Leanna Kay

We took the kids to a local school carnival this weekend. Lucky Lauren won some brownies in the cake walk. The cake walk is where you walk around a circle with numbers pasted on the floor. When the music stops, you stand on your number and if it gets drawn, you win a baked good.

You would have thought by her brilliant walking that Lauren had cured cancer and negotiated world peace. She was so pleased with herself that she retold the story three times on the way home.

"I walked very carefully, Mom. And then when the music stopped so did I. I picked number 9. And I won! Didn’t I do a good job of walking?"

"You were brilliant," I replied because as her mother I must be astonished by my six-year old’s ability to hold herself upright and walk using just two limbs. There was a time when she couldn’t do this and her little body was constantly plastered on my hip like a permanent growth. So my amazement isn’t ill founded.

When we got home, Lauren triumphantly brought her plate of three brownies into the house and announced that if the boys were nice, they could have one. She then divided them up like the UN parceling out the spoils of war.

"Here, Afghanistan, you’ve been mean to me so you get the smallest portion. And as for you naughty Iraq, you take the one that’s crumbled."

Then she ate her brownie and practiced walking - just in case.

For those of you who read regularly, you know that my boys sometimes have angst about being raised Baptist - mostly because they perceive this as the religion that involves the least amount of gift giving. Their Catholic cousins get Godparent presents, gifts for christenings, presents for first communion and confirmation and so on and so forth.

From their perspective, Baptists get nothing. Except the gift of eternal life. And they have to wait until they’re DEAD to claim that one. Plus Catholics get that gift and all the other ones. So it’s totally unfair.

The kids’ religious angst came to a head recently as I was preparing to give my Godchildren Easter gifts. (Yeah - better late than never.)

"How come Emily gets an extra present for Easter?" Chris asked.

"Because she’s my God child."

Chris looked at me like I was his evil stepmother rather than the woman who’d nourished him in utero for nine long months between daily bouts of intense nausea and vomiting.

"Well that’s not fair." This is the child who gets out the ruler with the millimeter markings to make sure each and every cookie is split in exact proportion.

Then Chris asked, "How come I don’t have God parents?"

"Because you’re Baptist."

"Well that’s a dumb reason, Mom."

"Besides," I said. "You don’t need extra Easter presents. Isn’t Jesus dying on the cross enough?"

Then I get the glare and the big sigh. Apparently he wants eternal life AND a plastic light-up cross.

"Mom, you burned the toast."

"I can fix it." Me grabbing a knife and scrapping the black off.

"Wow, Mom. You really DO know how to cook."

So who wants my recipe for toast? I also have one for canned ravioli and Campbell’s chicken noodle soup. Any takers?!

So my eight year old son came home Friday with a library book from school to read over the weekend. The book was Judy Blume’s - Are you There God, It’s Me, Margaret. For those not in the know, this is a book about a young girl starting her periods.

"Uh, Drew," I said fingering the book written for prepubescent GIRLS. "Why did you pick this particular book?"

"I dunno. Because it was about God."

"Actually it’s a book for girls," I said, treading delicately.

"So?"

"So, you need to pick something else to read." This is a child who still thinks the pads I keep in the bathroom closets are cleaning rags. He’s not quite ready to learn about a full blown menstrual cycle from poor little Margaret.

"But Mom," he protested. "I have to read it. I’m supposed to take a computer test about it on Monday."

Great - a standardized way to see how much my second grade boy knows about PMS, cramps and bloating.

"You’ll have to take a test on another book."

"But Mom. It’s okay that it’s a girl book. I can read about girls."

"It’s not just about girls. It’s about puberty," I said stupidly. When you’re a Mom, you sometimes need to know when to shut up, change the subject and whip out the Oreos.

"What’s puberty?"

"It’s when a girl changes into a woman," I said, still not shutting up, though I AM eyeing the cookie jar.

"So, what happens to her."

Suddenly the temperature in the room feels like it’s shot up to 90 degrees.

"Lots of stuff."

"Like breasts?"

Now there’s sweat pouring down my back.

"Sure, among other things. Want some cookies?"

"Cookies? How about ice cream too?"

"Anything you want." ... as long as it doesn’t have to do with menstruation.

We have a three year old lab/terrier mutt we got from the pound. Recently we took her for a walk with us in my parent’s woods - read new territory for her to explore. I swear this was her best day ever.

Here are the highlights (from her perspective):

1) rousted a snake from the bushes and barked at it.

2) ran through an ant hill

3) swam in a dirty creek

4) ate a water bug

5) chased a squirrel

6) chased another squirrel

7) and another squirrel (she loves chasing small furry creatures)

8) ate some poop

And the absolute best part?

–Found something dead and rolled around on it - A LOT.

She smells so bad, I don’t think I’ll ever get her clean!

I recently took a test to see if I could pass the third grade. In this test, you put the states in their appropriate place on a blank map of the United States. The test is located here - http://www.pibmug.com/files/map_test.swf in case you want to take it and post cyber ‘stuck-out tongues’ at me because NO I am not smarter than a third grader.

It’s not my fault really. The test is super quick and barely gives you enough time to get yourself a cup of hot tea and sharpen your pencil. By the time you fluff up your ergonomic neck pillow and work the arthritis out of your joints, the test is over.

My eight year old had no problem passing this test "with time to spare, Mom." He was smirking when he said it.

Well he may be able to pass the third grade test, but he doesn’t remember when an actor became President of the United States. So, ha. There is an advantage to being a slow old person.

I recently saw on tv the coolest baking accessory ever. It was one of those pans where you can bake a cake and then put filling inside of it to ‘impress your guests and wow your family’ - or something like that. Well I found this pan and bought it thinking I was about to become the most impressive baker in the family.

I got out my special pan last week with visions of a beautiful chocolate cake filled with a light fluffy mousse. Oh, the bitterness of reality.

To begin with, the directions were confusing. The original directions called for two cake mixes. But there was a bright yellow warning insert which stated that the company’s cake mixes had recently increased in volume so only one mix was needed. Well, thought silly little me. The cake box I had looked like the one I always buy. No way was this double in volume. Must be I had one of the older cake mixes. So I ignored the bright yellow warning. I made two mixes and happily filled my pans (oblivious to the fact that there was a fill line which I covered in my haste to baked good stardom).

Ten minutes later, Lauren and I are cooking pasta when black smoke starts rolling out of the oven. I open the door to discover the cake batter oozing over the tops of the pans, dripping onto the electric element and sparking small flames.

Lucky me, I also had one of the pans positioned just right to drip down the front of the oven into the broiler drawer where the half-baked burned batter coated my clean dishes. I’m yanking the dripping mess out of the oven just as the boys come into the kitchen.

“I smell smoke. Is supper ready?” Geez - Set the fire alarm off a couple of times while you’re cooking and suddenly your kids equate the loud beeping with a home cooked meal. Brats.

“No supper is NOT ready.” I say as I mentally curse while cake batter drips onto the floor.

“Is that dessert, Mom?” Chris asks in a tone that makes it sound like I’m about to poison him.

I send him away with a glare as I scoop the mess into a bowl I use to toss food out to the animals. Did I mention the cake batter was chocolate? A substance which could kill the dog if dropped anywhere in her proximity?

It’s bad enough I burned the cake, set the oven on fire and dripped cake batter all over the kitchen floor. I didn’t want to kill the dog too.

So I had to hike the whole mess a good five hundred yards away from the house into the woods to get past the underground dog fence. Did I mention it was raining? REALLY HARD.

After all this, the kids did get their cream filled cake for dessert. They’re called Little Debbies and they come pre-wrapped so you can wow your family and dazzle your friends with no flames or potential dog killing involved.

We recently watched Charlotte’s Web with the kids. Well to be perfectly honest, we were at Grandma’s house and the boys had just received new Gameboy games so they were in a video game induced trance. I don’t think they would have realized had Bob and I got up and left for a six week tour of Europe. (Lost opportunities).

So the boys have no concept of Charlotte’s Web. But Lauren watched intently.

This is the child who will no longer play with her Barbie house in the basement because once six months ago there was this teeny tiny spider web in the corner of Barbie’s bedroom. The web must have been made by one lousy spider because the teeny tiny spider that did the spinning was dead - of starvation no doubt. Even though I cleaned up the web, Lauren still will not play Barbies because there might be spiders in there and this is apparently a terrifying thought.

So we’re watching the movie and in the end Charlotte lays her egg sack with 500 and some odd spider babies. Wilbur takes the whole mess back to the barn where it hatches in a writhing mess of creepy crawly bugs. I’m watching this scene with all the spiders, thinking that I would have made quick work of the wiggling mass of baby spiders with my shoe.

Not Lauren. The girl is mesmerized by all the "cute babies." Cute? These are the same creatures who struck fear in her heart mere months ago. Now just because they can weave sentences into webs, they’re CUTE?!

So now spiders are protected creatures in our house. And Lauren still won’t play with the Barbie house. Maybe I need a spider who can spin a web with the words "Some Barbies" inside. Then it would be okay.

We’re getting ready to file our taxes. In reviewing the tax paperwork, it occurred to me that the IRS is missing a few key deductions for those of us overworked and underpaid people who are funding the expensive gold plated self flush potties at the Internal Revenue Service offices. I’m just guessing about the potties, but I am sure if anyone’s money is being used for something stupid, it would be mine!

So for today’s blog, I’m listing the top ten deductions the IRS should consider. Feel free to add to the list.

10. Deduction for mental health care for Stay at Home Moms

9. Deduction for mental health care for working moms.

8. That three hour massage I needed to relieve the stress when I found out how much money I personally had to fork over to the federal government.

7. Bottle of Jack Daniels needed to relieve the stress left over by the massage when I snapped out of my Zen state and realized I STILL had to pay the federal government.

6. Trip to Betty Ford after drinking too much Jack Daniels.

5. Dry cleaning costs for suit that son threw up on. (I don’t know why this should be a deduction - but it would certainly make ME feel better).

4. My trip to Florida. Hey, without it, I wouldn’t have been able to return to my money producing work thereby earning income to pay IRS.

3. Cost of gallons of hand sanitizer I buy to keep my family healthy.

2. Deduction for the cost of the ten bags of Cheetos I needed to consume while I sorted the receipts for the accountant (Okay, so Bob did most of the sorting, but providing moral support really makes you hungry for crunchy, cheesy junk food.)

1. Cost for gold plated self flush potty I’d like to install in my own bathroom. Hey, if the IRS can have such luxury, what about the rest of us?

Yesterday like sleep deprived parents everywhere, we let our kids have candy for breakfast. In our defense, Bob and I had this brilliant idea that sunrise service at church would be a wonderful way to start the day. So when the kids came running into our bedroom in their pajamas two minutes before it was time to leave begging us for food, what was I to do?

"Mom. We’re starving. Can you make us some eggs?"

Eggs? My brain barely functions well enough in the morning to put my underwear on the right way. Mixing poultry products and a hot stove before 7 a.m. is a sure path to disaster.

"You really want eggs?" Of course my mommy conscious was kicking in telling me that no matter what, I needed to fill my kids with nutritious foods. This is the same little voice that kicked me out of bed when I had the flu to make them peanut butter and raisin sandwiches. (Hey, I never claimed to be a good cook.)

Normally I would have made the kids something healthy to start their day off right. Yesterday, I kicked the Mommy conscious to the curb.

"Why don’t you just eat some candy from your baskets? And eat it quick."

From the three startled expressions I got, you’d have thought I’d given them Uzzis and told them to go out and shoot up the neighborhood.

"Candy for breakfast?" My eldest asked, looking at me like I was an alien life form.

"Yeah. Go for it."

Then they ran for their Easter baskets before I could change my mind. So we took them to early church filled with sugar and so full of energy that they kept wiggling off their chairs. But in my defense, I had them eat the candy EGGS. They’re eggs so that’s breakfast food, right?