Leanna Kay

We’re taking the kids to see the big mouse. But because we’re diabolical parents, we’ve spent the last three months convincing them we’re spending their week of Spring Break retarring the roof, sealing the blacktop, picking up sticks in the yard, etc..

Chris actually said, "But MOM, I’m too little to tar the roof."

To which I replied, "Oh, Chris honey. Mommy would never really make you tar the roof." Then I paused a beat to let the warm and fuzzy moment build before I added,  "You’ll be too busy putting sealant on the blacktop to do that anyway."

They’ve been in tears for weeks and I think Chris actually has his napsack packed to head out to find a better family. We shall surely burn in hell for lying.

I won’t be blogging next week because I’ll be busy seeing how many times the kids can ride the Teacups before they puke. I’ll try to post when we get back (April 2) and let you know which kid now holds the projectile vomit record. Can’t wait, can you?

Lauren made a friend today. Before you get all misty eyed about long lasting friendships formed in childhood, let me clue you in on the dynamics of kindergarten girls. You form friendships by asking the other girl if she will be your friend. If she says yes, then you’re friends forever.

Let me define forever in five-year-old terms. ‘Forever’ lasts until your new friend does something horrible like refuses to pick the same flavor of milk as you at snack time. Then the friendship is O-V-E-R! Because how could you possibly remain friends with someone who drinks strawberry milk on Tuesdays when everyone knows Tuesdays are meant for chocolate dairy products? There are just some differences that are insurmountable.

Kindergarten girls generally do not make friends with kindergarten boys because boys are icky. A few weeks ago, Lauren was asked by one of these icky boys to be his friend, but she had to decline because (and I swear I am not making this up): "Mom, he picks his nose and wipes the boogers on his desk. And then he licks his fingers and wipes that on the desk too. It’s just gross."

Yep, that is pretty icky. But someday this boy will grow up to be someone’s husband. Hopefully he’ll have stopped the nose picking and saliva wiping, but ten to one, the guy will leave dirty underwear around the house for his wife to pick up. I guess that’s okay as long as he knows Tuesdays are chocolate milk days.

Saturday night our church held a family game night. Basically you take a few board games and your favorite snack to share. I brought carrots and dip because it involved almost no preparation time. I actually ate the chips and candy because ... well, because chips and candy contain the types of feel happy nutrition you can’t find in an orange vegetable.

While I was binging on potato chips, a group of us played this game called Worst Case Scenario. You are asked questions about survival in remote locations to see how you would fare. Get the most questions right, you survive and win the game.

Let’s cut to the chase. I lost in a big way. Unless the plane crashes in the parking lot of the Hilton, I’m dead meat. I cannot withstand a Python attack. I know nothing about amputating my own leg. I don’t understand how to escape from a rabid coyote. And I could no more summon water from a dry creek bed than I could magically turn generic beer into a fine Merlot.

My survival odds get worse if I’m stranded on a desert island. Unless that desert island includes a Hilton, in which case my odds improve significantly. I may not know much about repairing a leaky life boat, but I do know how to order room service.

Why do my odds of survival go down when stranded near the ocean? Well apparently when stranded near the sea, you’re supposed to know how to kill and eat a shark. So, let me get this straight. You’ve survived the boat sinking to the bottom of the ocean. You’ve gotten out of the leaky life boat before it sank. You’ve managed to locate an island and swim to it without being attacked and killed by angry marine life. Now you’re supposed to hunt down a shark?! I don’t think so.

But not only do you have to hunt it down, according to the trivia game, you must then drag the sharp toothed thing to shore and... oh, it gets much, much worse. Once you have the deadly creature thrashing about on the sand, you must shove an oar down its throat. At least that’s what the game card said.

Yeah, right. I thought this was about survival, not the quickest way for Leanna to get torn to shreds and eaten by Jaws. I’m sorry, there just aren’t enough ‘feel happy’ nutrients in an entire shark to make me want to risk life and limb to have one for dinner.

I have some better options for survival in the wild - a waterproof cell phone and a call to 9-1-1. Oh, and maybe a bag of Oreos to snack on while I wait for someone to come rescue me. I’ll leave the shark hunting to the rest of you.

Well the underground dog fence we put in two years ago works. I know because it somehow got a break in it yesterday and not ten minutes after the monitor starting beeping to tell us something was wrong, Maria (the dog) was across the street visiting my mom. I think Maria made a beeline over there because when we go on vacation, Mom takes very good care of this dog. Belly rubs, extra treats and freshly cooked eggs. Think Grandma’s house in dog terms.

It’s pretty sad that it only took Maria ten measly minutes to make her escape. Considering it takes at least five of those ten minutes to walk that far, the dog must have run away the minute the electric fence went down.

Makes you wonder how often Maria has sat in her dog box contemplating her horrible existence. Generic dry dog food. Running from three children who see her as their own personal pony. Putting up with the cats. It’s horrible, horrible indeed.

Well Mom was out of freshly fried eggs so I had to drag the dog back home and fix the fence. Maria’s back in her doghouse contemplating whether a freshly fried egg is worth getting shocked over. Poor dog.

Lauren wants a sister really, really badly. You might think it’s because she has two older twin brothers and she’s tired of playing boy games. Or you could think it’s because she needs someone else in the household who believes pink is the best color in the world.

You’d be wrong. She needs a sister because, get this - SHE HAS HER ROOM ALL TO HERSELF. And that’s a bad thing because she’s six and doesn’t really understand life yet. She still thinks all Cinderella had to do to improve her existence was fit in the right sized slipper. And she’s also convinced that a Mommy kiss on the knee will heal any scrape.

This room thing is coming to a head now because we’re redecorating her bedroom. Let me rephrase the "we" part. Mostly my mom is doing all the work because I’m inept when it comes to a paintbrush. At least that’s what Mom thinks and let’s just keep it that way, ‘kay? (Wink, Nod).

The reality of the situation is that Lauren’s room is just right for her and her alone. She’s not getting a sister. What she is getting is a new bedspread and a purple net canopy. The canopy had just enough allure to distract her from wanting a sister. Because a purple canopy is better than a sibling when you’re a six-year-old little girl, right?!

At some time in the life of a parent, you will say the following "Money doesn’t grow on trees." Our parents said it to us and it somehow became stuck in our head only to be repeated when our children least want to hear it.

So at any rate, yesterday that phrase finally came spewing from my mouth in Drew’s presence.

Drew - "Mom, technically that’s not true. Money does grow on trees."

"No it doesn’t honey. People have to work hard to earn their money."

"But Mom, money is made from paper and paper comes from trees. So there. You’re wrong. Money DOES grow on trees."

So when did he get smarter than me?

Lauren sneezing.

  “Mommy, I have the Bless You’s.”

I’m going to be rich beyond my wildest dreams. How am I going to attain the financial freedom that will allow me to buy countless cans of aerosol cheese spread even when it’s not on sale, you ask?

I’m going to take my kids’ money. Brilliant, huh?

In the last week, I’ve heard the following phrase a billion three hundred and two times (and I’m only slightly exaggerating) - "Mom, it’s NOT FAIR!"

It’s not fair that Lauren got to open one of her birthday presents a day early because she was running a fever and Mommy was trying to find a way to cheer her up. It’s not fair that the guy at the gymnastics place where we had their expensive birthday party only thought to put out one paper plate that said "Birthday Boy" even though there were two birthday boys.

It’s not fair that the sky is blue and the clouds are white. It’s not fair that Mommy’s head is going to explode and there’s white smoke coming out of her ears.

IT’S JUST NOT FAIR!!!

So after the smoke from my ears thing, I lectured my offspring that it was going to cost them. I now charge a quarter for each "it’s not fair." This week so far I’ve taken in ten thousand five hundred and three dollars. Cheese Whiz, here I come!

Yesterday, my sweet little boys turned eight. I swear it was just a few months ago that I was taking them home from the hospital and wiping their little bottoms.

Of course when I shared this sweet sentiment with the twins, the response was something like - yeah, Mom it seems like just yesterday to you because you’re old and you forget stuff real easy.

Is it just me, or is the brutal honesty which spews forth from our children just nature’s way of making it easier to say goodbye when it’s time for them to fly away from the nest?! Luckily I have a few years - and a few more broken windows and lamps before it’s time for my boys to leave home.

I have to confess that from now on, the broken stuff is entirely my fault. I bought the kids a toy for their birthday which just has stupid idea written all over it - or at least it would if parents had packaged the thing instead of the toy makers.

I wish I could say I’d been drinking heavily when I went shopping for the boys’ birthday. I wish I could say I’d recently received a sharp blow to the head. But no. I have no logical excuse for the fact that I purchased these rambunctious children a Nerf dart tag set.

For those of you without children or those with children who shop while sober, you may not know what I’m talking about. The toy has two target shaped circles and two guns with Nerf bullets. Each player gets a target and a gun. You’re supposed to chase each other around the house trying to beam your opponent with projectiles - extra points for a direct hit to the privates or the head. (That part’s not in the rule book, but these are eight-year-old boys who make up their own rules.) The loser is the first to lose consciousness following a direct hit to the head.

I was wary just as soon as they opened up the package and I saw the set came with eye guards. Any toy that requires eye guards for eight year olds cannot be such a great idea. My second clue that this was going to be a dangerous toy came when both boys jumped up and down, yelling “COOL!”

So I may be old and forget things, but I am a cool parent. I’ll be sure to tell that to the EMTs as they’re surgically removing the Nerf dart from one of my eight-year-old’s craniums.

I recently painted Lauren’s room a bright, cheery yellow. If she’s surrounded by something cheery, maybe the mood will rub off, right?

I made the critical mistake of letting the kids help. Let me define ‘help’ in the vocabulary of seven and six year olds. Take the brush and coat it so thoroughly in paint that the stuff runs down your arm and drips onto the school shoes Mommy told you to take off before you started painting. Then fling the stuff in the general direction of the wall, dripping it onto the carpet and bed as much as possible.

I almost had a panic attack when I saw the mess until I remembered Jackson Pollock made big bucks for flinging around paint. He called it art.

This one shown here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:No._5%2C_1948.jpg doesn’t look that much different than my kids gone wild with paint brushes. But according to Wikipedia, someone paid $140 million for this Pollock painting last year. Yep, that’s one hundred forty MILLION DOLLARS!

So, anyone want to buy the carpeting or wall in Lauren’s room? I’ll take into account that my kids are not yet famous and start the bidding low. How about one million bucks. Anyone? Anyone?