Leanna Kay

I have seen the face of God and he is smiling at me with a crooked grin from his brown marker mouth. Lauren gave me this glimpse of the Almighty on Sunday.

She came up to me all proud and said, “Mommy, I have something special for you.”

I hate to admit it, but I hesitated. You have to understand that in the past my definition of “something special” has differed vastly from hers. Let’s just say I’ve been handed all sorts of “special” things from this child including pre-chewed gum straight from her warm mouth; big boogers; panties filled with pee… and the grotesque list goes on.

Given our history, I thought it prudent to proceed with caution. “What is it?” I asked before putting my hand out.

“It’s God.”

Then she handed me a green index card with a stick figure drawn with brown marker. Just to be sure I wouldn’t mistake the face of the Almighty, she had written “G-O-D” in big letters across the top.

I have the card sitting right here next to my computer so I can glance at the image while I work. But I don’t really need a drawing to see the face of God. I get glimpses of him in the every day miracles that are my children. I see him as I watch my daughter hug her crying friend who skinned her knee riding her bike. I also see him in my son when he gives his brother the bigger half of the last grilled cheese sandwich. And it’s hard not to feel his presence as my kids hug me and tell me they love me.

I might not need the drawing, but I will treasure it. Mainly because it ISN’T a big old handful of boogers.

Kids start saying the funniest things around preschool age.  The following definitions are thanks to the young kids in my life right now.

Acapulco - The dance where you put you left foot in and your left foot out and you shake it all about. (**This one is from my four-year-old niece).

Diarrhea - A special book where you write down all your secrets (**This one is also from my four-year old niece).

Flamingos - a pulpy orange fruit with the green skin - most people call them mangoes but my son always used to ask for flamingos.

What’s your favorite kid word? Please share.

I recently got this email which asked me to identify myself as a “Martha” or a “Maxine.” Martha being Martha Stewart and Maxine being the woman from the greeting cards. Any of you who’ve ever been to one of my “elegant” parties and tasted my appetizers made from Velveeta cheese and processed meat, know I’m no Martha. I’m snorting Coca-Cola through my nose at the very thought.

What about you? Are you a Martha or a Maxine?

As many of you already know, I’m the assistant coach for Lauren’s soccer team this season. I only volunteered because without me on the field, Lauren would be sitting on the bench crying. So I volunteered even though all I know about soccer is that it involves a ball you kick.

At first, I dubbed myself the Master of Juice boxes, deeming it to be my job to make sure all juice boxes were properly organized with straws inserted. Only mostly the kids were bringing Gatorade bottles - no straws. So I had to reinvent my role as assistant coach.

Now I stand on the sidelines and shout words of encouragement. “Kick that ball toward the net thingee! Go girls!” And if they miss, I shout, “It’s okay. Maybe next time. Just have FUN!”

Whatever we’re doing must be working because even though we have yet to win a game, one of the girls told us on Saturday that after playing soccer for four seasons, this is “the best year yet. You guys make this so much fun!”

So “Go girls. Get that ball thingee in the net thingee.”

Okay, I admit it. I like to watch those shows with the out-of-control kids because it makes me feel like super parent of the year.

Yeah, my kids do run around screaming at each other and they come to blows over the special toys. By “special”, I’m referring to those moldy Happy Meal toys they simultaneously happen to discover among the dust bunnies in the basement. My kids might fight over broken junk, but at least they don’t hit me and say I’m a “bad daddy” while they’re at it. So one up for me over that poor sap on the Nanny show last night.

And my kid may be flipping off his teacher (see Thursday’s post), but at least he isn’t rolling around on the floor disrupting class during the addition lessons. Two up for me over the “bad daddy” from a previous show.

So my daughter didn’t potty train until she was almost FOUR years old. At least she would eventually go in the bathroom instead of on the neighbor’s outside plants. Score another one for me.

So there you have it. Three super parent points for me. I feel so much better about my screaming, fighting kids now. Thanks Supernanny.

Yesterday started out just fine. Had I know it would end with puking and questions about sex, I would have stayed in bed and pulled the covers over my head.

First, I had to go get Lauren from school because she was puking in the cafeteria. Yesterday was the first day she’d eaten what Mommy had packed rather than buying the school lunch. So what does that tell you about MY cooking?

No sooner had I gotten her home and settled in front of the television then I got a call from Chris’s teacher. Apparently my third grader had discovered a new obscene gesture and the accompanying word to go with it. Not knowing what this gesture was, he decided the prudent course of action would be to try it out on his teacher.

So as soon as the boys got home, we had a discussion about not doing what others tell you because it might get you in trouble. I told the boys very calmly that if they didn’t know what something meant, they should come to Mommy first. (So they could flip me off instead of the teacher I suppose). I went into great detail about how the boys could ask me anything, and I mean anything and I would always be honest and answer the questions.

Things went downhill rapidly.

CHRIS: So what does that “f” word mean anyway, Mommy?

ME: It’s a bad way of talking about sex.

CHRIS: What’s sex?

Yep, led myself right open to that one. And of course when I paused, he reminded me that I said he could ask ANYTHING!

Stupid me.

This subject has come up before and there seemed to be no easy way to evade it so I explained very simply in biological terms what that word meant.

The boys’ response?

“Mom. That’s gross. We’re going to go do our homework.”

Just got back from a visit to the in-laws in Missouri.  I drove back through Illinoisi and into Indiana because Bob was down and out with his allergies.  In Illinois, all I saw were speed limit signs and cops enforcing the 65 MPH speed.   There were even billboards saying “Arrive Alive” and encouraging motorists not to speed.

In Indiana?  The speed limit is 70 MPH and not a cop in sight.  No billboards making sure I would “Arrive Alive” either.  All I saw were those new Indiana license plates, “IN GOD WE TRUST”.   Do you see the irony?