My Utmost Respect for Preschool Teachers

Today I caved. In a fit of 'holy shit the realtors are coming to do a walk-thru and I have no clue what to do with the boys on a 20-degree day' I volunteered to help serve lunch at the preschool.

I know, I know.

But it was their special Thanksgiving feast and all the little kids had made little hats and everything. I was suckered by the thought of not only getting some extra credit points for the next time the Oldest One acts up, but also some laughs and great blog material.

(And I certainly did. Get blog material that is. The Big One is sooo on his own after I served canned green beans and almost ruined the Stove Top.)

……….

There was this one little girl, though, who helped remind me why I would NEVER, EVER work at a preschool. She was cute, with little pig tails and a frilly dress. She smiled at me every time we made eye contact, which was often because she was also staring at me. But none the less, she was cute. When lunch time came she sat down across from the Oldest One and said, “My mommy made the rolls.” I told her that they were simply yummy and her mommy did a great job! (They were the kind you take the plastic wrap off and put the entire container in the oven. But still, the stove was turned on and that is effort in my book.) But here’s the thing, every time I walked by her she would announce that her mommy made the rolls. It didn’t matter if I was serving another helping to the next kid, threatening the Oldest to stay in his seat or wiping milk of Deuce’s shirt, “My Mommy Made the Rolls!” Every. Damn. Time.

I had finally had enough. Between roll girl and the kid who asked 20 times if we were going to eat the paper turkeys on the table, I was ready to hit the door. On the last round of clean up, the little roll girl said it again. By that time, I was done. I simply leaned over and said, “Yes, sweetie. We all know your mommy made the rolls and they were wonderful rolls. She did a great job. But you know what? I opened the can of green beans and you ate them and liked them.”

Amy's Rules to Live By - First Installment

1. If you build it, they will come....and knock it down.

2. Never trust a fitness instructor with a big ass.

3. Discounts should never apply to tattoos, tequila, or toilet paper.

4. If a cheap coffee claims to be "Good to the last drop", chances are it ain't.

5. If there's water in the floor, you will find a wet little boy nearby.

Why is it...

...they only start yelling when you're on the phone but when you finally give in and decide to play with them, they're too busy watching "Max and Wooby"...

...they only want to talk to you when you are trying to have a conversation with your spouse...

...they only poop out of their diaper when you don't have another...

...and that's also the only time you don't have spare pants either...

...(Okay, I never carry spare pants)...

...other moms carry spare pants? I think it's just so they can give you that 'look' when you have to ask to borrow them...

...they never sleep when you desperately need them to...

...and then torture you with their tiredness until you think you might loose your mind...

...aren't scared when you threaten to 'loose it'...

...in fact, they laugh at you...

...when you threaten to 'leave them' in the store, they threaten to 'chase you' and aren't phased by your 'I can outrun you' response...

...the old woman next to you doesn't think your sarcasm is funny and in fact gives you a similar look to the mom with the extra pants...

Go back to selling insurance, buddy.

All this time I thought living was expensive, but man, death costs a lot more! It wasn't until I buried my mom that I realized just how much.

The best part about the entire experience is how everyone is 'so sorry for your loss' and feels certain that after giving them unrealistic sums of money 'you will feel such relief'. (Um, a lighter wallet is NOT my idea of relief.)

It was literally $6,000 to put her in a box, $3,000 to put that box in the ground and another $1,000 to mark where all your money went. It was truly unbelievable. How in the world can someone look you in the eye and say that it's only $6,000....ONLY?! Kinda like I ONLY want to do something legal with this corpse that is no longer my mom?!?! Give me a damn break.

My grandmother insisted that going to the discount store was not an option and since it was her daughter...I caved. Although, I still insist we could have saved thousands AND I would have really enjoyed the look on the cemetery dude's face when they brought the pine box in on a flat bed with a horn playing dixie. But maybe I'm wrong. (Mom would have laughed.)

.....

After it's all said and done, the cemetery dude wants to invite us over so he can 'give us a memorial book for mom'. Right...they are so kind and generous. Gee, how are they keeping the lights on? I told my grandmother that it was a sales ploy but she insisted that John was not like that at all. He was sincere. He only wanted to do something nice for us. (Us being the family he has never met but just gave him $3k. What a pal.)

So we go.

Mams was right. They were wanting to make a memorial page for us. (First one's free.)

Then, Johnny, let us know that he had reserved some plots near our beloved so we could go ahead and buy those before they sell out. (Okay, Johnny. I realize you're in a recession-proof business here, but come on...) My grandfather blatantly told him that under no condition would he be buying a plot today and that he had to get over the financial impact of burying his daughter. This wasn't just saying 'no', this was 'shut the hell up buddy'. But poor Johnny, didn't quite get it.

He turned to me and inquired about my 'arrangements'. (Big mistake, John-boy. Big mistake.)

"Well, John. My husband and I are going to be cremated. So we certainly won't be needing your services."

My grandfather was shocked. "Cremated?! Why? Where will your boys come to remember you?"

"Paps, the LAST place I want my boys to remember me is a damn cemetery. I want them to remember me in the mountains, the river and flying in a hot-air balloon. No offense to John here, but I think this is all a damn crock in the first place. Three thousand dollars for a spot of land that you'll never use again. Geez." (Johnny-boy was a bit taken a-back by that one.)

Still, he insists on taking us back to the office for the final push...

"You know, Mr and Mrs Rogers, you have far exceeded the average life expectancy." (Oh no he didn't.) "And honestly, one could argue that you are living on borrowed time." (Holy crap. Is Paps going to loose it first or am I?! I hope John's got a plot, cause he's gonna need it...)

At that moment, my grandfather stood up. Straightened his jacket over his arm and said, "Mr. Smith, I do appreciate your time today, but we are not buying anything. Thank you. Good day." and we left. (What, no 'step outside buddy'?! No, listen here, I'll show you borrowed time!")

I could probably learn some tact from him.

Instead, I sent John an email:

.............................................

Dearest John,

Attached is the picture of mom. Thanks for making the memorial page for her. Your call last night reminded me to ask my husband what we are going to do about the marker. He agreed that we should get prices elsewhere, so I'm going to shop around a bit. I will let you know as soon as we have some prices, if you would like to 'throw your hat in the ring' so to speak.

Also, I just wanted to add that after our meeting with you, my grandparents made a decision that I had never expected. They now want to be cremated. Thank you for saving us a lot of worry over that decision! Who would have thought that an 82-year-old couple would ever decide that?!

Anyway, thanks again!"

..........................................

Heh heh heh...'borrowed time', my ass.

A Fruit Fetish?

Last month, the youngest one was given a pumpkin in a neighborhood we were investigating as a possible future residence. It was the perfect size for him, as his fingers would almost touch when he holds it. He fell in love. He carried the 'punkin' every where we went all weekend long.

The punkin watched TV with him.

The punkin ate dinner with him.

The punkin rode in the car with him.

The punkin sat next to him at the movies.

The punkin even slept with him and 'duck-duck' each night.

Needless to say, there was no way we were carving it. I put it on the porch so it could 'enjoy the sunshine' and he seemed happy with punkin's new home. Occasionally, punkin has had to come inside for a visit, but mostly he has stayed out front. Currently, punkin is in the back of my car but I think the big one had something to do with that.

I thought we had passed the 'punkin stage' but today we turned over a whole new leaf on the fruit catagory...



Apple is sleeping with him now.

Something Missing?!

Remember the Highlights Magazines that were filled with the 'What Doesn't Belong' photos?

The real question is "Where's the candle?!?!"

Not a Bum Wing!!!!

So the littliest one cannot stand up this morning. Not at all. Can't put weight on his left leg. I ask him what happened, since he was fine yesterday and has been in a crib all night. He says, "I bwoke my weg." "You broke your leg?" I ask. "Yep. It bwoken. It baaaad. I go doctor and get a sucker. It dat bad."

Obviously, he hasn't fallen out of bed and Beaux was within ear shot, so I know he wasn't in there messing w/ him. So I start quizzing him.

"Did you get it hung in the rails of your crib?"

"Yep. De duck cage got me." (He calls his crib filled w/ ducks his 'duck cage' which is entirely too cute...until you're in the grocery store with little old ladies surrounding you and he spouts out that he 'sweeps in a duck cage'. Ironically, this comes out clear as a bell much like him calling himself 'Super Poosey'. -you'll have to sound that one out for yourself.)

In disbelief I say, "Did you fall out of bed?" -knowing he didn't.

"Yep. I fewell and bwoke it. Fewell wite out of my duck cage."

"Was it an old war wound? Is that he knee you injured jumping horses?"

"Yep. De horsey got me."

Okay, now I know two things. One, you can never trust this one to tell you the truth. Two, he honestly has no clue what happened to his 'weg'. So I call the doctor.

Thorough inspection turns out that it isn't his knee after all, but inflammation in the hip joint. Who knew?! And the treatment for such a mallady in this modern age of medicine.... Motrin. Yes, Motrin. That's it.

Oh, and apparently a $20 copay will ease the pain as well.

No kids, eh?

The moving man came to assess the amount of work involved in packing and moving this house. Man, I really feel for that guy. He seemed pleased with it all until he hit the garage...it's full of mom's antique furniture. When I say full, I mean can barely fit a lawn mower in there and don't even consider a car....even a small one.

We walked through the entire house with Beaux and Spruce doing their best to get his attention. "Mistew Woowis, I have a new toy boat! Wook!" "Mistew Woowis, my daddy is in WaaWee." "Mistew Woowis! Watch Me!" "Mistew Woowis! Wook how high I can bounce on my bed!"





Beaux had bounced on Spruce's face. Yeah, I reckon that got Mistew Woowis's attention. After that incident he rushed down stairs, had me sign the papers and ran out the door before I could ask any questions.

Puzzled, I walk back in the door and realize that Spruce's injury was a bit more than some hurt feelings. His lip was full-on bleeding and that mixed with drool...well, let's just say it looked pretty bad.

So maybe it was the blood covering my shirt that made him run for the hills...

Light weight.