I don't remember the point where my mom started to grow old. It's been a gradual thing, I suppose. She became a mother in her thirties, so she's always seemed "old" to me, even when she wasn't. Lately she seems almost elderly.

I spent this afternoon at her house, going through some mail and helping her with some household tasks. Her bank recently merged with another one, and she received a new check card in the mail. She called me crying because she didn't understand what to do with it, so I drove the couple of miles over to her house to help her figure it all out. We opened up all the envelopes with the new bank information together, and I read it all aloud to her, trying to help her decipher the instructions. New card. New PIN. Call to activate. Sign the back. Destroy old card.

I activated the card, helped her write the new PIN in 4 different places and destroyed the old card for her. I showed her the back of the card, handed her a pen, and outlined with my finger the matte strip where she needed to sign. By the time she scrawled her name half on and half off of the designated area 10 minutes later, she was in tears. When I got in the car to drive back home, I was in tears.

It breaks my heart to see my mom at a place where simple tasks are overwhelming to her. I'm terrified at the thought that she won't be able to take care of herself for much longer, even though I'm a five minute drive from her home.

I cry over the fact that the woman who has been my only parent since I was ten is now more like a child to me. I selfishly resent the added responsibility of an aging parent, and I cry because I hate feeling so selfish. I cry knowing that my own mortality is inevitable, and drawing closer and more evident with every year that my mother ages. I cry at the thought of my own children feeling the way I do one day.

My sorrow is my own, and I'll keep it that way. I'll help with the simple things, do the big things so she won't have to think about them, and tell her I love her every day. I'll give her nothing but smiles and weep when I'm alone, sparing her as much of her pride as possible. It's what we do, as women, children, mothers. We protect.

I pray that when my own children see me as old, that they will do the same for me.

Wax paper - it's not just for fingerpainting

We have a miniature trampoline. I can't remember where it came from, but I can clearly remember every place I've tried to store it where it wouldn't be in the way. The girls saw it tucked in my closet yesterday, and begged to play on it. "We wanna jump! We wanna jump!"

I pulled it out and set it in the living room for them, and they jumped. They jumped until the tops of their brains must have been bruised from bouncing against the inside of their skulls. Of course, my creative children made up a new game. One of them would crawl underneath the ankle-breaker, then the other would jump off the couch onto it, essentially crushing the one underneath.

They cry when the wind blows too hard, but there was nary a tear shed during this game. How does that make sense?

I left them under the watchful eye of my husband to go put away laundry. From the next room, I heard Molly's singsong voice. "Daddy, look, I made a slide." I peeked around the door to see the trampoline precariously balanced against the side of the couch, and the kids crawling up the arm of the couch and sliding down the deeply angled trampoline. I gave a warning (to my husband), and went back to what I was doing.

I'm a fairly intelligent person. I've developed a lot of life experience over the years, especially where kids and injuries are concerned. When I say something bad is going to happen, well... it usually does. Still, no one listens.

Fully expecting to find the kids quietly watching TV, I walked back in the room. Not only were they not watching TV, they were now using pieces of wax paper to slide down the incline at a greater rate of speed. I stopped in my tracks, stunned. My husband shrank back a little and pretended not to see me, while encouraging them to go down together.

The trampoline wobbled as they climbed on, carefully arranging their speed paper under their little tushes. I was frozen in place, screaming in my head, "Nooooooooooo!!!" It was like slow motion, watching them start their descent. The trampoline wobbled, then tipped up. As they reached the bottom, it stood straight on end, hovering there precariously for just a second before it flipped over right on top of them.

They giggled while I checked for injuries. As soon as I was done, they squealed to do it again.

I give up.

Signs of the (Disney) times

My husband's grandparents came for a visit last week. We took Nana and Pop-Pop to the Animal Kingdom at Walt Disney World for a few hours. The kids love it there, there is a lot to see, and we get in for free. What's not to love?


While we were waiting in line for something (I have no idea what, I was keeping up with two elderly people and three children), I noticed a sign.

Poaching Alert - Please report any evidence of poaching to the nearest ranger post. Okie dokie, no problemo. Surely in this place full of wild animals, there will be poaching to report. It fits with the theme, right? But wait... where is the ranger post? There are signs for every entrance, exit, bathroom and stroller parking area in the park, but I have yet to see a sign for a ranger post. What to do, what to do? Perhaps the next sign will help us.

Indeed. Now I know what to do do in the event of a poacher sighting. I'll call TIME magazine, and they can write an article, tucking it neatly between "Science without Humanity" and "Worship without Sacrifice."

This sign still makes me chuckle a little, because I read it "Please ensure you have obtained your correct language." I don't know why that's so funny to me. It struck me as ironic (read the wrong way), because I was standing in the middle of a group of varied ethnicity, people from all over the world who were all in a huddled mass waiting to board a train to world peace via the Walt Disney World Express. I pictured my fellow passengers exiting the train, searching for their language in a huge pile of them and unable to find the correct dialect. I looked at a tiny Asian woman and pictured her singing "La Cucaracha" and dissolved into hysterics.

I think the heat was starting to get to me at this point.

Next up is a classic Disney sign, one that all past and present Disney-goers will recognize.

Always good for a laugh. Always.

Unrelated to the signage, I witnessed something else a little disturbing that day. This elephant was doing a little dance on the safari ride. Look closely. That's not his trunk.

The day was winding to an end, and I was hot and tired. We were in the petting zoo, and I was taking some cute pictures of the kids defiling their cleanliness with goat germs. My husband (who is not the Disney lover that I am and tends to make all of our lives miserable on Disney days) was having so much fun, I had to take his picture.

Time to go. The kids reek of goat, the grandparents are wiped out, and it's about to rain. Thank you, Disney, for making it easy to find the way out.

A wet welcome to the World Part 1

One of the advantages of living in Florida is our close proximity to Walt Disney World. That combined with the fact that we get the 100% cast member discount on admission (thank you, honey) means we hit up the parks fairly regularly.

This last week my mother-in-law was visiting. We struck up a discussion about the World. She was telling me how she had only been to WDW once, when she was a very young child. I scratched my head for a bit, doing some mental math.

"How young?" I asked.

"Two. I must not have liked it much, because I don't remember a single thing about it."

It didn't take rocket science for me to figure out that someone had been misleading her about her Disney experience. She could see it on my face.... I knew something that she didn't want to hear. She reluctantly asked me what I was thinking about.

"Well, it's not possible that you went to WDW here in Florida when you were two. It didn't open until 1971."

What followed was not pretty. I suppose realizing that your parents have not been quite honest about an experience like Disney is a bit shocking to the system. I instantly felt a great sense of remorse. Why, oh why, couldn't I have just let the delusion of childhood bliss continue? She was like a child who just realized that there is no happy puppy farm in the country. I've never felt so terrible.

I decided to fix the situation that I created. "Let's go to Disney. It's only noon. We have a good part of the day left to see things."

Oh. My. God. She was like a kid who had just heard about Santa for the first time. My middle-aged mother-in-law jumped up and down, squealing and clapping her hands wildly. I felt a huge sense of pride and accomplishment, that I had repaired the broken dreams of her childhood. Oh, if I had only looked out the window and before I made the suggestion. I would spend the rest of the day cursing my aversion to watching the news.

A wet welcome to the World, Part 2

In Florida, it rains a lot. Most of the rain is sporadic. We rarely get days where the rain lasts all day. My husband's favorite saying when discussing the weather here is, "If you don't like the weather, wait 15 minutes."

Today, that would not be the case. We walked outside the hotel to pile in my husband's heap (my minivan is out of order) and drive to WDW, and were greeted with threatening skies. I stopped dead in my tracks and thought for a minute. "Eh, it will pass." Wrong-O, but I didn't know. We head out. About 5 minutes into our journey, the first telltale drops of water hit the windsheild. I reach for the wiper knob, and it's missing. I vaguely remember my husband mentioning using a pair of pliers to turn the little stick, so I begin a frantic search for the pliers while hurtling down the road at 50 mph in the rain. Yeah, I know, not smart, but never fear... my mother-in-laws frantic screams to pull over alerted me to that fact rather quickly. I found the pliers and continued on in the rain, expecting it to stop at any minute.

The biggest clue as to what was in store for us should have been when we entered the Magic Kingdom parking lot. We drove past empty lot after empty lot until we were directed into a space within eyeshot of the ticket and transportation center. We were so close to the front that we laughed at the sign alerting us that trams don't run in that part of the parking lot. It never crossed my mind that this was a bad sign, that perhaps all the other potential Disney-goers that day had watched the weather report and knew that we were in for a flood.

We ran through a sprinkle to get to the monorail, slipped and slid through a sprinkle to get to the entrance. We were happy and laughing. I stopped for a stroller, and as I was buckling the girls into it, I heard this whooshing sound that is unmistakable to anyone who has ever been rained on. I turned slowly to see - wait for it - rain. Buckets of rain, so much rain that we couldn't see down Main Street USA. No biggie. My MIL was clapping and squealing again, so I pulled the last bit of optimism from the depths of myself and trudged on.

One hour later, we were huddled under a covered area in Tomorrowland, trying to decide if it was worth the race toward Space Mountain. This is what we saw:



Not cool. We spent $30 on ponchos, which I have never done - I am the queen of preparedness, and a firm believer in the dollar store poncho. We spent about two hours in the park, did exactly three things, and decided we were too wet to stay.

Fast forward to the ticket and transportation center, where we were to return to the car. We came out and stood looking at the parking lot. "Do you remember where we parked?"

"Ummm, no, don't you?"

Oh, no.

I vaguely remembered the "no tram" sign, so I knew it had to be close. The path around back to the parking lot looked soooo long, so we decided on a shortcut. There was only one row of hedges between us and the parking lot, and we were going to brave it. We raced across to the bushes and located a sparse spot. It was slightly downhill, and covered with wet leaves. We were all in flip-flops. This should be fun. I grab Abby's hand and lead the way, shoving branches back and mucking up the wet leaf carpet. Abby stopped every six inches to look at something. Leaves, bugs, sticks, BIG bugs. I stopped, screamed, "This is NOT a nature trail! MOVE IT!" and continued on. We broke through the hedge, excited to see the parking lot.... on the other side of a green fence that was beautifully hidden behind the bushes.

Seriously? Okie dokie, then. We followed the fence to an opening, which led to a path. That path was about 6 inches underwater, so we swam waaaaayyyy down to the end of it until we found an opening. There was a huge sign that said "Cast members only" at the opening. MIL was concerned that we'd get in trouble, as if tearing apart the hedges wasn't something that we maybe shouldn't have done.

In spite of our crimes, we had finally reached the parking area. Wooohoooo! Unfortunately, we were about three lots from where the car was, and it took us another 20 minutes to locate it. I was more than a little unhappy. The kids were unhappy. My mother-in-law was glowing. "That was FUN!"

I love her, but I suspect that the woman might possibly need medication for her delusional disorder.

Nasty little green monster

I was trapped outside my house tonight. I walked outside with a bag of garbage, and right as I shut the front door behind me, I felt something wet plop on my leg. A second before I looked down to see what it was, the recognition of that cold, wet smack against my skin set in.



When I was a kid, my sister and I played a really fun game. We would wait until the other one was in the shower, and we'd sneak into the bathroom with a mystery concoction (ketchup, vinegar, mustard and relish was my personal favorite) and dump it over the shower curtain, then run like hell. When the condiment creations started to get boring, my darling little sister started catching little green rain frogs and throwing them on my back while I was naked and wet and blinded by shampoo suds. Those little frogs haunt me to this day.



So back to tonight... right as I looked down, the frog on my leg jumped upward. Terrified it was about to land on my face, I jumped backward, falling over the bag of garbage and into the damp grass. I ran down the sidewalk and hid behind the car, peeking around the side to see where the demonic amphibian had landed. There he was, sitting right in the middle of my front door. I was stranded.



I sat outside, hiding behind the car for a full five minutes before my legs solidified enough to walk back towards the front door. I picked up a handful of mulch and started tossing pieces toward the frog. If you've ever tried to hit a target with a piece of airborn mulch, then you know that it's not really heavy enough to throw more than two or three feet with any kind of accuracy. There was no way I was getting that close to the front door. I rummaged through the car and found two pens, a wadded up napkin (which, for future reference, was no more effective than the mulch) and three happy meal toys.



I attacked. I made contact at least twice, but the frog remained suctioned to the door. I swear he was laughing at me. He kept looking over his little green shoulder smirking at me. I shudder at the thought of it even still.



I was out of ammo. I tried yelling at him, but he ignored me. That's how I know it was a male frog. He even looked at me, but clearly believed that my threats of a frog leg dinner were just that - threats. I threatened to spray him with fix-a-flat, and he chuckled. I even threatened to tell his frog mommy, and I swear he rolled his eyes at me.



I was out of options. I ran around to my son's bedroom window and started screaming for him to go get my husband. He came racing outside, probably assuming something trivial had happened like a broken leg or a severed limb. When I told him of my woes, he did the expected thing - he laughed. He laughed loud and long and clear. He laughed so hard that I expected him to float up into the sky a la Mary Poppins. Butthead.



He flicked the frog off the front door so I could run past into the house, but I know the nasty little thing is still out there. I can sense his sliminess on the other side of the door, waiting for me to walk outside without a poncho for protection. He's probably calling all his little frog buddies, preparing a mass sliming next time I open the door.



Lord, help me.

When did my children stop smelling like baby lotion and start smelling like cherry Kool-Aid?

I was in the shower this morning and realized (belatedly) that I am out of shampoo. The fact that I am out of shampoo because my husband used it all as bodywash is another story entirely, and one that I'll probably keep to myself. Anyway, I grabbed the girls' shampoo, a bright red bottle with a cartoon fish or something on the front. Massaging it gently into my hair (Rinse. Repeat.), I was treated to the extra yummy smell of cherry Kool-Aid. I love their shampoo. It makes me want to bury my face in their hair and breathe in the sweetness. It used to make my kids want to eat the shampoo, but a few nights of burping bubbles put a stop to that bad habit.

I love the way children smell. I love the smell of sunshine on their skin after they've played outside. I love the way their cheeks smell like banana after breakfast. I love the smell of soap and lotion. I love the smell of fruit salad after they've tattooed themselves all over with scented markers.

I miss the days of infancy. Lining up the little plastic bathtub, the hooded towel, washrag, ear sucker, nose sucker, baby bath, baby shampoo, baby lotion, rubber duckie thermometer for the bath water, a clean diaper, a clean sleeper.... well, I don't miss all of that so much, I suppose. It's just the feeling of holding a sweet, soft, sleeping infant and burying my face in that tiny neck to breathe in baby smell. There is nothing better.

I suppose I could use the baby lotions on my toddlers, but it's not the same. They squirm and wiggle and squeal "Moooom, that tickles!" when I try to hold them close and inhale. The cherry seems more fitting for the children that they are now, but it doesn't stop the craving deep inside me for Eau de baby.

Maybe I'll replace the bodywash in my shower with something from Baby Magic so I can sniff my husband after he showers. He's not picky about soap. He won't mind. Well, he won't mind until one of his friends catches a whiff. That won't be pretty.

Whoever came up with this idea should be shot

It's a little shocking to me that it's been over 3 months since I posted here. Christmas always comes and screws things up. Sheesh.

Today is April Fool's Day. This morning, my husband woke me by telling me I had a booger on my face. He knows I don't like to share my bodily excretions with him (I wish he felt the same), so I bolted upright in bed, frantically wiping at my face, trying to remove the offending blob. I jumped up and raced to the bathroom so I could do booger-control in private. There was a small sleepy part of me that believed if it just dissapeared, it would erase the image of it from his mind permanently.

When he yelled, "April Fools!" through the door, I stopped dead in my tracks. Not cool, honey. So not cool. I will be plotting my revenge while you are at work, merrily pranking your co-workers with stink bombs.

I decided it would be cute to teach my 3 year old the idea behind traditional April Fool's pranks. I explained, I gave examples - I even made suggestions. I gave her the brilliant idea to tell Daddy that there's a spider on his back when he gets home. I'm such a prankster. So, I thought it was cute, until it backfired.

"Mommy, there's a spider on your back."

Of course, I went through all the motions of pretending shock, jumping around, begging her to get it off, etc. while she laughed hysterically and did her happy dance. Unfortunately, she really caught on quickly.

"Mommy, there's a frog on your back."

"Mom, there's a banana on your back."

"Mom, there's a diaper on your head."

"Mom, there's poopy on your leg." This one was actually true, thank you Abby and your leaky diaper.

It's going to be a very, very long day.

Farts and Cheese Soup at the Magic Kingdom

So we decided to hit up the Magic Kingdom on Wednesday. Before my 13 year old, Bryan, got out of school I took the girls to WalMart to pick up a few things. This is where my humiliation began.

My 3 year old, Molly, has a baby doll that she loves. Baby Rose goes everywhere with us, including WalMart. Because I was in a hurry, I threw Molly and Abby in the back part of the cart and told them to sit tight while I grabbed the things I needed. Molly was worried that Baby Rose would fall out of the cart, so she put her in the seat in the front part and buckled her in. I'm walking through the store getting some strange looks about the baby doll in my cart (not to mention feeling more than a little FlowersChild-ish), but that was okay - I'm used to buckling the doll in when I go to the store. Things went well until I was standing in line waiting to pay.
Molly started to scold the baby. "Baby, don't say that. Baby Rose, you stop crying. If you scream again I'm going to make you stand in the corner. YOU BETTER BE QUIET!"
Baby Rose is a bad, bad dolly. I guess she was still bugging Molly, because the next thing I know, out of nowhere, *SMACK* right in the baby's head. "I told you to be quiet!"
The old lady in the next line didn't even try to hide her gasp. I assume her vision must have been compromised, and perhaps she thought it was a real baby, because she immediately turned to the other woman with her and started to do that old-lady whisper that can be heard across the room, insisting that I was the worst mother ever and shouldn't even have children.
I asked Molly, "Why did you do that?"

"She was being bad."

"But why did you hit her?"

"She wouldn't stop crying, so I smacked her upside her head."

"But Molly, WHY did you feel like you needed to HIT her?"

At this point she looked at me like I was a complete moron, rolled her eyes, and said, "Do you see a corner anywhere?"

She is so much like me that it frightens me sometimes. Well, except for the whole "beat the infant in the head" thing.

Finally There


We picked up Bryan from school and headed straight to WDW. I pull up to a stoplight on the highway, and Bryan unbuckles his seatbelt. "What are you doing? Buckle your seatbelt!"

"I'm changing clothes, hang on."

Changing clothes? Yes, changing clothes. My son is unbuckling his pants and yanking them down in the middle of a swarm of traffic. Thank the good Lord that he was wearing shorts underneath. I look over to the car to our right and see the lady in the passenger seat frantically beating her husband on the arm and pointing at our car. At that exact moment, Bryan pulls his sweatshirt off and takes his t-shirt with it. I can see the lady's mouth open, and it's obvious she's saying "Oh my GOD." It's okay, lady... I was thinking the same thing.

After we arrive at the park, we park and get on the tram. Somewhere between the school and the parking lot, the perfect ponytails that I put in my daughters' hair has been replaced by a twin set of rats nests. I thanked my son for insisting on riding with his window down in the car, and pointed out their hair to him. The woman in the seat in front of us was turned sideways taking in the entire scene, and said, "Oh, daddies and little girls' hair just don't mix, do they?"

It took me a minute to realize what she meant. My 13 year old son is almost 5'11", and can easily pass for 16 or 17, but my husband? I think not. Before I could comment, Bryan did. He looked at me and said, "Honey, I'm so sorry. Are you going to make me sleep on the couch again tonight? It's really starting to make my back hurt."

Smartass.

So we get on the monorail, and head to the MK. The monorail is FULL of high school kids wearing "Senior Trip" t-shirts. It's clear by their conversation that most of them have never been to Disney. A few hundred feet from the unloading area, the monorail comes to a dead stop. The kids in the blue t-shirts start flipping out. "Ohmigodwhatifitsonfireandwhatifitfallsoffthetracksohnowhatarewegoingtodo!?!"

I calmly look at Bryan and say, "Okay, remember the drill? When the doors open, I will throw myself to the ground first. You toss the girls out one at a time right on top of me, then you throw yourself onto my broken body, and I will break your fall. We have to move fast before the monorail explodes. Don't worry about crushing me, just take care of your sisters and get them as far from the fire as possible."

Panic ensued. I was proud of myself, but Bryan was quite embarrassed. He would pay me back throughout the day.

Moving Along

We made our way safely off the monorail (without any broken bones! YAY!) and went to the ticket gate. I handed over our pass and waited to be waved through. He scanned it, it beeped, and I sent Molly through the turnstile first. BIG mistake, because he couldn't seem to get it to scan again. *BEEP* [Enter ID]. Hmmmmm. *BEEP* [Enter ID]. Okkaayyyyy. I patiently waited while he tried over and over to scan my driver's license (when it was his own ID that needed to be entered), keeping a close eye on Molly, who was standing quietly on the other side of the turnstile. All of a sudden, I hear Bryan suck in his breath. "OH NO! You let Molly through first? She's ALONE over there? Molly, don't run away!!!!!"

It was like slow motion, seeing the look on her face when she heard him and realized she was alone, and watching her turn to run. "NOOOOOO MOOOOLLLLYYYYYYYYY!" Oh, she ran. She ran fast and hard, in a big giant circle. My daughter runs in circles, and she has a special song that she sings while she does it. "Running in circles, running in circles, Molly likes to be running in circles."

Yes, she sang. I got a few sympathetic looks from the other people waiting, until my sweetheart of a son says, "What a freakin' brat." We battle daily over his use of the word freakin', so he has stopped using it at home and now only uses it in the company of elderly people, small children and my in-laws. Thank goodness the ticket taker guy figured out the pass and let us through. Who knows, maybe he faked it just to get us out of his line.

I get a stroller and strap the girls down, and head down Main Street. There are people everywhere waiting for the parade, so we book it to Adventureland. There was no wait for Jungle Cruise, so we get on. About the time we're oohing and aahing over the giant butterflies, a noxious odor attacks. I try to be discreet in checking Abby's pants, assuming the fumes are coming from her. Nope, diaper check is A-OK. I shrugged it off and took a picture of the "back side of water." In the middle of the dark tunnel, it hits again, this time with sound effects. There is giggling, then moaning. As we come out of tunnel, back into the shining light of daytime, Molly says, "Mommy, did you FART?"

Oh. My. God.

It did not come from me. I lean over to Bryan and ask, "What did you have for lunch?"

"Burritos."

Super. The day continued on with bursts of gas at the most innapropriate of times. Every time, Molly asked if it was me. The child doesn't understand "inside voices," and I'm not sure Bryan wasn't bribing her to say it with gummi worms.

Sitting in the front row of the boat on POTC? Check.

Waiting to board Winnie the Pooh? Check.

Standing smack in the middle of the playground area outside of Splash Mountain? Check. In fact, that one sent a dozen toddlers running for their mommies, who proceeded to do diaper checks on each and every one of them in an effort to find the source of the smell.
There was a point that we actually did have a code brown situation, and I blamed it on the fart-bag.

Note to self: Monitor the food choices of my children before my next public outing.

The end of a very long six hours

My husband came over to the park to meet up with us after he got off work. In most families that would seem like a good thing. In my family, not so much. The thing is... my daughters behave differently when daddy is around. I don't mean in a "wait until your father gets home" kind of way, I mean in more of a "farts are funny" kind of way. It's okay, though. At this point, it really takes a lot of get under my skin.

So we wander over toward Splash Mountain, where my husband is getting off the train. Molly wants to ride it for the first time, so I send her off with Daddy and Bryan while I hang out with Abby at the little playground. Molly loved it, but was more interested in playing, so I went to ride it with Bryan. Before I walked away, I said to my husband, "Watch my bag. I mean reallllly watch it. Some jackass was eyeballing it earlier."

"Sure thing, honey."

Right. So I get on the ride and realize Bryan keeps laughing. You know the laugh... that muffled little chuckle you hear when someone knows something you don't? Yeah, that kind of laugh. So we're toodling along through the ride, enjoying the breeze and the sound of rushing water, having a super time. We get to the part where you go around the front outside, in a loop around the drop. I love that part, the thrill of wondering whether the log coming down will hit at the wrong moment and splash you (which of course, it never does due to impeccable Disney timing). At this point in the ride, Bryan is flat out giggling. Just as I turned to him with the intent of pinching him until he told me what was so funny, I found out on my own. Apparently someone thought it would be a good idea to adjust the timing ever so slightly. I was drenched. When I say drenched, I mean that I didn't get that wet in the shower that morning. Funny, Bryan. Really funny.

I got off the ride and head over to find my husband and kids. I noticed while I was walking that my bag was not sitting where I left it. Through chattering teeth, I asked my husband where it was.

"I don't know."

Huh? I'm very wet, very cold and very angry. I remind him (in my outside voice) that someone was trying to steal it and the camera was in there and WHERE IS MY BAG? With this last part, I throw my arms up in the air and start waving toward my husband with "I'm going to kill you" motions. His eyes widened, and I thought I was actually scaring him. He darts over to the slide area and grabs my bag from behind the wall, and thrusts it at my chest. "There, there, take it. I was just playing around." I'm satisfied, until I see that he's still looking at my chest. I look down.

Oh, hell no. Light blue shirt + Splash Mountain = WDW wet t-shirt contest. Wooohoooo! I look at my husband. "Give me your shirt."

"Why?"

"You can see through mine. Give it to me."

"What am I supposed to wear?"

"I don't care. Give me your shirt."

By the time we got done arguing about how he would look in a baby blue scoopneck fitted t-shirt, it was nearly dry, so we decided to get some dinner. DH wanted to eat at Pecos Bills, so we headed over. We took a patio table and got our food. I fixed the girl's plates and started munching on my salad while DH and Bryan headed to the condiment bar to fix up their burgers. We ate quietly, enjoying the weather. The guys finished their burgers, picked up their little paper bowl things full of fries, and walked away. I assumed they were going for ketchup. When they came back and sat down, Bryan said to my husband, "Did you grab me a fork, too?"
A fork? For fries and ketchup? "What's in the bowls, guys?"

"Nothing."

"No, really?"

"Just fries."

Yeah, fries alright. Fries swimming in cheese sauce. I mean swimming. Oh. My. God.
I couldn't keep the hiss out of my voice when I said, "Do you know what the people on the DIS would say about this?"

I can't even describe the laughter that followed that statement. Hysterical almost covers it. They were pretty proud of themselves for "sticking it to the man."

I'm in the middle of lecturing them about proper condiment bar usage when I hear a soft voice to my left. "Mom. (pause) Mom. (pause) MOM." Molly is gently tugging on my arm, while I'm waving her away. I'm not done lecturing yet. "Mom, I have to poop. MOM. MOOOOOOOOMMMMMM."

I look over at her, wondering if the cheese soup is the last humiliating thing I'll have to endure that night. I suppose I didn't respond fast enough to suit Molly, because she felt the need to get my attention one last time. I could do nothing more than sit there stunned after my sweet, angelic little 3 year old yelled loud enough to wake Master Gracey, "MOM, I NEED TO GO PINCH A LOAF! NOW!"

It's time to go home.

My husband, a zip tie hero

My kids broke my Christmas tree. It wasn't intentional... there was a cord wrapped around the base leg (it's a fake tree), and the cord got caught in their play shopping cart. They kept pushing it, which tightened the cord, which broke the plastic. My tree fell over.

I cried. I picked up broken glass balls. I cried some more. I got out the boxes to take it all down.

"But wait," my husband said. "Let me see if I can fix it."

"It's hooooopelessss. I'm taking it downnnnn."

"Give me one minute. I'll see if I can rescue it."

I had to leave the room. I couldn't stand the thought of Christmas without a tree (so I was being overdramatic, I'm a girl and I'm allowed), and I couldn't watch him fail at his mission. Approximately one minute later, he followed me into the bedroom.

"It's fixed."

Huh? By means known only to those with rocketing testosterone levels, my husband fixed the Christmas tree........ with a zip tie. He saved Christmas with a zip tie. My hero.