Leanna Kay

I received this email forward today and I’m still chuckling.

WHY WOMEN SHOULDN’T TAKE MEN SHOPPING

After he retired, a woman insisted that her husband accompany her on her trips to Target . Unfortunately, like most men, he found shopping boring and preferred to get in and get out. Equally unfortunate, his wife is like most women - she loves to browse.

Yesterday the wife received the following letter from the local Target.

Dear Mrs. Jones, Over the past six months, your husband has caused quite a commotion in our store. We cannot tolerate this behavior and have been forced to ban both of you from the store. Our complaints against your husband, Mr. Jones, are listed below and are documented by our video surveillance cameras.
1. June 15 : Took 24 boxes of condoms and randomly put them in other people’s carts when they weren’t looking.

2. July 2 : Set all the alarm clocks in Housewares to go off at 5-minute intervals.

3. July 7 : He made a trail of tomato juice on the floor leading to the women’s restroom.

4. July 19 : Walked up to an employee and told her in an official voice, ‘Code 3 in Housewares. Get on it right away?. This caused the employee to leave her assigned station and receive a reprimand from her Supervisor that in turn resulted with a union grievance, causing management to lose time and costing the company money.

5. August 4 : Went to the Service Desk and tried to put a bag of M&Ms on layaway.

6. August 14 : Moved a ‘CAUTION - WET FLOOR’ sign to a carpeted area.

7. August 15 : Set up a tent in the camping department and told the children shoppers he’d invite them in if they would bring pillows and blankets from the bedding department to which twenty children obliged.

8. August 23 : When a clerk asked if they could help him he began crying and screamed, ‘Why can’t you people just leave me alone?’ EMTs were called.

9. September 4: Looked right into the security camera and used it as a mirror while he picked his nose.

10. September 10: While handling guns in the hunting department, he asked the clerk where the antidepressants were.

11. October 3: Darted around the store suspiciously while loudly humming the ‘Mission Impossible’ theme.
12. October 6: In the auto department, he practiced his ‘ Madonna look’ by using different sizes of funnels.
13. October 18: Hid in a clothing rack and when people browsed through, yelled ‘PICK ME! PICK ME!’
14. October 21: When an announcement came over the loud speaker, he assumed a fetal position and screamed ‘OH NO! IT’S THOSE VOICES AGAIN!’ And last, but not least:

15. October 23: Went into a fitting room, shut the door, waited awhile, then yelled very loudly, ‘Hey! There’s no toilet paper in here.’ One of the clerks passed out.

As many of you who follow this blog know, my instances of motherhood insanity know no bounds. I’ve been known to lean toward a kid who’s obviously about to vomit with my hands wide open to catch the puke. I’ve eaten peanut butter and ham sandwiches doused in ketchup just to see my kid smile at his culinary creativity. I’ve stood over the oven for three hours straight baking cookies for a child who wanted to serve his classmates a warm from the oven treat on his birthday. But probably the craziest thing I’ve ever done is start a Brownies troop for my daughter.

In the last year, our troop has grown from twelve rambunctious first and second graders to eighteen “bouncing off the wall” “crazed with energy” girls. We’ve gotten so rowdy the principal from the school for the deaf has called to complain. Well, maybe I exaggerate just a tiny bit.

Today, the girls were wound for sound because it was the favorite holiday for all 7-8 year old girls. April Fools Day. The minute the girls walked into the meeting room, the silliness began.

“Miss Leanna, your shoes untied.”

So of course I looked. Which only fueled the fire.

“Your shirts unbuttoned.”

“Your pants are on backwards.”

“There’s a spider on your head.”

“Your foot’s on fire.”

“No, it’s your butt that’s on fire.”

Well, you get the point. For an hour, the girls kept coming up with one fanciful story after another and then giggling and yelling “April Fool’s.” Of course, I played along. But by the end of the meeting, my head was hurting from jerking around to see which of my body parts were in flames or falling off. In comparison, that peanut butter, ham, ketchup sandwich wasn’t all that hard to swallow.

I’ve had a nasty virus then my grandma died so I haven’t been online in a while. But this one was too good to pass up.

We went to a local Catholic church tonight for a fish fry. While we were eating, a lady was walking around the table asking if anyone wanted to play Split the Pot. Drew obviously didn’t hear the woman correctly and looked at me appalled. He then yelled across the table at me in the kind of loud voice kids use only when they really want to embarrass their parents.

“Mom. She said get your pot. Are they selling POT here?!!”

I tried to shush him even though I was laughing.

“But, Mom this is church. Why are they selling pot?!!”

As you turn eight, I’m continually amazed as I watch you blossom from my baby girl into the start of the young lady I know you’ll one day be. I love that you’re becoming so responsible, feeding your pets without being reminded and picking up after yourself. A year ago, the pets could have starved and you wouldn’t have realized it until I stopped buying pet food.
 
This last year has been such a journey of maturity for you. In the last twelve months, I’ve watched you go from the little girl who clutched my hand tightly enough to leave marks, to the girl who barely waves as I fade into the background. When we went to the beach last summer, you wanted to make friends so badly with a little girl playing nearby in the surf. You kept watching her and commenting with such longing in your voice about how much fun she was having jumping in the waves. But you just couldn’t make yourself take those few steps across the sand and surf to say “hello.”

“You could help me, Mommy,” you finally said, with your hand firmly planted inside mine. “If you helped me say hello, I could do it.”

So we made the trip across the sand and surf together. And after the hellos were said, you spent much of the rest of the week playing with this little girl, Hannah. At the end of the week, you hugged goodbye and promised to write, which you both did for several months.

As school started, there were days when you came home all smiles. And then there were the days when you barely made it off the bus before the tears dripped down your face and you claimed your friends didn’t like you anymore. You broke my heart the day you said your only friend in the world was Hannah, a summertime friend you’d likely never see again. I wanted to hop on the school bus and go with you so I could make it all right. But even though moms can walk across sand and surf, there are places we can’t travel.

I soon found you didn’t need me to fix your problems. You went right back to school and told your friends how you felt and suddenly all was better. The days of school bus tears ended and as the year went on, you turned from the unsure girl who thought she had no friends to the glue that holds together many of the friendships in your second grade classroom. I was so proud the day your friends were fighting at recess and you sat them down and helped them work out their differences.

I suggested you’d make a good psychologist someday. After asking me what a psychologist did, you were having none of that boring job. You’ve already decided you’re going to be a rock star when you grow up. Mostly I think you just want to live in a mansion and never be forced to eat tuna again. The limo rides and hot tubs appeal to you as well. And the wardrobe, let’s not forget the wardrobe.

Speaking of clothes, you’ve been trying on many different outfits lately. You always want my opinion on how you look. I was concerned a few weeks ago when you asked me if your shirt was sexy. After a few subtle questions (Where in the world did you hear THAT word?!!!), I figured out you still don’t really know anything about sex. I believe you still think sex is just a brand of deodorant and that sexy means sparkly.

I sense that you try on so many outfits because you’re trying on different roles for yourself. At home, you are outspoken and outgoing. But outside our house, people see you as quiet and shy. Because of that, you try not to make waves, many times apologizing for wrongs you didn’t commit because you always sense you’re at fault.

Just this week, you apologized to me for going to bed ten minutes late. I hugged you and said, “This was nothing to be sorry for. Now washing my toothbrush in the toilet, that would be another story.” You giggled, compelling me to ask just where my toothbrush had been. Joking aside, I hope my words sunk in.
As you struggle to make sense of who you are, my wish for you is that you’ll soon realize you are so much more than what you think you are. You are kind.. You are loving. You are funny. You are responsible. You are smart.

Even though you may be shy and unsure of what others think of you, you never need to apologize for being who you are. The Lauren I know is pretty special and I for one, cannot wait to journey with you through your eighth year on this planet.

I finally have to face the cold, hard facts. At thirty-nine years of age, I’m not as good of a driver as my five-year-old niece.

This bitter reality was thrown in my face yesterday as we played the Wii version of MarioKart - a game which accurately simulates the driving experience. Well, accurately if you’re ever required to drive through a mushroom field bouncing off fungi or if you suddenly find yourself in an abandoned mine careening out of control down the railroad tracks. In both of these situations, you’d better pray it’s my niece at the wheel and not me.

I had particular difficulty navigating the abandoned mine. First of all, the mine wasn’t well lit. But worse, the tracks were narrow and surrounded by both sides by a drop off plunging hundreds of feet into darkness below. I know all about the darkness because at least a dozen times in a row, I drove my computer woman off the side to plunge to her certain death.

This wouldn’t have been so eery had I chosen a cartoon character to drive my car. But the Wii game allows you to make a character that looks just like yourself. When the suicide driver bears a close personal resemblance, the stakes seem a bit higher. But luckily there’s no such thing as permanency in a computer game. Apparently you can drive your car over a cliff a dozen times and still pop back onto the roadway without a scratch.

“How come your person keeps coming back?” My niece asked. “Shouldn’t you be dead by now?”

“You’d think.” I muttered as I slowly steered my cart back onto the track, scared to even touch the button to move it forward. Not that it really mattered because in seconds my niece was declaring her victory.

“I never, ever win, Aunt Leanna. Everyone else is a better driver.”

Well apparently not everyone.

We recently had another snow day (that makes eight for the year, but who’s counting?). The kids were bored so I invited their cousins to play. The cousins bring the count to five boys and two girls. When you have the many kids stuck inside for an afternoon, the gender differences become amazingly clear.

The girls? The girls spent the afternoon sedately playing dolls and quietly listening to music. I think there may have even been a tea party thrown in there. Once they came out and politely asked for a snack which they ate with a minimum of fuss and absolutely no belching.

The boys? The boys made up an unnamed game which I’ll just call “Beat your Brother.” This game involved chasing each other screaming through the house. You could only capture your opponent by tackling him and punching him in the face. I suppose broken noses garnered you extra points, but we’ll never know because I put a stop to that activity the minute I saw Chris pinning Drew to the ground and pummeling him.

“But we’re just playing a game,” Chris said in his own defense.

“Play something nicer,” I insisted. Because I’m a mom and I’m mean. And being female, I clearly didn’t understand the need to punch.

I was going to suggest a tea party but then I thought better of it. Five boys set loose with dainty glass tea cups? I don’t think so.

The game they ended up playing involved dart guns. They chased each other around the house and tried to shoot their opponent in the butt with a foam dart. These boys probably each have permanent dart suction marks on their butts, but at least there were no broken bones.

10) See if 24 straight hours of Wii playing will cause your brother’s eyes to cross.

9) Chase sister in a circle through out the house while yelling until your mother’s head explodes.

Compare all meals to school lunch food, making sure it’s clear that school food is better.

7) Have a contest with siblings to see who can come up with the most insulting nickname for each other. (Get creative. Poopyhead’s already taken.)

6) Farting contest.

5) Belching contest.

4) “Drive Mom crazy” contest.

3) Watch enough Spongebob that the annoying laugh comes naturally.

2) After day three, comment every five minutes about how bored you are.

1) Complain that you miss your friends and wish the snow would get cleared off the road so you can go back to school.

I was watching TV recently when I saw one of those ads for a product I never knew I needed until the announcer pointed it out to me. Ad makers have a way of making something so dumb look like it’s the best thing since sliced bread. Or at least the ad makers think that’s what they’re doing.

The announcer for this particular commercial asked in an excited voice if I was tired of the mess I made cracking an egg. I watched as a grown woman took an egg and smashed it over her baked goods in such a way that her hand instantly filled with goo. She repeated the process and smashed with enough vigor to send egg bits flying to the ceiling of the television studio.

I don’t know what was wrong with that woman, but I haven’t had that much trouble cracking an egg since I was three. Actually I don’t think any human with opposable thumbs has ever had that much difficulty with this task that she was suggesting took Herculean effort.

The announcer tsked at her ruined efforts and lamented the loss of money as she threw the entire cake mix into the trash. This poor woman repeated her efforts with blueberry mix while the announcer toiled on. “Day after day you throw away money. But no more.”

Now I must pause here to say I’ve never thrown away a mix because I got a little egg shell in it. Clearly what you do is dig out as much of the shell as you can. Then if anyone eating it gets something crunchy, you claim it was a nut.

Apparently this woman didn’t learn the fine art of kitchen trickery at her mother’s knees because she was completely astounded at her repeatedly unsuccessful attempts to crack an egg. Between the confused expression on her face and the vigor with which she was smashing these eggs, one was left to wonder if casting calls were held at the local insane asylum.

But all was not lost. After repeating the painful egg cracking process three times, the woman whipped out a new product that would crack eggs for her without all the mess. This amazing device easily cracked eggs without allowing the shell to get into the product. Mainly because this tool used a gentle pressure rather than the brute force the insane woman was applying.

After seeing this amazing thing in action, I was supposed to rush right out and buy it. But if I did that, my family would never again be treated with the “nutty” baked good they like so well. So I’ll stick with my old fashioned egg smashing and let the insane woman take this product back to the asylum.

We were all cleaning our rooms today when Lauren came skipping up to me with a smile on her face.

“I have a treat for you, Mom.” She held out a candy cane.  “It’s for you because you’re doing such a good job cleaning your room.”

I often reward her for a job well done so it was nice to see her imitating me.  I took the candy cane and even though I didn’t want it, I opened it and immediately put a small piece in my mouth.  Tasted like mint with an odd aftertaste.  I was thinking maybe it was one of those specialty candy canes with a unique flavor combination.

“I don’t think it’s that old, Mom.” She said, still grinning like she’d given me the reward of the century.  “I found it under my bed.  I don’t think it was from this Christmas.  Maybe it was from last year.  Or could be the year before.”

Well that solved the mystery.  The “specialty candy cane” was mint with a hint of dust or mold.  I think next week I won’t take so much care in cleaning my room!

I recently took the kids ice skating. Ice skating always seems like a good idea when you’re in the comfort of your own home, sipping hot chocolate and paging through a Currier and Ives calendar. But the reality of ice skating with children is nothing like those idyllic photos from days gone by.

The truth hit me halfway through our first rotation around the rink. Lauren was clinging to me and yanking on my hand hard enough to send me butt first onto the ice more times than should be possible in a distance of twenty feet. I was trying to shake out the ice shards which had lodged themselves in my butt crack when I realized something significant. I was not having fun.

No matter how hard I tried, I could not get Lauren to wrench her hand free from mine even though she was gripping hard enough to leave bruises. I reminded her that last year she was skating just fine. All by herself. I told her if she just let go, she’d get her balance and be off in no time. I pointed out that it wasn’t lack of skill holding her back. It was fear.

My words didn’t have the desired effect. Instead of empowering the child, I was making her cling tighter. If my life had the qualities of a Hallmark card, I’d be able to tell you that now was the time when I drew upon my wells of maternal patience and did exactly the right thing to help my child in her time of need. Someday, Lauren would tell her children about how patiently her mother was when taught her to skate. Yeah, that didn’t happen. My best parenting has never occurred when my butt’s been frozen solid.

As Lauren clung tighter, I had the sudden image of a poor Mama bird who’d spent weeks regurgitating worms for her offspring. Offspring who just refused to leave the nest in search of their own dinner. I finally understood what gave the Mama bird the power to boot her little babies from the nest.

I wrenched Lauren’s hand free from mine and skated ahead about ten feet.

“Mom!” She screamed like I’d suddenly offered to sell her to pedophiles. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you.” I held my hands out so she could skate to me.

“You’re too far away.” She was still looking at me like I was a crazy woman, but she was inching closer ALL BY HERSELF.

I skated an inch toward her. “Okay. Now I’m closer. Skate to me.”

And she did. When she finally got close enough to grab me, she steadied herself by gripping my jacket for a second and then she finally let go.

“Just skate behind me, Mom,” she said as she took off on her own. “You were holding my hand so hard anyway that it was starting to hurt.”

[Finally back online.  The blog site has been down all week.]