The Trouble With Beer

I feel like now that I have children all the world's problems are being solved right before my eyes. If I ever wonder how something works, what punishment I should dole out, if something is a healthy food choice, what time it is or how to correctly operate a vehicle, all I have to do is ask my sweet 6-year old version of Google.

She's better than an iPhone. With Ms. Els around I don't even need to ask the question, she just offers up the answer before I even knew I needed it. I'm so lucky! I often wonder - and ask her - how on earth I made it for the 25 years of my life before she was born. I'll tell you what, it was a struggle and I sure would hate to go back to the emptiness of figuring things out for myself!

A few nights ago at dinner we treated the kidlins to a little root beer. Lucky ducks!

* I must insert her that Cadie Lu refers to it as "Root Beard" and it cracks me up to no end *

Anyhow, while we were partaking of this delightful beverage, our personal Google took it upon herself to explain the woe's of beer.

"You see, " she began in her professors voice "Beer is bad for you, unless it has the 'root' in it. If there's no 'root' then you can't drink it."

Cadie Lu, our Googlette in training, jumped in with "That's true. Heavenly Father wants us to obey Jesus." Okay, points for bringing the gospel in, but loss of points for it making zero sense.

"That's right Cadie. Beer is a bad food choice and will make your body sick" Ms Els summed up.

I'd like to thank Stewart Elem. for instructing my child on the dangers of 'rootless' beer. It saved me the trouble.

But we weren't done yet:

"Also, there are other drinks that have beer in them, but since it doesn't say it on the bottle, it's okay to drink it. Like Sprite probably has beer in it" Els continued.

Screeching halt. WHAT?

At this point Daddy made an absurd attempt to correct her thinking. Silly Daddy. He's so naive. He doesn't yet understand that arguing or correcting Madam Google is a pointless exercise in ramming your head against a brick wall.

I may have smiled a bit when I heard him try.

"Els, there isn't beer in Sprite." He said.

Els nodded emphatically. "Uh-huh Daddy. And probably in Coke too."

"No, sweetie, there isn't beer in either of those things."

And that's when Els whipped out the conversation ender that leaves no room for discussion.

"Whatever Daddy!"

So, now I'm wondering what to do here. Do I risk a lecture every time I enjoy a tasty Coke? Because I know that she's going to ask me if I'm getting drunk. Or do I avoid the argument all together by giving up my caffeine habit and sticking with water?

Either way, the risk is high that I'll be suffering and Ms. Google will once again reign supreme.

Long Live The Queen

You know, I'm not one to be a killer of people's dreams or anything, but I'm pretty sure my daughter is going to be one disappointed puppy when she grows up. You see, she thinks that all she has to do is plow through life until she becomes a wife and mother, at which time she'll have it made. In her words, "I'll be able to do whatever I want"

Once upon a time I too was a fair and naive maiden. Being a stay at home mom looked mighty fantastic from the point of view of a child. I was pretty sure that my mom's life consisted of laughing on the phone, baking goodies and taking us on fun outings. She had no boss, no one filling out a job chart for her. Her life was her own. (Apparently I paid about ZERO attention to her while I was growing up!)

Now I look back at those innocent thoughts of youth and want to smack my young self upside the head. There has never been a time in my life where I had less freedom than I do now.

I don't have a boss, sure. That part is true. However, the only power I have is deciding if I'll do laundry on Monday or Tuesday, because not doing laundry isn't an option. Yep, I don't have a job chart, but that's because my jobs are too numerous to fit on a chart.

As far as laughing on the phone, baking and outings...well.... my phone-laughter can be heard alongside the sweet sounds of doing dishes. Baking just isn't worth the mess. And I've been scarred for life by recent outings, making me unwilling to venture forth anytime soon.

So, Ms. Els, don't try so hard to grow up. Even though you don't see it now, these are the years where you can run wild and crazy with no worries and no one depending on you. There is flexibility and freedom in being a 6 year-old with a gap-tooth grin.

Before you know it your dreams will come true. You'll have the house and kids and the illusion of being in charge. But for now, I'll be the mom and carry the burden of raising a family.

That's what my mom did for me. And that's what you'll do for your children. Someday.

Gravity - the fickle foe

Today I'm having a day of mourning.

It's true, you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.

I'm talking about my girlish figure.

My buns of steel are now memory foam - permanently flat from too much sitting.

My once shapely thighs are now more like a mountain range - lots of hills and valleys.

The stomach - okay, she was NEVER that firm - hangs there like a deflated balloon.

The boobs... oh dear me, the boobs. I can't even type this without getting choked up.


Dear Body Parts of the Past,

How I wish I had cherished you when I had the chance. You were beautiful and I took you for granted. I thought your perkiness and curves would last forever, and I didn't treat you with the respect you deserved.

Please come back to me. Give me a second chance. I'm just a mashed potato lump of a woman without you.

~ Aspen

Royalty

Well people... buckle up.... it's gonna get sappy around here for a minute.

Why? Because it's late. And because I just watched a few episodes of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. That show is my nod to warm fuzziness.
Anyhow, during the ending of one of the episodes the reverend tells a story about a shabby little town that is transformed when the king comes and tells them that he's secretly left one of his babies in the town to be raised. Not knowing which baby is the prince or princess, the people of the town immediately begin treating ALL children as royalty. The town is transformed and the children grow to be happy and loved.

Sometimes, when I feel like making myself squirm, I look back on my very earliest attempts at motherhood. I was a rotten skunk of a new mom, and in sticking with a centuries-long tradition of mom's guilting themselves, I'm often ashamed of how I behaved.

I'm knocking on wood that their young minds will filter out all the crazy and just remember the good. That when my kids are sitting around the dinner table as adults, and they start swapping childhood stories and memories, that they won't remember the time-outs I had to give myself. I'm hoping that they won't remember the times I've slammed the doors, thrown a toy, sent them to their rooms or just cried at the kitchen counter.

I'm hoping they'll remember that our life together was also made up of snuggles after bad dreams, dancing around the kitchen, picking dandelions and catching potato bugs. That stitched into our fabric are sunsets, bike rides, sweaty faces, swing sets, and giggles. That they'll remember that three kisses means, "I love you forever" and sometimes all you really need is a thumb's up from across the room.

I hope that one day they'll be able to weed through all my imperfections and know that I just loved them.

That all along, I knew the truth. That they ARE royalty. And it was my honor to raise them.

Toilet Warfare

It has recently come to my attention that my daughters have been running a pretty shady operation right under my nose.

In essence The Hubs and I are being held hostage by a terrorist group comprised of the under 6 set who sport princesses on their panties and chant the war cry “I need to go potty!”

My first inkling of their little organized operation came a few weeks ago during dinner. Almost without fail each time we sit down to a meal Cadie Lu (the brawns of the operation) suddenly realizes that she’s got to go BAD! And, she does. I think it’s because she was finally forced to stop playing and realizes that her pea-sized bladder is packing around a 2 liter. So, inevitably, we pray and then she jumps up to pee.

Well, the other night we prayed and she looked at her plate. She announced that she didn’t like what I’d made (HUGE shocker!) and kind of played around with her food. Then a few minutes later she said, “I’ve got to go potty.” I sighed and waved her off to the bathroom. Then, I heard a strange noise. It sounded like pee hitting the pot, but something was off. So, I walked over to the bathroom and saw her just sitting on the closed toilet lid, playing with a bath toy and distractedly making a hissing noise with her mouth.

Back at the dinner table, under intense parental interrogation, the girls caved and admitted that sometimes they fake having to go potty to get out of things. Then they go into the bathroom and make that noise with their mouth. They even flush the toilet and run the water to keep me from knowing. Too bad for them that they didn’t count on Cadie finding a bath toy to play with on the toilet rather than concentrating enough on making the proper “pee” noise.

Busted!

I thought we’d seen the last of their fake potty stops. But, then came Disneyland. One of our sweet little tricksters, Cadie Lu, was a bit overwhelmed by some of the rides – being only 4 and all – and eventually we came to a ride that she really didn’t want to try. The adults begged, pleaded and coaxed until she finally agreed to go on the ride. The line was long and near the end she suddenly announced that she had to go potty. After a few rolled eyes and frustrated sighs, Aunt Cindee said she’d take her potty – thus missing the ride.

She marched Cadie back out of the line and to the closest potty. And not one little tiny drop of pee came out. When they met back up with Steve, Cadie Lu admitted that she hadn’t needed to use the potty; she just didn’t want to go on that ride.

How subversive and stealthy of her, playing on one of mine and Steve’s basest fears. My heart would be swelling with pride if it wasn’t directly against one of my parental mantras – I do not negotiate with terrorists!

Any parent who, like me, has stood in Walmart watching their child pee on the floor of the clothing department will understand why we drop everything and run when she says she has to pee. Any parent who, like me, keeps a spare pair of panties and Resolve in every closet around the house understands why she can play this repeated game of “crying wolf” and still get a response.

Nope. Those girls definitely have the upper hand here. Their tactics are faultless and will reap a reward every time. They’ve got us where they want us and are playing us for fools.

But all is not lost. There WILL be a counter attack! After all, they learned their skills of warfare from someone, and it’s time they’re reminded not to mess with the General!

Revenge is a dish best served in Pull-Ups!

Too Tired to Care

The other day I was reflecting on the phrase “I’m a lover, not a fighter” and it occurred to me that there’s a darn good chance I’m neither.

It takes a lot to rile me up these days. Sure, I get annoyed and have an occasional flash of frustration, but I can honestly pinpoint the ONE time in the past year that I’ve been fightin’ mad. Other than that I just can’t work up enough energy to truly sustain anger for longer than a few minutes.

Even if The Hubster and I get in an argument – because we ARE human after all – I can’t really get into it and end up just being quiet. Steve probably thinks this is my version of the silent treatment, but the truth is that I just don’t care enough to get into it. If I’m quiet then it’ll blow over faster and we can go about our lives.

To be fair to Steve – sometimes I argue because it sounds like it might be fun, so I’ll keep a fight going even if I’m not interested. It isn’t always only him doing the arguing while I sit there in a stupor.

As I’ve thought more about it I’ve realized that it probably has more to do with the fact that I’m tired. (I think there's a real possibility that the children have broken my spirit.) And my exhaustion has made me apathetic. If I’m quiet then maybe the fight will fizzle out and I can go to bed, or get back to my novel, sooner!

It wasn’t always this way. Back in “the day” I used to love a good sparring session. And, back then, you could only push me so far before I’d snap. In junior high there was a boy I truly detested. (Now I’d probably just find him slightly annoying) Unfortunately, we had 5 of 7 periods together and lockered next to each other. Each day he’d taunt me and I pretty much hated his guts.

One day at the locker, as we were preparing to go to yet another class together, he pushed me over the edge. I waited until he was bent down getting something out of the bottom of his locker and then I made my move. I took my science book in my hands, raised it over my head and then smashed it down on the top of his head as hard as I could. He fell into his locker and then, for good measure, I kicked his butt as hard as I could, making him fall on the floor. And then I ran. Fast.

Yep, those were the good old days. I kind of wish I could still work up that level of spunk.

As far as the lover thing goes, I'm can guarantee that I’m not that either. Just ask Steve. I’m the last person you’ll find flitting about offering kisses and hugs to everyone. And I don’t keep out of arguments out of love either. It's well documented that apathy and love do not go hand-in-hand.

So, here I am. I’m not a lover and I’m not a fighter. This worries me a bit because one of my favorite phrases my Grandma Ridges used to say is “If you never get in an argument then you have the personality of a sheep”.

Well then, I guess all I can say is "Baaaa….."