Leanna Kay

Would it be socially acceptable to duct tape my children’s mouths shut during the weekly children’s church sermon? Probably not. I imagine some Senator deemed that impermissible and passed a law against it. No doubt the Senator who sponsored the bill never had a child who said embarrassing things, loudly in front of large groups of people. Welcome to MY world.

Last week, the minister was teaching the kids about the meanings of words. He brought along a dictionary and a thesaurus presumably as visuals to illustrate his lesson. He held the books up and asked the kids what they were used for. After the children accurately stated their use, he set the books aside and started talking about the concept of hope.

“Can anyone tell me what ‘hope’ means?” he asked.

Drew piped up loudly, “You have the dictionary. Just look it up.”

Someone recently forwarded me this article on email forwards.  It’s too good not to share.
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I must send my thanks to whoever sent me the one about poop in the glue on envelopes because I now have to use a wet towel with every envelope that needs sealing. Also, now I have to scrub the top of every can I open for the same reason.

I no longer have any savings because I gave it to a sick girl Penny Brown who is about to die in the hospital for the 1,387,258th time.  I no longer have any money at all, but that will change once I receive the $15,000 that Bill GatesMicrosoft and AOL are sending me forparticipating in their special e-mail program.

I no longer worry about my soul because I have 363,214 angels looking out for me , and St. Theresa’s novena has granted my every wish.

I no longer use cancer-causing deodorants even though I smell like a water buffalo on a hot day. Thanks to you, I have learned that my prayers only get answered if I forward an email to seven of my friends and make a wish within five minutes.

Because of your concern I no longer drink Coca Cola because it can remove toilet stains. I no longer can buy gasoline without taking someone along to watch the car so a serial killer won’t crawl in my back seat when I’m pumping gas.

I no longer use Saran wrap in the microwave because it causes cancer. And thanks for letting me know I can’t boil a cup of water in the microwave anymore because it will blow up in my face…disfiguring me for life.

I no longer go to shopping malls because someone will drug me with a perfume sample and rob me.

I no longer answer the phone because someone will ask me to dial a number for which I will get a phone bill with calls to Jamaica, Uganda, Singapore, and Uzbekistan.

Thanks to you, I can’t use anyone’s toilet but mine because a big brown African spider is lurking under the seat to cause me instant death when it bites my butt.

And thanks to your great advice, I can’t ever pick up the $5.00 I dropped in the parking lot because it probably was placed there by a sex molester waiting underneath my car to grab my leg.

If you don’t send this e-mail to at least 144,000 people in the next 70 minutes, a large dove with diarrhea will land on your head at 5:00 PM this afternoon and the fleas from 12 camels will infest your back, causing you to grow a hairy hump. I know this will occur because it actually happened to a friend of my next door neighbor’s ex-mother-in-law’s
second husband’s cousin’s beautician…

Have a wonderful day….
Oh, by the way…..A South American scientist from Argentina, after a lengthy study, has discovered that people with insufficient brain activity read their e-mail with their hand on the mouse.

Don’t bother taking it off now, it’s too late!

Even though the boys are now nine years old, I still make them go into the women’s restroom with me when we’re out in public in places where child molesters and perverts might lurk. Like the mall, the toy store, the Christian book store.

Sure I’m probably a little paranoid. But in my defense, I’ve never actually been in a men’s restroom. So in my mind it’s entirely possible there’s a sicko waiting at each urinal for a young naive boy to drop his pants. …. Not on my watch!

Recently we were at McDonalds (hey, perverts eat french fries and chicken nuggets too), when I had to use the restroom. The boys didn’t have to go so I instructed them to just wait for me by the sinks.

Big mistake.

I had no sooner locked the restroom stall door when I hear Drew very loudly ask, “Hey, Mom. What’s a tam pin?”

“Just a minute, Drew,” I yell as I try to complete my business before he starts searching for a quarter to satisfy his curiosity.

“Did you hear me, Mom?” he yells loudly enough for the ladies in the next two stalls to hear. “It’s tam pin. T - A - M - P - O - N.”

Why does the kid have to be such an avid reader? He’ll read anything anywhere. Just because.

“It’s a girl thing,” I say as I struggle to zip my pants. (The zipper has never stuck on those jeans before. Why today?!)

“I know it’s a girl thing, Mom,” he says in clear exasperation. “Obviously we’re in the GIRL’S restroom. What’s it for?”

Now I hear snickering coming from the next two stalls.

“It’s for girls to use for girl stuff.” I whip open the stall door and walk over to the sink. “For that girl week,” I whisper because he knows a little about this from previous embarrassing conversations.

“Oh. Well why didn’t you just say so?” He gives me a look which shows he clearly doesn’t understand why I didn’t just yell my explanation from the bathroom stall in the first place.

Next time before we go into the ladies’ room, I’m giving the kid a book!

Lauren came up to me this week and asked, “Mom, do you know what it means to be sexy?”

I’m thinking two things - One, I’ve had three kids. That word was drummed out of my vocabulary during labor. But I’m also thinking - Oh My God, do YOU know what it means to be sexy.

This is a child whose first grade peers strut their stuff to Hannah Montana and strike a pose to that Fabulous song from High School Musical. The moves they have would put Madonna to shame.

Just last week, I got a call from the mother of one of Lauren’s peers informing me that her daughter had a boyfriend. Luckily that relationship only lasted a day, broken up by an age old divide between men and women. Mainly, whether it’s acceptable to pick one’s nose in public.

Apparently if you’re a first grade boy and you pick your nose on the playground, you’ll get dumped. Which made me wonder if this was the reason my sons don’t have girlfriends yet. But that’s another blog.

So when Lauren asked me if I knew what “sexy” meant, all I could think about was how quickly this generation morphs from diaper wearing toddlers to seven-year-old girls who start to notice boys.

“What does sexy mean, Lauren?” I asked in the same calm voice I used several years ago to explain to the boys that the monkeys at the zoo were just “wrestling” and gee, wouldn’t it be nice to go get some ice cream right about now? (Yes, I use dairy products as diversions. Tell me you’ve never done this!)

Lauren grinned widely and answered, “Sexy means someone wants to kiss you.”

“Why yes, Lauren. Yes it does.” I almost sighed in relief. Not that Lauren would have heard me because by then my back was already turned as I fled toward the freezer. “Want an ice cream bar?”

Last night at bedtime, I overheard the following coming from the boys’ room.

Drew: Okay, now hit it as hard as you can.

I heard a loud thump and then from Drew, “that didn’t hurt.”

Chris: “Do it to me.”

At this point, I peeked inside their bedroom to see them playing with their protective cups. They were taking turns holding it over their privates and punching each other to see if it hurt. Boys!

The boys are playing baseball for the first time this year. Bob was out of town for business when I got the call that the boys would start practice. And by the way, I was told, make sure they show up wearing their cups.

Cups? They didn’t have cups. Unless you count the plastic kind we take home with us when we dine at Penn Station. But I didn’t think the coach was referring to protective gear for their “lemonade.”

So off to WalMart I went in search of something to protect their little boy parts. This is definitely a DAD’S job. At least that’s what I decided when I stood in the sporting goods department staring at all the sorts of gear they make to protect little boy parts. Did I need the kind that came with straps or should I buy the underwear with inserts? And what size? Dear Lord, I didn’t know I had to measure that before I could buy the right product. Maybe I should have brought them with me to try them on. Can you even do that? Should you even do that? Did the little boys who had to try jock straps on with their mothers become men who needed therapy some day?

I really needed Bob. But he was gone just like he was strangely absent when the boys insisted on knowing what sex is and how do those babies get out of the mommy’s uterus anyhow? I think men have emotional sensors which heighten their flight response. When they sense that something uncomfortable is about to happen, they make sure they’re far, far away.

Bob says he was just at work making money so we could eat something other than government cheese and beans. And in his defense, I do like a good steak every now and then. But staring at the array of protective cups available for purchase, the government cheese was sounding pretty good.

I finally made my selection and took them home to our sons. We were getting ready for practice and I took the things out of the packaging and tried to figure which way was ‘up” on the cup. (You’d think they could put directions on those things. Or at the very least directional arrows). The boys were staring at me in horror as I tried to shove the cups upside down into their underwear. Drew commented. “Can’t you just call grandpa and have him show us how this is done?”

And before I got the chance, the phone rang with the coach telling me it was too wet to practice. Saved by divine intervention. Bob came home before the next practice and took care of it. I still don’t know which way is up. Thank God.

When we were three hours into our vacation last week, Chris remembered he’d left his favorite stuffed animal at home. He’s at the age where he’d really rather not tell people he still likes stuffed animals (so you didn’t read it here or Mom will be in trouble. – And I probably shouldn’t tell you about the hiney rashes he gets from time to time. Or the little pimple he had last week on his tushy.). And I really shouldn’t reveal just how attached he still is to the leopard he got when he was three.

Lance the Leopard has taken on a personality all his own, not in small part to the fact that Bob and I play with it. We’ve been known to do Lance voices. And I have this ongoing joke I play with Chris involving Lance. Many days while Chris is at school, I place Lance in a compromising position for Chris to discover when he gets off the bus. Lance has been found with his head stuck in a cereal box, on top of the car, climbing trees in the front yard and eating Valentine’s candy. Just a few weeks ago, Chris came home to find Lance photocopying his butt on the copy machine I keep for my home office. Lance is a handful, I tell you.

Lance has been joined recently by an arsenal of Webkins. My kids discovered the joy of the Webkins at Christmastime and have since acquired at least a dozen. In case you’re not a parent or have been in a coma for the last five years, Webkins are stuffed animals that you play with on the computer using a special code attached to the actual stuffed animal. So kids can play with their virtual pets or their real ones.

After Chris lamented the fact that he left Lance at home, Lauren commented that since Lance was the oldest, he could be put in charge of all the baby Webkins that were also left behind. She immediately whipped out her toy cell phone to call home and make sure Lance had everything under control.

So Bob and I started playing it up, much to Chris’s amusement. We called home to discover Lance in the midst of a wild party. Then we said he’d used Bob’s underwear as slingshots. Then we commented on how Lance was taking rides on the ceiling fan. Chris was laughing hard enough to snort milk through his nose. But I probably shouldn’t tell you that because it would just embarrass him.

There are times as a parent when your child does something in public that makes you burst with pride. In these displays of manners or kindness, your teaching is demonstrated for all to see. And you can baste in the glow of the praises of “what a polite and caring child you have.” There are these rare moments and then there’s the rest of the time.

At the Baptist church we attend, we have a weekly ritual I like to call, “Time to Embarrass the Parents.” It’s actually referred to as Children’s Church in the bulletin, but that’s probably just a typo. Basically it’s the time when the kids get to talk about such things as “My mom poops a lot and it really stinks.” Or “My daddy yelled at the dog last week and it threw up on his shoes.” There are no subjects too embarrassing to be voiced loudly when you command the microphone and the attention of the entire congregation.

This Sunday during children’s church, the preacher was trying to demonstrate how we can show God’s love to others. He put a water bottle about ten feet away on the piano. Then he sat down and told the children that his legs weren’t working.

“I’m so very thirsty,” he said, eyeing the water bottle like it was a free ticket to the Bahamas. “I’d really like that water. I wish I could get it, but I can’t move my legs.” He went on and on about how he really wished he could have that bottle of water. His obvious intention was for one of the kids to recognize his suffering and bring the water to him.

This went on for quite some time as the children stared at him blankly. Finally, Drew raised his hand and I watched in motherly pride. Obviously the child was going to ask if he could get the water for the minister. My heart swelled as I thought of the many times we’ve talked about consideration. I remembered when I’ve pointed out a kindness and praised the child for thinking of others. My lessons had obviously stuck and I could see that this child was being molded by my careful teachings. All of my words had not fallen on deaf ears.

I was bursting with pride as the minister called on my son.

“If your legs aren’t working, what you really need is a wheelchair,” Drew pointed out, completely oblivious to the lesson of caring.

Luckily the minister didn’t let him have the microphone. I could tell the child was itching to share the story of my bra shopping experiences last week where I searched rack after rack for a bra small enough to not gap in all the wrong places.   Because that’s something the WHOLE congregation needs to know!