Leanna Kay

My week began with puking. Not my own. But there’s one thing almost as bad as being the puker. It’s being the one wearing the shoes getting puked on. Lauren got sick all over mine a few days ago. (This provided a very sudden end to her birthday slumber party.) Luckily she also managed to hit my pant legs and my shirt sleeves when I reached out to catch the ick.

If you’re not a mother, you won’t understand. After you give birth, something weird happens in your brain circuitry. When your child is throwing up, the normally smart neurons firing in your head shut down. Suddenly it seems like a good idea to cup your palms and catch whatever is coming out of your child’s mouth. The same motherly impulse hits when your kid is sneezing or needs to dispose of chewed gum.

You never see a dad spitting on his sleeve to wipe a glob of spinach from his offspring’s mouth. This is because fathers do not go through the neuron altering process of giving birth. I have no other explanation for why I suddenly felt the urge to catch my daughter’s regurgitated carrots.

The urge continued as did the illness. The laundry piled up as I discovered that the washer was broken - again. Three baskets full of puke laundry later, I still hadn’t learned to step back when Lauren got that funny look on her face. Nor had Bob managed to fix the washer. We needed a new one. NOW! Bob was prepared to go replace the machine when it started snowing…. Hard. Of course.

Lauren’s virus lingered and I got a call a few days later from one of the mom’s from Lauren’s birthday sleepover. Her little girl had scarlet fever and she called to apologize for exposing us. As if I had any right to get all righteous on her. After all, it was my own daughter who ended the sleep over with a puke fest.

As we’re discussing the contagion that is our children, Chris comes upstairs to proudly inform me that he’s cooked grilled cheese for supper.

“You’re not supposed to use the stove,” I whispered as my friend was detailing the symptoms of scarlet fever.

“I didn’t,” He proudly smiled. “I used the toaster.”

I smelled the smoke just as I heard the telltale beeping of the detector. I hung up on my friend as I took the steps two at a time to unplug the toaster before the house burned down. The grilled cheese was quite tasty. At least that’s what the firefighters said. (Okay, not really. But THAT would have been the perfect ending to a perfectly puky week.)

I’m sitting here with red and blue streaked hair contemplating the mess that is my house. We had a birthday slumber party for Lauren over the weekend. With the help of two other moms, we turned my kitchen into a spa and did their nails and hair. Then it was my turn. Because when you’re seven, there’s nothing funnier than watching an old woman get her hair streaked with pink and blue dye.

“Is this stuff permanent?” I asked as the streaks were going in.

“Define permanent…”

I think that means it’ll be gone before the gray hairs start popping up all over my head. Actually I’d rather have the pink than the gray. Maybe I’ll buy a hair streaker of my own.

After we put colorful streaks in our hair, it was time for the girls to get into their pajamas and sing Hannah Montana songs. I had the easy role in this - appreciative audience. Quickly followed by popcorn maker, pillow fluffer and drink getter.

All in all it was a fun time. Until Lauren got the flu and threw up in her sleeping bag. But that’s another blog…

Today you turn 7 years old. It’s hard to believe that you’re no longer my baby. I love you for so many reasons, but let me just write out a few from the year you were six.

I love the way you got so excited when we took you to Disneyworld and you met “Cinderella.” I put Cinderella in quotes because you didn’t actually get to see her. But you insisted all day that we weren’t leaving the park until you met the lady. You had this determined look in your eye and I could tell you meant business. Either we introduced you to Cinderella or you were going to handcuff yourself to Mickey and have park personnel escort us out and ban us from future entry.

So when Daddy spotted a princess, he wisely remarked, “Hey look. There’s Cinderella and she borrowed Sleeping Beauty’s dress.”

I loved the way your eyes lit up and you smiled when you had your picture taken with the young woman. You ran back to us and declared it to be your “best day EVER!”

I also loved the way you got so excited when we went to see the July Fourth Fireworks. The anticipation alone made your little body vibrate with excitement. Until the first loud boom. And then you and I ended up in the car, huddled together watching the pretty lights in a less noisy spot. I loved the way you cuddled on my lap and said every firework was the prettiest you’d ever seen. I also loved it when you declared that day as the “best day EVER!”

I loved the way you let me win every other time the afternoon you and I spent locked in your room playing Hannah Montana’s Girl Talk game. I loved the way your eyes lit up when I made a big deal out of winning and an even bigger deal out of you winning. But most of all, I loved the way you smiled as we put the game box away and declared it to be your “best day EVER!” It made me feel as if I was as important in your eyes as Cinderella.

I hated the way you were so sad when you started first grade and we had to spend the entire day apart. Your tears broke my heart and I seriously considered home schooling you. (Except I knew you’d be better off learning to read and write than you would be knowing how to lick the icing from the middle of an Oreo. As important of a life skill though that may be.)

I liked the way your tears started to dry up when we decided to exchange worry stones to help us get through the sad part of the day. When you had me kiss the stone I gave to you so you could have Mommy close to you all day, I put extra kisses on it in case they leaked out. I loved the way you told me one day that you weren’t going to cry at school anymore. But you still wanted me to put kisses on your worry stones each day.

When a friend and I started a Brownies troop, I was concerned about how hard it was for you to fit in with the other girls. I hurt for you each time you gravitated to me instead of playing with your peers. And then one day I couldn’t help but smile when I looked around and you weren’t there. You were off to the side giggling with another first grader about something you never told me. And another day, I was so proud when you told me you chose to sit by the little girl with the speech impediment because you thought she had trouble making friends and you wanted her to know she was your friend.

I love the way you’re turning into a loving, sensitive child. I love knowing you will grow into a young woman destined to make a positive impact on the world. So Happy 7^th Birthday. Now go off and do something amusing so Mommy can blog about you!

The first major holiday of the year has passed and we’ve all survived. By major, I mean the first holiday which required cupcakes and a school party.

In anticipation of Valentine’s Day, the students in Drew’s class were all asked to write poems which were posted in the hallway for parents to read. The girls wrote nice heart-shaped poems about love and romance. The boys? Well let’s just say that third grade boys still think girls are icky. Drew’s poem was a blatant “hands off” warning sign. Well, judge for yourself.

DON’T BE MY VALENTINE

Roses are Red

My Face is Too

Stay away from me

Because I really, really don’t love you.

This is the same kid who responded with an “ew” when we had the sex talk recently. For him, the only thing good about Valentine’s Day was the cupcakes. Well, that and his scratch and stink Valentines.

The kid found these cards that when scratched smell like a cross between wet dog, mildew and grass. It’s enough to make you want to barf. Which is exactly the right message to send on Valentine’s Day if you’re an eight year old boy.

Drew carefully filled out his Valentine’s, making sure to save the largest stinkest card for his best friend. Which is the closest thing you get to a declaration of love at this age.

It’s been a busy week, but I have two funny things to share.

1. My sister-in-law found my four year old niece wandering through the house licking a cherry popsicle. When mom spotted her, my niece piped up, “I HAD to eat it, Mom. The freezer was too full.”

2. My husband had his nose buried in a book he had to read for work. The kids kept trying to engage him in conversation, but he only mumbled in response. The title of the book that had him so engrossed? Crucial Conversation Tools.

We ate out this weekend at one of those Chinese buffets which have real glasses and silverware, but paper place mats. Hey, we weren’t looking for fancy. The real drawing point was the freezer filled with six different kinds of dip and serve ice cream.

After we gorged our bodies, the kids were amusing themselves by reading the paper place mats. The mats listed the Chinese years by animals. Chris discovered that Bob and I were born in the year of the “Chicken”. Except the Chinese don’t use the word “Chicken”. They use a word you will never see in this blog and a word that no eight-year-old boy should ever shout out in a restaurant. Of course this eight-year-old boy didn’t realize this until the word was uttered at such a decibel that people were staring from three tables over.

“So, Mom and Dad if your born in the year of the ‘chicken’ does that make you both ‘chickens’?”

“Shh.” I cautioned my boys. “Don’t say that word.”

Yeah, that was “smart” Mom. Tell an eight year old boy a word is off limits and what do you think he does?

“What word, Mom? ‘CHICKEN’?”

“That’s not a nice word in this country,” I persisted.

Two little boys chimed in, “Why?”

“Because it’s a slang word for a boy part,” I whispered.

“You mean like WIENER?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

Then you probably know what comes next.

“Mom and Dad are wieners…. Mom and Dad are wieners.”

And this is why we usually eat at home.