Leanna Kay

Bob came home recently with two cotton shirts for the boys. I washed and dried them and they came out of the machine filled with wrinkles. These shirts were for school pictures, so I couldn’t do the usual - meaning pretend that it was fashionable for my boys to look like homeless urchins who spend their time rooting through garbage cans and eating dirt.

So now what? I figured I had limited options. I briefly considered hauling out the ironing board to try and press these shirts. But then I couldn’t remember where I kept the ironing board or even if I actually owned one. The last time I used a hot iron, I distinctly remember getting burned. I was probably only about ten at the time, but these things leave a lasting negative impression.

So ironing was definitely O-U-T.

I’d read somewhere that steam gets out wrinkles. So into the shower the shirts went. Even wet, they maintained their wrinkled state.

I tried smoothing the wrinkles out with a dry towel. Nada. Nothing. Then I hung them outside hoping the hand of God in the form of a gentle breeze would do the trick. As if.

About three hours later, I was still staring dejectedly at those wrinkled shirts. I probably could have shorn a sheep, produced my own cotton and sewn them something new in the time I spent avoiding ironing. Yeah, right.

I was thinking the twins were probably going to have to be photographed in their t-shirts proclaiming “SISTER FOR SALE.” Then my mom walked in.

“Are those the boys’ shirts for picture day?” she asked.

“Yep.” I was about to ask her how to shear a sheep when she asked the magical question.

“Do you need me to iron them for you?”

YES!!!

This is a mother who knows her daughter. She didn’t even ask me if I was going to iron them. She just instinctively knew better.   She also knew where the ironing board was.

Mom ironed the shirts and had them wrinkle-free in ten minutes. I watched her carefully and even learned a thing or two. Like never buy 100% cotton anything.

I had to spend the earlier part of the week in “school” in Indianapolis. To keep my law license, I’m required to spend two full days each year going to lectures on such riveting subjects as “The Criminal Appendix and You!” and “The Joys of Legal Research - How to Find that Really Obscure Case that No One Cares About” and my personal favorite, “How to Keep a Straight Face When Telling a Client Your Retainer Fee - or ‘No I don’t Take Organs in Trade, but Thanks for Asking.’”

Okay, so none of those courses were actually in the offering. But the presenters would be wise to come up with some interesting titles for their dry material so we don’t rebel and use our boredom-induced zombie-like state as a defense when we start winging the seminar materials at their heads.
 

It wasn’t all bad. Because I was spending the day exercising “book throwing self control”, my mom graciously agreed to take my place at home. She got the kids off the bus and listened to them complain about which of their siblings’ butts took up too much room on the bus seat. She sat them down at the kitchen table and repeated this phrase three hundred and ten times. “I don’t think your pencil needs sharpened for the tenth time. Just do your homework!” And – this is the best part - she cooked dinner!

I came home from Indianapolis to a warm home-cooked meal, three kids with homework done and a living room cleared of all toys. It was worth the zombie-like boredom.

Alert the Guinness people! Call the National Enquirer! I - a human woman - have apparently produced a canine offspring. Just ask Lauren.

“I’m a puppy,” she informed me yesterday. “My name is not Lauren. It’s Sunshine.”

“Okay, Sunshine,” I played along because what else is a Mommy to do when her little girl suddenly morphs into a dog?
“Pick up your puppy toys from the living room floor and take them to your room.”

“Woof.” Lauren just stared at me before deciding she’d have to translate dog speak for her uneducated mother. “That means dogs can’t clean. They only have paws, Mommy. You can’t pick up toys with paws,” she said as she held up her suddenly useless hands.

“So who picks up the puppy’s toys?” I asked, as if I didn’t already know where this was going.

“Woof.” She then translated, “The puppy’s mommy of course.”

Yep, now I see it all clearly. And then I learned all the rules of “puppyhood” from my little girl.

What Puppies Can’t Do

**Eat vegetables.

**Do any sort of cleaning

**Wash their “fur”

**Go to bed early

**Homework

What Puppies Can Do

** Eat candy, ice cream and popsicles

**Fetch using their teeth

**Watch Hannah Montana

**Curl up in their mommies’ laps and get pats on their furry heads

**Give kisses

We played puppies for a while before I decided those toys we were tripping over really needed to be put away. Only we mommies of puppy daughters don’t do all the picking up after their puppy kids. So Lauren decided she could put her toys away by carrying them in her teeth as long as I patted her on the head and told her she was a “Good Sunshine.”

Are you ready for a challenge? Click here to see if you’re right brained or left brained.

http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/story/0,21985,22556281-661,00.html

I saw the woman spinning both way so I guess I’m schizophrenic. I wanted to test this out with my husband - a definite left-brained engineer. But when I asked him to come take a computer test with me for fun, he muttered something about ESPN sport scores and ask him later. Later like in a century or two.
 

So I waited a minute and said, “Hey honey. I found this naked dancing woman on my computer. Can you come stare at her for a few minutes?” He was by my side before I finished the question.

He watched her intently (all for the sake of science of course) and assured me that she was moving only counterclockwise and that I just wasn’t watching right if I saw her going the other way.

We both watched her and each simultaneously saw her spinning in different directions. So I guess that means we’re out of tune with each other. Or maybe it was just that we were watching from different angles. I had my eyes fixated on her legs and he, … well he was intently watching *elsewhere*. Apparently computer generated breasts are more riveting than sports scores.

My husband has a new love. No, he’s not cuddling up to a new woman. He’s in love with his new car GPS navigator. I’ve named her Martha because despite her throaty sexy voice, I want my husband to picture her as George’s matronly white-haired wife.

For months, Bob looked at pictures of Martha on the internet, drooling over all of her built-in maps and navigational systems.

“We could go to McDonalds without getting lost,” Bob said, trying to convince me that Martha was worth the money.

“We already know how to get to McDonalds,” I calmly informed him. “And if we’re in a strange town, we can just ask for directions.”

That got me a glare, because men do NOT ask for directions. You can drive in the same circular pattern for three days, but a man will absolutely not stop and ask how to escape from the vortex. Apparently men think they have to pay for the directions with their manhood.

I think that was the lure of Martha - never having to admit to being lost and never having to ask another human being for directions.

So we bought Martha and took her with us on a recent lakeside camping trip. After camping, we decided to let Martha direct us to a nearby tourist spot. In her throaty voice, she led us left and right until we were so far from civilization that the roads weren’t even paved. Even though she informed us we had miles to go, she directed us onto a street dead ending in someone’s farm house.

After we turned around, she “recalculated” in an annoyed nagging wife voice and led us back onto paved roads. We drove down a curvy hill and right onto a boat ramp. Had we continued following Martha, we would have driven right into the lake.

I kept quiet as my husband instantly fell out of love with Martha. I may not have her sexy voice, but I’ve never once told him to drive into a lake.

Now that the kids are all in school, I have time to do all the things I never could when they were little and constantly underfoot. I can eat an entire lunch without being interrupted to wipe a poopy hiney. I can complete a phone call without having to put the other party on hold while I settle a dispute over which kid had ownership first of the broken Happy Meal puppy dog toy. I can even watch a whole television show - commercials included.

Okay so my peace is much overrated. I was recently watching a show while eating lunch when a drug commercial caught my attention. If I have achy joints, this medicine will take care of all my problems. Just like the happy Seniors in the drug ad, I’ll be able to play the piano, dance all night long and even catch a big bass. (No comments on my present inability to do those things even though I don’t have arthritis).

After presenting all of these happy images, the announcer listed the side effects in a sing songy voice best reserved for speaking to small children and village idiots. She happily informed me that side effects include: uncontrollable vomiting, diarrhea, nausea, and loss of balance.

What? How can I fish for a big bass if I’m vomiting uncontrollably over the side of the boat? Do these drug makers think they can say ANYTHING in a sing songy voice and the potential patients will be okay with it?

How about? — This medicine may cause loss of spleen, uncontrollable urge to reelect George Bush, constant crapping until you’re defacating out your ears, loss of appendages including but not limited to arm, leg and nose. Consult your doctor right now to see if you’re a candidate for this new wonder drug.

Do I have any takers? Did I mention, my new wonder drug will make you magically able to catch big bass?

We went camping this weekend. Let me preface this by saying that “roughing it” in my opinion is being forced to eat McDonald’s chicken nuggets without barbeque sauce. But in a fit of insanity, I decided that we really should get that tent out of the basement and take the kids camping before it got too cold.

As we were shivering in our tent Saturday night, I realized I was already too late to beat the cold. I also realized that my kids are very much like me when it comes to roughing it. Lauren’s delicate sensibilities were particularly offended by the pit toilets.

When first faced with the need to pee, Lauren walked into the bathroom and said, “Ew, Mommy.” She wrinkled her nose and crossed her legs in an apparent effort to hold the pee in for the entire weekend. “It’s just a big hole in the ground. And there are a gazillion flies in here!”

As I tried to coax her just to pee so we could breathe fresh air before we died, she commented on the fact that the stalls didn’t have any doors. Honestly, privacy wasn’t much of a concern because it wasn’t like anyone else in their right mind was in there with us.

The pit toilets were disgusting. But it was almost worth peeing in a hole to spend a weekend without computer games and television. I’d have even traded toilet paper for the privilege of hearing Drew’s campfire story on how ancient man conquered the T-Rexs. And the lack of soap and adequate bathing facilities were a small price to pay for uninterrupted time to snuggle with Chris in a sleeping bag that would have been much too cold without him. And hearing Lauren comment as she ate a roasted marshmallow that it was one of her best days ever, more than made up for having to fight the bees for my turkey sandwich.

But I’m still thankful for hot showers, soap, and toilets that actually flush.