I thought I heard some Universal laughter in response. I’ve always suspected that God has an infinite sense of humor, and spastic mothers like myself must provide Him with hours of entertainment.

“Amen, amen, amen,” sang Lil’ P. from the backseat, cackling mightily. He must have thought I was saying the blessing, and he loves to insert his two cents at the end.

“Mama, your butt is up in the air,” noted Lil’ K. helpfully.

“Butt, butt, butt, poot!” howled Lil’ P.

“Mama, are you stuck?” asked Lil’ K., suddenly awash with touching concern. “How will we get to my ballet recital?”

“Mama will figure this out,” I told her. “She always manages to get us where we need to be, right?”

“Yeah, but your butt usually isn’t on the ceiling of the truck,” she pointed out.

“True dat!” I answered. Uncharacteristic grace had gotten me into this position, but I had a feeling that nothing short of screaming awkwardness would get me out. I tried humping the console to wiggle myself out, and that gave me enough leverage to grab the glove box handle. I rocked back and forth on my belly with such force that I flipped myself over and up, cracking my head against the light in the ceiling and knocking the dome loose. The center console groaned beneath my weight as my momentum carried me across Lil’ K.’s lap, out the door, and onto the ground. Oof.

“Nice one, Mama,” said Lil’ K.

Crackhead rushed over from whatever mudhole she’d been inhabiting since I swore at her and began licking my face. Apparently she’d been eating something dead near the mudhole. Delish.

I finally cleaned myself up enough to get to the rehearsal. Mrs. B., my daughter’s dance teacher, handed me the list of girls in her class and reminded me that I’d agreed to sit with all fifteen three- and four-year old girls and get them to the stage on time for their performance. I thought of the last hour of my existence and cackled.  I looked at the row of girls in pink poof awaiting direction in their folding auditorium seats. One girl was lying prostrate on her seat, both feet up in the air and her coiffed head resting on the floor. Another child had folded herself up in the seat, both legs spread eagled. Still another was screaming because she had somehow wedged her legs behind the chair while rocking up and down on the folding seat. I heard Universal laughter all around this complete holy shit affair. Clearly, God was in for another howling good time at my expense. Come back tomorrow, and I’ll let you know what happens.

As I filled my basket with crispy plants sporting a steep $.25 price tag on a kiosk near the pet section, I spotted the smokin’ hAWtest pair of tanned legs I’ve ever seen. The owner of said legs was buying dog food with his back to me. Normally, I am a butt woman; it’s my 80 year-old grandmamma that would ooo and aaa over the legs of the men I brought for her perusal.  The legs on this one overshadowed the ass completely; he would have to wear pants if I ever had the opportunity to show him off to Grandmama because I didn’t think her heart could stand it.

I sidled up to him with my crackling hostas. I pretended to peruse dog toys, while I watched him move from the dog food to the flea killer. He and I turned to face each other at the same time, and a spark of recognition passed between us.

“Oh, hey,” we said at the same time. HE was the divorced guy from the elementary school where I worked. He had enrolled his two kids there the prior year. Big A. was in Kindergarten, and Big T. was in second grade. I’d noticed him checking me out, and so had all my friends. Damn. Hot legs and all, this one had KIDS…I did notice he had girly shampoo in his basket, so I figured he was taken. We talked about lame things for a minute, and I couldn’t help but notice that his hawtness was making me forget about the kid, ex-wife, and divorce situation.

As he put the flea killer in his basket, I looked down and realized I had unconsciously picked up a ginormous rawhide dog bone and was, sort of, well, stroking it. I put it down way too quickly. When our conversation began trailing off, I turned to leave, hostas in tow, praying to the god of awkward situations that he hadn’t noticed that I had been subconsciously trying to jerk off a dog bone.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, as I tried to slink away, “are you married, or, uh, seeing anyone?”

“No,” I squeaked.

“Well,” he said, “If I could get your number maybe we could have dinner sometime, that is, if you don’t mind hanging out with a guy with kids.”

“That sounds cool,” I answered. As I gave him my info., the prickly feeling of recognition and importance washed over me. I could tell this exchange, despite the rawhide porn, was quite significant.

We were married within the year, and neither of us has taken the other back to Wal-Mart for a full refund yet!

Four days into our trip, I still battled the occasional puke and the drunk feeling from my meds. No one in the family had figured out that anything was wrong with me; my parents and my two teenaged stepkids, Big A. and Big T., remained delightfully oblivious to my plight. I refused to ruin our trip by worrying everyone with my ralphing or reminding them of the two miscarriages we’d experienced the previous year. We were having too much fun to be sad or concerned.

Just as I stumbled from yet another Vegas bathroom, this time in the New York, New York Casino, Mr. Jenn accosted me.

“What took you so long?” he asked. Just then the two drag queens with whom I’d been sharing make-up tips emerged. He cocked his head to one side, looked at me, then shrugged his shoulders. He grabbed me by the arm and pointed me at Coyote Ugly, the country joint made famous by the movie and the famous boot-clad hotties dancing on the bar.

“We have to go in there for just a second!”  he said. He nodded over at Mom, Dad, Big A., and Big T. who were ogling my drag queen friends. “They have plenty to amuse them out here,” he whispered.

After a brief consultation, Dad and Mom agreed to sit outside with the kids while Mr. Jenn and I checked out the Uglies.

Darkness and cigarette smoke engulfed us as we headed in. My stomach contracted and rolled at the stench, but I managed to breathe it into submission. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I checked out the throng of people milling around. Aside from the girls dancing on the bar, I was one of two women in the entire place.

“WHO’S GOT THE OVARIES TO GET UP HERE AND DANCE ON MY BAR???” screamed a scantily clad bartender holding what appeared to be a bottle of grenadine.

“SHE DOES!” hollered Mr. Jenn, pointing to my head. I turned to give him a look, but the sudden movement made my stomach lurch. I stood still and tried to breathe.

“GET UP HERE!” yelled the bartender. I felt the crowd pushing me forward. Like it or not, I was going up on that bar. Please don’t let me puke. Please don’t let me puke.

Just then, I heard a chirpy voice by Mr. Jenn’s elbow. “Whatch’all doin’?” asked my mother. “Where’s Jenn going?”

The bartender extended a hand, and up on the bar I went. The whole place applauded and hollered. Tim took out his cell phone camera, and my mom waved at me. Just then the bartender pulled the one other woman up on the bar and poured grenadine down her throat. Oh, God, no! Keep that shit AWAY from me! My stomach lurched, and I headed as far as I could to the other end of the platform without falling off.

I suddenly found myself dancing furiously to “Play That Funky Music” about three inches from the end of the Coyote Ugly bar in Las Vegas. If only those drag queens could see me now. Mom waved again, and the devil flew into me. I started pointing at her and screaming for her to get up on the bar with me.

Pretty soon, I had the whole place chanting, “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom!”

She tried to hide her face and disappear, but the crowd practically surfed her up to the bar and deposited her on top. Before she knew what hit her, the bartender poured about a half a bottle of grenadine down my mom’s throat. Mr. Jenn was hollering and snapping away on his cell phone, and I found myself contemplating the fact that my mother doesn’t drink, EVER.

Within seconds, Mom had her hands in the air, shaking her ass to “Brickhouse.” It must have been Soul Night at the bar. I think I slapped my mom on the tail a few times, and I know I butt bumped her. By then, the grenadine had complete control, and Mom was shaking it like J LO. The whole crowd roared and fist-pumped, egging us on. By the time the song ended, Mom and I had a massive case of the giggles. The bartender helped us get down, and Mr. Jenn hugged us both.

“I thought I’d seen it all,” he said. “My wife and my mother-in-law shaking their asses on the bar at Coyote Ugly in Vegas–amazing.”

We headed out the door to check on Dad and the kids. I came around the corner in time to see a plume of beer splatter on the wall and the bottle shatter on the floor. On the opposite end of the corridor, some guy was hurling into a plant. My stomach rolled in sympathy, and I quickly averted my eyes.

Dad stormed up to us—I could tell he was furious. “Where have you all been? This is no place for children. They’re throwing beer everywhere!”

“The kids are throwing beer?” Mom asked, slurring her words ever-so-slightly. “Why’d you let them have beer?”

Both kids looked pissed and uncomfortable. Dad gaped at her. “What have you been doing in there?” he asked.

I threw my arm around her shoulder and said, “She’s been shaking her ass on the bar, that’s what!”

“Yep,” agreed Mr. Jenn, “and she wasn’t alone.”

“We want to leave,” said Big A. She crossed her arms with thirteen-year-old gusto. “This place is weird.”

Big T. looked on with interest. “Grandma, did you really dance on the bar?” he asked, his fifteen-year-old eyeballs following two short skirts going by.

“I did,” said Mom, suddenly looking down. She cut her eyes at Dad. “I guess I should go to my room and think about it.”

She burst into grenadine giggles, and I snorted a Phenergan chortle. We high-fived each other while Tim shook his head and displayed our revelry on his cell phone.

“Could you text that pic to me?” asked  Big T. “It’s AWESOME!”

Just then, I spied a dude peeing in the same plant that his buddy had puked in. Poor plant. Dad saw him at the same time and rolled his eyes.

“We need to get out of here now!” he said. “This is irresponsible. It’s no place for children.”

“Yeah,” agreed Big A.

“Buzzkills,” I said, “all of ya!”

We headed out to the car, Mom leaning on my shoulder at times. At random intervals, I’d say, “Hey, Mom, we just danced on a bar in Vegas.”

We’d both erupt into giggles, and Dad would rankle. Mr. Jenn was trying to stay low-key, but I could tell he was struggling to look contrite. Big T. was frantically texting, while Big A. apparently didn’t quite know what to think.

Dad had cooled down a little by the time we made it to the rental car. Mom and I kept chortling and snorting in the back seat. Mr. Jenn shook his head.

“So you really danced on the bar?” Dad asked.

“Yep,” said Mom. “I really did.”

“What kind of example are you setting for your grandchildren?” he asked her.

“A fun one,” said Big T., without looking up from his phone.

“I’m just sowing a few wild oats,” Mom said.

“I don’t know if I can handle all these oats,” Big A. quipped.

“It’s a veritable shitload of oats, isn’t it, Honey?” I asked her.

She nodded.

“Well, we’ll have stories to tell when we get home,” said Dad.

“What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” Mom answered. “No one needs to know.”

“Oh, but Grandma,” said Big T. putting his phone away finally, “they already do.”

No one but Mr. Jenn and I knew that Lil’ K. was also in attendance. She had been riding along with me for about six weeks. After two previous miscarriages, we weren’t about to tell anyone about my pregnancy until we had to. Besides, if this one ended tragically, too, we didn’t want everyone to remember worrying about the baby on the trip. Mr. Jenn was also bummed that I couldn’t drink.

“The craziest things happen when you get a little Captain in ya!” he said.

“I think a little Captain has something to do with the state in which I now find myself,” I answered.

Mr. Jenn and I were both terrified and hopeful about this third try. The previous summer, tests showed that I have a rare genetic condition which causes more miscarriages than normal; I have a 33% chance of having a healthy pregnancy. We decided to try one more pregnancy before giving up; I could already tell that this third one was different, though. When I began hurling my guts out on Monday of our Saturday-to-Saturday trip, I took this as a wonderful sign. I hadn’t been nearly this sick with the other two pregnancies, and I smiled every time I bowed to the throne. I snuck in and out of casino bathrooms, still determined not to share my condition. The next morning, I had my OB call in some puke meds to the Walgreens on the corner. Mr. Jenn and I snuck out and got them.  I had instant relief, but holy crap, Phenergan can drink the Captain slam under the table!

I spent the next few days climbing the Stratosphere, watching the Treasure Island Pirates, catching a Cirque du Soleil show, and following my mom and Big A. in and out of Aeropostales and American Eagles on the strip stoned out of my mind on anti-emetic drugs. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t drink in Vegas because I didn’t need to! Seeing all those lights and feathers and creative tackiness reflected in Big A.’s and Big T.’s eyes took on a whole different meaning to me on Phenergan. Wow! We couldn’t afford to fly the kids to Paris or Egypt as teenagers, but damn! We didn’t need to because we had Paris, Las Vegas and the Luxor right there! They could also watch their Grandma kick some major ass at the slots in the midst of it all. Most decent parents would shudder at the thought of taking their teenagers to Vegas, but what better way to introduce kids to the world of gambling, hookers, burlesque shows, and drag queens when they’re safe with their wingnut family? In our defense, we also visited the Grand Canyon (I heaved in the helicopter and passed it off as airsickness), the Hoover Dam, and Red Rock Canyon. To this day, the entire family swears they had no idea that I was puking my way through every bathroom on the Strip. I must be one stealty bi-otch!

On Wednesday night, we headed for New York, New York Casino. I snuck off into yet another opulent lavatory to take care of some breakthrough barfing and came upon two lovelies in drag fluffing and touching up in front of the lavish mirrors. Their sequined frocks positively glowed with poof, ruffles, and spaghetti-strapped finery.

“Honey, you need to lay off the sauce,” one of them said to me as I was slapping on some foundation on a few more busted capillaries under my eyes. I looked like a mild version of death.

“That Maybelline shit won’t work,” said the other one. “Here, try this.”

She handed me a tub of some thick crap. Without asking questions, I smeared some on.

“Oh, my God,” she said, watching me apply the make-up. “That is your face. It looks like you’re spackling a wall. Let me help you.”

She took a sponge out of a fresh package and started gently rubbing in the thick foundation.

“Girl, did you ever dream a drag queen would give you a facial in a Vegas bathroom when you set out this morning?” the other one asked.

I began to giggle. “Not in the least,” I answered. When she was done, I checked myself out in the mirror. Damn, I looked positively human again.

“Ladies, I can’t thank you enough,” I gushed. “This stuff is amazing.”

“Here’s a sample,” said my new friend, handing me a little tube with a card. “And here’s an AA card. Consider finding a group in your area.”

Something about these two, made me want to curl up in a ball, cry a little, and confess exactly what was going on. But tears would have messed up my make-up, and I was having way more fun being an alcoholic at that point.

“Bless you,” I said. “I will make certain I attend as soon as I get back home.”

“Oh, and for the love of God,” she added, “please get yourself a decent moisturizer—you look so damn dehydrated!”

Check back  later in the week to find out how I ended up shaking my ass on a bar in my condition…

“Moootherrrrrrrrrrrrr!” my four-going-on-fourteen-year-old daughter growled. Hands on hips, she looked up at me through half-lidded stink-eyes because I wouldn’t hand over the fifth Oreo. Foreshadowing is a bitch.

That short snippet is a response to this weekend’s Trifecta writing challenge. I had to include the word “Mother” in a thirty-three-word or less post. The counter says 28, but I’ve got a bunch of hyphenated words in there, so I think I’m cheating. Oh, well:)

Here’s a challenge for all you creative people out there: if you know or have a stepmother, send her a shout-out today. She could probably use one!

Additionally, write about your mother, someone else’s mother, or if you’re a mother, write about yourself. I’m going to get busy doing the same. Additionally, wish me luck–today is Lil’ K.’s first EVER public performance of any sort. She is so excited! We are doing her ballet recital, sans drag queen. I’m one of the two ballet moms who sits with the class of three and four year olds and wrangles them into silence during the two-hour performance. I plan to bring snacks, and I have some rum ready for later.

I also realize that I will bawl my eyes out when I see my baby girl up on the stage twirling around in all her frou-frou. I must spend today conjuring a plausible explanation for my red-eyed reaction to her performance and seeking some extra water-proof mascara. Suggestions for explaining teariness to four-year-olds welcome below! Have a wonderfully creative day!

During a routine shopping trip with Lil’ K. and Lil’ P. last Saturday, I attempted to slam on brakes behind some douchebag who stopped suddenly to turn and didn’t give a signal. Instead of feeling that comforting pressure the brake pedal usually exerts, my foot got a speedy trip to the floorboard.

I swore loudly.

“Don’t say that, Mama,” said Lil’ K.

“Oh, dit, dit, dit, ditty, dit, dit!” called Lil’ P.

Luckily, my brain flipped to autopilot, and I spied a gap between the stopped car and a deep ditch. I eased the wheel to the right and rode the high side of the gully on two tires. The speedometer read 45 mph. Grass and mud flew behind me like a cigarette boat rooster tail.

“WAHOOOOOO!” Lil’ K. hollered from the backseat, “Go, Mama, go!”

“GEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” added Lil’ P. “Dit, dit, dit!”

“My sentiments exactly, Buddy,” I told him, as we hit a pothole and caught air.

We landed back on the road with only a modicum of swerve. Luckily, there were no other cars in front of me. Unfortunately, I was heading down a steep hill. Noticing the speedometer creeping up past sixty, I threw the truck in the lowest gear.  It moaned in protest like an angry tractor trailer and reluctantly slowed enough for me to get it off the road. I finally remembered the emergency brake and mashed it before I crashed us into a cornfield. I could hear carseats jerk forward and hit the backs of the seats.

“Mama, you jerked us!” cried Lil’ K. Lil’ P. cackled and squealed.

I breathed slowly, leaning my head back against the seat, while my children laughed in the back.

“That was fun,” hollered Lil’ K. “Can we do it again?”

1. 1. I removed both “swords.” Screaming ensued from both parties.

2. Lil’ K. threw a toy and stomped her foot, so she had to go to time out. While I deposited her behind the baby gate in the “Do Better” area on the stairs, Lil’ P. amused himself by climbing the TV stand.

3. Lil’ P. fell off said TV stand. More screaming ensued.

4.  The phone rang. I had dropped it beside the “Do Better” area earlier, so Lil’ K. opted to answer it.

“Mommy is mean and put me in time-out, Daddy. Can’t you do something about this?” she asked the phone. “Daddy       wants to talk to you!” she called. She shoved the baby gate over to hand the phone to me.

Lil’ P. screamed louder, and I was certain he had some sort of head injury. Panic.

5. “Why’s everyone screaming?” Mr. Jenn asked. “What’s going on around there?”

I’ve always tried to keep drama away from Mr. Jenn when he’s out working as a law enforcement officer. I want him to stay focused and safe.

“Oh, the usual,” I said, nonchalantly.  “Lil’ K. got mouthy, and Lil’ P. is mad ‘cause I wouldn’t let him climb the TV. Everything is under control.”

By this time, Lil’ P. had stopped screaming and was unloading the diaper bag I’d left by the back door.  Mr. Jenn seemed satisfied and hung up, just as Lil’ P. gathered all the diapers and threw them across the kitchen.

6.   “Mama!!!!!!” screamed Lil’ K. “Mamamaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Don’t forget me! Can’t you let me up now? I’ll be good, I promise!”

Lil’ K. and I discussed the error of her ways. By the time I got back, Lil’ P. had discovered the diaper rash cream. There appeared to be a little bit around his mouth, but I wasn’t sure if he’d really eaten any.  More panic.

7. I called Poison Control. I pried open Lil’ P.’s mouth to see if he had any diaper rash cream in his teeth. He didn’t seem to. I could tell the Poison Control person was trying not to laugh. Bastard.

8. I suddenly remembered that Lil’ P. probably had a concussion from falling off the TV stand. I reached for him to check his pupils. He had disappeared, and I realize that I’d forgotten to put the gate back on the stairs.  I skidded around the corner and found him on the third step. He turned to wave at me and rolled down. I caught him before he hit the floor. I swore vehemently.

“Don’t say that, Mama,” corrected Lil’ K.

“Dit! Dit! Dit!” laughed Lil’ P. At least he could speak, and his pupils were the same size.

9. Suddenly, Lil’ P. stopped and began to strain. His face turned red, and a smell engulfed us.

“I’ve got to poop, too!” cried Lil’ K., heading for the bathroom.

Dammit. Naturally, they both finished their respective constitutionals at the same time. Lil’ K. was relatively easy to help. WWE or WWF or WTF or whatever they call wrestling these days hasn’t got crap on Lil’ P. He’d probably get crap on them. This particular diaper changing calamity was Pay-Per-View worthy. He flipped himself over and crawled away, but not before I swiped him clean.

10. Lil’ P. stood diaperless in front of the fireplace while Lil’ K. and I looked on.

“Dit!” he cried. “Dit! Dit! Dit!”

He suddenly looked down at himself in surprise, filled with wonder at his maleness and the stream of water coming from it.

“EWWWWWWW! He’s peeing, Mama, look, he’s PEEEEEEEEEIIIIING! EWWWWW!” Lil’ K. helpfully informed me.

I put my head in my hand. Lil’ P. immediately leaped in the middle of the puddle, delighted by the splatter. Suddenly, he slipped and fell in it. I looked at the clock. It was 1:00 and thundering. WTF???

Big T. was about fifteen at the time, and I was trying to get him to his back-to-school-night for his junior year in high school. I had taken the wheel instead of relinquishing it to him as usual. He was about two months from getting his driver’s license, and I was about three months from giving birth to Lil’ K. I was driving fifteen miles over the speed limit and talking to Mr. Jenn on the cell phone. In my defense, I really had to pee.

“Um, there’s a cop,” noted Big T. from the passengers’ seat.

“Shit,” I said, hitting the brake. Before I could even look at the odometer, I saw blue lights in the rearview. Big T. was smirking his head off.

“Busted,” he said, helpfully. “You are so screwed.”

“Shit, what?” asked Mr. Jenn, also an officer of the law. “What have you done?”

“Uh…um,” I began, easing the car over.

“Jenn’s getting pulled OVER!” cried Big T. loud enough for the magistrate down the street to hear. “She just BLEW, I mean, BLEW a speed trap.”

“Gotta go, bye!” I cried, hanging up on him. To Big T. I said, “Thanks, Buddy. See if I ever bail YOU out of jail.”

The smirking continued as the officer approached the window.

“License and registration, please,” he said. He was NOT smiling.

“Hello, Officer,” I batted my eyelashes and handed him my paperwork. “Nice day today, isn’t it?”

“Ma’am, do you have any idea how fast you were going?” he asked.  I hoisted my belly up on the steering wheel and rubbed it conspicuously. I smiled broadly and, I hoped, innocently.

“40?” I asked. I had no idea. Big T. snorted. I gave him a LOOK that only pregnant women with severely stressed bladders can muster.

The officer snorted. He looked at my license, then at me and handed it back.  He looked supremely disappointed; he’d obviously made the connection between Mr. Jenn and me. I was free—for the moment.

“Have a nice day, and slow down, please,” he said.

“Thank you so much, sir!” I cried. “I promise I’ll do better!”

He snorted again and stalked back to his cruiser. We set off to school and a blessed bathroom.

“Convenient being related to a cop, isn’t it?” Big T. grinned.

“I’m going to catch hell for this, and you know it,” I told him. He smiled wider if that was possible.

Mr. Jenn was waiting by the kitchen counter, arms crossed when I returned home a couple of hours later.

“I heard all about it,” he said. “He called immediately, pissed because you were related to me. He could have written you for reckless.”

“I was in a hurry?” I hung my head. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“I’ve got to avoid the Sheriff’s office for awhile, you know,” Mr. Jenn frowned deeply.

“And she’s a terrible example to me,” grinned Big T., knowing I wanted to smack him.

“This is the first time I’ve been pulled over in sixteen years,” I said. “I’m usually extremely careful. I had to pee.”

“You should have seen her bat her eyelashes at him, Daddy,” said Big T., walking up to his room. Mr. Jenn rolled his eyes.

“Look, can’t I cut a deal?” I asked. I knew I’d hear about this for days, but I knew a way to put an end to the fussing for a few minutes.

“What do you take me for?” he asked.  I smiled suggestively.

“Stop that,” he said. “That’s not behavior befitting a pregnant woman.”

“It’s behavior to keep a pregnant woman out of house torture and arrest,” I hugged him.

“You are still in trouble,” he told me. To this day, I’m still SO busted—caught being an irresponsible teenager in front of God and my step-adolescent. I may never hear the end of it.

“Would you care to explain this?” I asked Lil’ K. who was hiding behind the center island.

“Wee-eee-lll,” she drawled, “Ya seeeeeee…I was eating my cookies.”

“And?”

“And I was drinking my milk,” she continued.

“Then what?” I asked.

“I heard a sound like thunder,” Lil’ K. lowered her voice, and thunder rumbled distantly outside. “Like that!”

“How did this mess happen?” I asked.

“Peter Pan came flying in here because Captain Hook was chasing him and firing his cannons at him. They spilled my milk and knocked my cookies in the floor,” she said. “Mr. Smee wouldn’t clean it up, and here I am. In twubble ‘cause Captain Hook is tearing up the kitchen again.”

Three truths followed by the old imaginary friends excuse has become more common since Lil’ K. turned four. The other day, Jake and the Neverland Pirates stole her younger brother’s favorite tractor and hid it. I turned the house upside down looking for the damn thing so Lil’ P. would stop screaming. I found the toy in the refrigerator by some cheese. Lil’ K.’s cries replaced those of Lil’ P. when she found she’d have to serve time-out on Jake’s behalf.

“If you can’t keep your imaginary friends under control, you’ll have to do the time for their crimes,” I told her.

The other day, Lil’ K. came running up and informed me that her imaginary friends, Dorothy and Daisy were saying mean things to her.

“And you want me to…?”  I asked. Everyone always told me that boys are easier. Apparently, this is true. My girl is starting drama with friends that aren’t even real.

“Make them stop,” she told me.

“Quit saying mean things,” I firmly told the air.

“Thanks, Mama,” Lil’ K. gave me a hug. “You’re the best.”

Before Lil’ K.’s arrival on the scene four years ago, Big A. was the only spark of feminine I had in this camo-clad, deer-hunting, fish-slaying world into which I’ve married. Big A., who was six when I entered the picture, already had her tailored tastes firmly in place. She vehemently opposed poofing and blinging from any source, and preferred her Carhartt jacket and Converse tennis shoes to ballet flats and dresses. I didn’t mind her style at all. The lack of complexity in the clothing department made my transition into parenthood much easier. Besides, who cares if camo colors run in the wash?

Enter Lil’ K. Her curly little self sprung from my loins with a puff of glitter and sequins. I swear I thought I heard Abba playing at the moment of her birth. Two years later, she caught a citation bass all decked out in an enormous bow and glittery jump suit. Last week, she was in the garden planting tomatoes with her daddy in her Cinderella princess gown complete with tiara and flowered muck boots.

A few days ago, I was sitting amidst a bunch of other would-be dance moms at ballet practice. They were each discussing alterations and changes they had made to the cupcake costumes. Alterations? Lil’ K.’s cupcake costume had fit, hadn’t it? I was certain it had. It had been hanging upside down by its crotch for a month in the bathroom to make it extra poofy as the other moms suggested when we brought it home. The mothers then proceeded to discuss how they were taking their daughters to have their hair fixed professionally for the upcoming pictures and recital.  They are four, for cripes sake, and this is Parks and Rec. ballet, not some fancy school for which I’m paying out the wazzoo.

It was then that a friend whose cupcake transforming powers run about equal to mine spoke up and said, “I’ve got my very own personal drag queen to fix my costume. I wouldn’t touch Lycra, but he knows exactly what to do with it.”

The other mothers looked a little askance, but my mouth dropped open in joy and pure envy. In fact, I thought I heard angels singing a little K.C. and the Sunshine Band off in the distance.

“Where did you find a drag queen?” I asked. “You are so lucky, and I’m jealous as all hell.”

She explained the connection and promised to let me borrow him if times got tight. I clapped my hands with glee and relief. Help could be on the way! This cupcake is sure to not fall in the oven, now! Additionally, Lil’ K.’s flamboyant style won’t suffer because her mother doesn’t know how to sew sequins on her fishing vest.

Last night, we did a costume “dry run” in preparation for dance pictures this afternoon. Lil’ K. danced around in delight while I rolled her hair on heated curling sticks. She turned one of the hot sticks into a magic wand that she wanted to use with her costume. She gave up the idea quickly when I told her the stick was the wrong color pink and would clash horribly. I have to say, I did an amazingly admirable poof job—my drag queen would be proud. Lil’ K. pranced and twirled in front of the admiring eyes of her mama and daddy. Actually, my fluffing had very little to do with it. She just shines on her own. I hope Lil’ K. didn’t see her mama and daddy tear up when she leaped out of the room singing the chorus from Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way.”

The days prior to THE STINK began innocently enough. Mr. Jenn and I had invited the family over for a weekend get-together. Mr. Jenn had to travel for work the next week, so it was the last time we’d all see him for a few days. Since we’d been married for less than a year, trips away left me apprehensive. I didn’t want to screw up all the new responsibilities.

My step-daughter, Big A., and my stepson, Big T., were seven and nine then. They loved being with my niece, eight, and my nephew, five. That day, all the kids sat on the bank near our house and fished. My mother-in-law, the original Fish Slayer, supervised them. She had already caught a skate. The thing took the fishing rod out of her hands, Big T. had to go chasing the pole and skate with the canoe. With Mr. Jenn’s help, they had landed the flat sucker. Mr. Jenn had hauled him off to the house to make fried Bay scallops out of him.

Suddenly, my nephew squealed. “I got a fish, I got a fish!” he hollered, reeling as hard as his skinny arms would let him. Suddenly, the fishing pole lurched forward, and Big T. grabbed my nephew by the shorts to keep him from hitting the drink. My mother-in-law saved the pole and manhandled the reel.

“I think we’ve got another skate here,” she told us, tugging. Mr. Jenn took the pole this time and told my nephew to reel.

“Oh, cripes!” I cried, when his wriggling catch came into view. “You’ve got a snake!”

“It’s an eel!” Mr. Jenn said, as my nephew pulled him in.

“Cool!” the kids hollered. I wanted to head up the nearest tree. I am terrified of anything even resembling a snake. I maintained composure and stood there, waiting to admire their catch.

Mr. Jenn finally got him to the surface, and my nephew held the squirming animal up proudly.

“Can we cook ‘im and eat ‘im?” he asked Mr. Jenn.

“Of course,” Mr. Jenn answered.

“Have you shot the dots off your dice?” I asked him. “You’re gonna feed us snake?”

“It’s good,” he said. “You’ve got to try it.”

Fabulous. Today, I would get to add skate and snake to my short resume of weird ass food that I’d eaten since marrying this man. Venison, goose, duck, turkey, bear, and frog had already made their way down my delicate gullet in my effort to prove myself worthy. EEEEW.

Mr. Jenn cleaned the eel, fried him up, and my nephew carried the eel’s head around to show everyone. What a trophy. I have to say the eel and skate weren’t bad—this proves that you can batter and fry damn near anything and make it edible.

Once we’d cleaned up the dishes, said good bye to the family, and packed Mr. Jenn off on his trip, all appeared to move along smoothly for the next day. The second morning proved otherwise.

“What is that smell?” asked Big T. as he ate his cereal.

“It smells like stink,” noted Big A.

I wondered the same thing, but I was hoping they wouldn’t notice until I had the chance to investigate further. I could hear the phone calls to their mother and Mr. Jenn.

“This place smells like dead mice,” they would say. If this smell was any indication, they would be correct. I emptied a bottle of air freshener, and things improved. I treated the house similarly the next morning.

That afternoon, when we returned from school, THE STINK drifted out the door the minute I unlocked it.

Big A. and Big T. immediately made gagging noises. I pushed past them and emptied every bottle of air freshener I could over the entire house.

“All clear!” I cried. “Come on in!”

“Ugh!” said Big. T. “It smells like someone died in a florist!”

“It’s okay!” I patted him with false cheerfulness. “The air freshener will kill it. Let’s have a picnic outside!”

We supped on some leftovers. In addition to my stellar abilities to combat STINK, I sucked at cooking.

We did homework outside, too. I sprayed their rooms so completely before bed, that I’m certain I rid them of all their nose hairs.

The next morning, both children, who normally needed heavy equipment to remove them from their beds, came charging down the stairs an hour early, dressed and ready to go to school and to their mom’s house.

“We can’t stand THE STINK anymore,” they told me. “Can we go now?”

I was dressed, too. For the time being, I decided to wave the white flag at THE STINK. I planned to remove walls if necessary that night to find the dead mouse or whatever creature had chosen our home for its final resting place.

That afternoon, after work, I went room to room, trying to locate the exact source of THE STINK. Big T.’s room definitely had the strongest odor. I began moving all his toys and furniture to try to find the body. Something drew my eyes over to his art easel. I saw a lifeless eye staring at me from a cup sitting on the tray next to his paints. I rushed over. That little shit! My nephew had left the eel head sitting in Big T.’s room. For four days. I started to laugh. Maniacally. I grabbed that cup and headed out the door for the marsh. I launched the cup, the eel head, my parental housekeeping failures, and THE STINK way out into the river from whence they all came.

Lil’ K. did some interesting flips as I headed into the home office to check on the gerbil, my classroom pet. My students throughout the years had been the owners of everything from a giant killer rabbit, to two rats, to horny guinea pigs. At the time, I felt that no classroom was complete without some sort of creature.  I had even taught one of the rats to ride on my shoulder while I taught. Rats have wonderful personalities, but they tend to stink. After the big rodents died, I moved to gerbils. I thought they would be easier to manage. This gerbil always looked like it was up to something, though; its shifty eyes looked Satanic as they followed me around the classroom. It seemed to think evil thoughts about harming stupid humans.

I peered into Cheeseburger’s cage (named after Jimmy Buffet’s song, “Cheeseburger in Paradise”) only to find the little white puff ball gone. The food bowl was still partially full, as was the water bottle and the treat bin; but the damn cage was empty. One of the bars on the cage had been chewed through as if the beast had been watching the movie Jailbreak and wanted a starring role in the rodent version.

I saw a flash of white zing across the rug, daring me to chase it. I noticed two pieces of electrical cords lying on the floor. One should have been connected to Mr. Jenn’s police radio chargers, and the other belonged to my printer. Instead, their frayed ends curled limply under my desk. The little asshole zipped back under the desk, stopping briefly to nibble the chewed radio cord. I swear I saw it flip me the bird as it disappeared. I envisioned Mr. Jenn’s hemorrhage when he discovered the electrical carnage. Thank God we had unplugged everything before we left on vacation.

I squatted my pregnant self down on the floor in an attempt to catch the damn gerbil on its next pass. I farted and burped in concert as I dove over to catch the little white turd while it changed course on me. It slid behind the file cabinet, sticking only its nose out from behind it, obviously mocking me with what it thought was superior intelligence.

“You sumbitch,” I hollered, then caught myself. Breathe, I told myself, don’t scare it off. I offered the little shit some gerbil nibble, and it stuck a bit more of its head out to investigate, hunger obviously overpowering its need for escape. I grabbed it by the face and cupped it in my hand.

I remember screaming in pain as the rotten little thing bit down on my finger. Now, the rat bastard was trying for a starring role in a Monty Python thriller about a killer gerbil. Blood pooled around two newly gaping holes in my middle finger, and I saw nothing but white-hot hormonal rage.

“You rotten mother f(*&&%%$$%^^&*&*())(**&^%$##!!!” I howled, running for the door with the fluffy, cuter version of Edward Cullen attached to my finger. I kicked open the door, only to hear Mr. Jenn swearing profusely as he bent over the camper trailer hitch. I vaguely remember seeing the hitch-shaped dent in the bumper of the truck, and realized he must have turned too sharply upon re-entry into our driveway.

He looked up in shock noticing me wind up as though I were pitching for the Red Sox. The gerbil made a gorgeous arc as it flew from my finger and into the woods. Mr. Jenn’s eyes followed the white flying creature traveling at the speed of light, his brow furrowed in bewilderment.

The gerbil landed in the leaves with a soft squish and looked back at us, its expression screaming “WTF?”

“What did you do that for?” stammered Mr. Jenn, wondering what possessed his animal-loving wife to feed her pet to the neighboring raptors. When he realized that his nemesis, the so-called damnable rat, was gone, he began to grin. He had never liked the animals I brought home, and his grin turned into a snicker.

“You know it’s illegal to introduce an invasive species into our environment,” he said. “I could give you a ticket.”

By this time, I had calmed down. I knew the cursing over the dented truck was nothing compared to the tirade over the destroyed radio charger. That one would be tough to explain during his annual equipment inspection.

“I think we can work a deal,” I said, winking at him. The gerbil happily scampered off deeper into the woods to enjoy its three minutes of freedom. A nearby hawk called, an exclamation mark to my hormonal tirade.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

This story is for Dotty Headbanger—the She-Hermit, in response to her contest earlier about something white that flies through the air at lightspeed. Sorry, Dotty, your American Gopher is tardy as usual; “gophing” is hard work. Better late than never.  On Thursday, I’m also linking this story up with Mama Kat’s Practically World Famous Writing Workshop Prompt about seven things your pet could be thinking. Read closely—this stupid gerbil thinks about seven separate thoughts…jackass!

Six Things I Love About My Husband, My Favorite Man in the World, Mr. Jenn

6: Mr. Jenn provides me with endless entertainment. When times grow dark I have fond memories of the merriment to embrace. One particular incident dissolves me into giggles each time I think of it. Mr. Jenn was working on a battery charger behind the barn at our old house. He thought he was alone, but I was spying on him out the kitchen window. I could tell by the way he was stomping around that his fixes hadn’t worked. He kept circling the black box, kneeling, unscrewing bolts, then screwing them back. When he finally rose, put his hands in his pockets, and stood staring at the thing, I knew he was the one getting screwed by this charger. He was still for a moment. With an almost involuntary leg movement, he hauled off and kicked the box. He paused, hands still in his pockets. I snorted from my vantage point. I stopped chortling when he began fiddling with his zipper. Oh, no—I thought. He wouldn’t do that. But he did. I collapsed in a heap of hilarity on the kitchen floor.  Smoke rose from the beleaguered box as Mr. Jenn peed all over it.

5. When Mr. Jenn proposed, he enlisted the help of an old friend with a carriage tour business in his home town. He booked the bottom floor in a lighthouse for the night, and he had his friend arrive at a preset time all decked out in traditional attire with her big, white horse, Elvis, and her antique carriage. She took us on an evening tour of the town, and Mr. Jenn proposed in front of a beautiful old mansion on the main street. Sigh! It was perfect, and Elvis farted in approval!

4: He’s cute and talented in ways that count. I will take Bonnie Raitt’s and Sippie Wallace’s advice from their 1973 rendition of “Don’t Advertise Your Man” and shut up.

3: He can fix anything (and he pees all over things he can’t—makes me wish I had a penis): This week, Mr. Jenn headed over to my parents’ house to retrieve and fix my old jon boat, Penelope. My parents bought Penelope for me when I was eleven, and I spent most summers running the rivers near my house. Penelope and I have spent hours croaker fishing and crabbing, as well.

A recent tornado carried my little boat across the yard and tore some holes in the stern. I hadn’t been too easy on her, either, as a kid. I loved to take her out in rough water, so the ribs had come loose from the bottom of the little boat, too. Mr. Jenn spent his entire day off this week searching for scrap aluminum and welding supplies to knit poor Penelope back together. Some guy had quoted him $300 to fix her. After ponderin’, piecin’, fabricatin’, and caulkin’, Mr. Jenn mended Penelope for $25, the cost of the tube of marine caulking. In honor of our 11^th anniversary, we are taking her out jug fishin’ up the creek aways. If you don’t see any posts from me for awhile, I guess you can assume the caulk didn’t work, and the fish are taking their revenge.

2: Mr. Jenn doesn’t put up with my crap, or anybody else’s for that matter. He’s excellent when I need to make a list of pros and cons about a tough issue I’m facing, and he plays great devil’s advocate. He totally cuts me off when I bitch, though. His hatred of listening to a litany of problems he can’t solve has its downsides, and we’ve had words over his refusal to pay attention to me when I’m flogging dead horses. He admits that he makes a crappy girlfriend, even though I’ve come home and begged him to just be a chick for five minutes.

“I can’t make you happy; that’s not my responsibility,” he says. “You have to make yourself happy.”

I haven’t always done this. When the going gets tough, I have been known to sulk in my corner.  Mr. Jenn, on the other hand, has faced and beaten cancer twice, been through a hella divorce, and had a heart attack at 43 that nearly killed him. He’s never had time to whine and sulk. Aside from keeping himself healthy, he’s been too busy rearing successful kids, getting promoted at work, hunting, and fixin’ my boat.

“Get on with it,” he says. “There’s no time for this crap—you only get one ride through here, and if you want to waste it bitching, then that’s your problem.”

Some may call him insensitive; I still do at times. However, as evidenced by this blog’s existence, I haven’t spent the last two months of my free time griping about the unfixable.  I’m just making fun of it.

1: The number one reason that I love Mr. Jenn is that he’s a good dad. He has spent hours at school functions, he makes cupcakes, he does school presentations, and he was the only Room Father in our school’s history. He has coached Big T.’s baseball and football teams, he’s snuck off from work to watch games, and he gets up at all hours of the night for hunting and golf trips. He’s spent hours at Big A’s volleyball and tennis matches and slept by her bedside during her bout with meningitis. He makes up songs for Lil’ K. and Lil’ P., including the original “Potty Song,” and reads to them every night. He’s been puked, peed, and shat on and wears the stains like a champ. At the risk of advertising too much, I’m married to one sexy daddy…Happy 11^th Anniversary, Baby! I love you!

I’m linking this post up with Mama Kat’s Pretty Much World Famous Writers’ Workshop. Check out the prompts and link up!

I just shook my head, and Mr. Jenn put his head in his hands and began to moan. Our journey to screwed-dom accelerated as she began to relate the latest Worrell Family Adventure that transpired on our spring camping trip. We trembled as we watched the whole thing unfold on the camp playground.

“Boys, have I got a story for you!” she paused and eyed each of them to make sure their eyes rested on her. Said boys kept playing in the sand. One ate a handful and grinned at his brother with sand pebbles in his teeth. Undeterred, Lil’ K. continued her story.

“We-e-e-e-lll,” she said. “It all started when there was a mouse in our camper. We kept stepping on mouse poop, and it was everywhere.” She took one hand off her hip and gestured around her head to make her point. “Everywhere,” she added.

The boy with sand in his teeth perked up at the mention of poop. He faced her.

“Daddy set traps all over the pwace!” she said. “And then we heard a SNAP from under the couch! Daddy was so excited! He looked under the couch, but he didn’t catched the mouse!”

She lowered her voice and leaned in to the older boys whose heads were still buried in their sand creations. Pebble Teeth watched her with rapt attention.

“All the traps were empty. The mouses got away!” She jabbed her finger in the air for emphasis. Mr. Jenn growled next to me in recollection of his lost rodent battle. “Damnable little bastards,” he muttered quietly to me.

Lil’ K. continued, “And then, Daddy said lots of funny words. You know I can’t say them, but Hoooooo-wwwwwweeeeeeee, they were really funny.”

Mr. Jenn rolled his eyes, and I stifled a snort. A few mice got in our camper and had sex while we stored it during the unusually balmy winter. We thought we had gotten the rodents before we left, but the mouse crap everywhere proved we were still under infestation.

Mr. Jenn looked at me. “Is she going to tell everything we do?” he asked.

“Duh,” I said. “I mean, we’re kind of a storyworthy family. Look!”

I pointed discretely to the little boys who now gaped at Lil’ K. with raised eyebrows.

“She owns them,” I said.

“I must admit, her timing is impeccable,” nodded Mr. Jenn.

“Just what did he say?” one of the older boys asked with a naughty grin.

“Oh, I can’t tell you,” Lil’ K. answered with folded arms, “but it was really hi-war-i-ous. It started with…”

“Okay, that’s enough,” I told her. “Time to move on.”

Disappointed, the boys all went back to their sand creations.

“You forgot to tell them that I did catch the mouse on the sticky stuff,” said Mr. Jenn, so as not to leave the impression with these preadolescent boys that a wily man such as himself could possibly be defeated by a lowly mouse.

“Yeah,” said Lil’ K. nodding vigorously, “and Daddy squished him in the sticky stuff, and I bet he exploded.”

Again, all eyes turned to her.

“Were there guts?” the oldest inquired.

“Probably,” Lil’ K. answered. “Daddy folded him up and put him in the trash can. Daddy said, `I gotcha you Son–“

“Enough!” I interrupted. Mr. Jenn’s head again descended into his hands.

“Time to go!” I said.

As I was collecting our things, I heard Lil’ K. say, “My daddy may not have catched a lot of mouses, but he sure is funny.”

“Well, that counts for something,” I nudged Mr. Jenn encouragingly. He just snorted, his mouse-catching manliness called in question in the sandbox.

Anyone could have predicted what happened next. That night, Mr. Jenn launched a mouse campaign so murderous and sinister that it could have caused the extinction of the entire species. He even changed the kind of cheese he used because he thought that a heavier brand might insure proper trap deployment.

The next morning, we had one mouse in a sticky trap, and two in snap traps. Mr. Jenn danced around the camper, lording his victory over the rodent kingdom.

“Congratulations,” I said, patting him on the back. “I’m very happy for you.”

“We need to get right and go to the playground,” he said. “we need to find those boys…”

I just linked this post to Yeah Write #53. Check them out!

Worrell Family Adventures always provide a plethora of WTFs, head shaking, sighs, and a wheelbarrow full of shits and giggles for all. One particular WFA we had earlier in our marriage before the advent of Lil’ K. and Lil’ P.(my bio kids), involved a small catamaran, Big. T., Big A.(my stepkids), and the two people loosely disguised as parents (Mr. Jenn and me). Mr. Jenn was sailing said catamaran, I was perched on the opposite pontoon, and the Bigs were hanging somewhere in the middle. Mr. Jenn allowed as to how much better he would like it if I cuddled up on his pontoon next to him so we could enjoy A Romantic Moment as our sails held hands with the wind and meandered down the river together. I moved gingerly across the cat, carefully plopping my arse next to him, when the wind saw an opportunity to have a bit of merriment with the Worrell clan. No sooner had I wedged my asscheeks next to his, then a monumental gust of wind took cruel advantage of the added weight of my wobbly butt, grabbed our sails, and flipped us on our starboard side. I heard the mast hit bottom then splash back to the surface as I launched over and past Mr. Jenn. He cursed loudly as my knee bashed his temple. I found the river floor, tried to stand, but then sank in the bottomless marsh mud. Big. A. had dropped gracefully into the river and was sputtering a little next to me. Mr. Jenn was rubbing the side of his head and looking around frantically. Three of us were accounted for, but where in the world was Big T.? We called his name in a panic until we heard a little voice from above. Backlit from the bright sunlight, Big T. was wrapped around the port pontoon which was several feet above the surface of the water. We tried gently to convince him to drop down. He shook his blond head and wrapped his arms and legs tighter around his post.

“Son,” Mr. Jenn said, trying to inhale some serenity from the river, “we have to turn this boat over. I need you to come on down. NOW.”

Big T. knew the Voice of Lost Patience, so he cautiously unwrapped first one leg, then the other. He hung there for a seemingly infinite amount of time.

Mr. Jenn sighed. “We are in four feet of water.  This is no big deal.”

Big T., bless his awkward little heart, possessed little insight back then into the physics of his own pre-adolescent body. He tried to pull himself up and over his perch for some unknown reason, but lost his grip. He slid off, legs flailing, and took the lower pontoon right in the ‘nards. He sat strattled, paralyzed in pain, with his mouth wide open in a silent howl.

“Oooooo,” Mr. Jenn winced, crossing his own legs under water. Big A., who had been contemplating tears, began to giggle. Big T. noted her reaction even in his moment of agony, and got all Steve-O from Jackass on us. He grabbed himself and commenced to rocking back and forth with that stupid look men get when they’re trying to make it look like they busted their nuts on purpose to impress some chick. Since Jackass hadn’t yet crashed into our living rooms on its jet-propelled bike and water skis, I assumed that  Big T.’s ability to turn his pain and anguish into a comedy routine was either

1. Inborn as it seems to be with all males;
2. Something he learned by watching his dad rip his knee while trying to ride a skimboard into a tide pool at the beach in front of about fifteen families;
3. Something he learned by watching his dad launch out of a inner tube pulled through a large boat wake. My dad was driving the boat at the time;
4. Something he learned by watching his dad try to snow ski in the terrain park: Mr. Jenn tried to shred on a rail, but missed and face-planted in the snow;
5. Something he learned by hearing his dad tell the story of  losing control of a jet ski and winding up in a tree.

Big T. continued rocking for a bit, then fell over the pontoon into the water while proclaiming loudly, “I’m dead!”

By this time, Big A. was howling, and Mr. Jenn was cursing as he attempted to right the boat. He pulled himself up on the upright pontoon and humped it repeatedly until the boat fell back down into the water. The mast popped back up, erect as ever, and all was right with the world.

That particular WFA ended happily, with Mr. Jenn and I hoisting the kids back on the boat and swimming the thing back to shore. Now that Big T. and Big A. are off at college having their own exploits, no doubt, Mr. Jenn and I are creating more opportunities for mayhem and insanity merriment and fun with the Little Worrells. Stay tuned while Lil’ K. and I quietly observe the indoctrination of Lil’ P. into the world of male nut-busting and bullshit social mores and customs during this latest upcoming Worrell Family Adventure. Have a literary day—wear your cup!