941. Q Is for Quote

My sons constantly say things that amuse me.  Here is the latest example (courtesy of my 6-year-old): 

SHORT:  Mommy... I need to ask you something.  Do I have a birth mother?

MOV:  (trying hard not to laugh) Yes, of course you do.  

SHORT:  Who is it? 

MOV:  Me.   

SHORT: 

MOV:  I said, it's me. 

SHORT:  No, Mommy, seriously.

Turns out, someone is his class has a birth mother and shared that detail during morning announcements.  Now Short is obsessed with finding out who his real birth mother is, and was truly disappointed to find out that I am both the mother raising him AND his birth mother. 

Poor thing. 

MOV 

939. O Is for Other People’s Kids

I noticed a strange phenomenon when I had a baby:  everyone assumed that because I loved my newborn, I loved every child.  It was as if they thought because I produced this 7-pound tiny human being, I must adore anyone born in a year with a two-zero prefix.    

Not so.     

I love the idea of children, their cherubic faces happy and laughing on a Gap Kids commercial on TV (on mute).  Children are darling when they are doing fun, but quiet and important activities, like sleeping. 

Heck, I can’t even stand my own children sometimes, let alone other people’s.  But here’s the difference:  I am allowed to discipline my own kids. 

Tall gets mouthy?  Whoops, he won’t get that playdate with Justin tomorrow after all.  Short hits his brother?  Guess we will have to cancel that trip to the aquarium.  My children know there are consequences for their behavior. 

Sometimes I feel alone.  I witness other moms do the dreaded count to three … but then nothing happens when they get there.  There are no repercussions.  Life is one long threat. 

In my mind, I correct naughty children at the grocery store.  Taylor, climb down from that shelf immediately or you will not get to go to Isabel’s birthday party.  Michael, stop racing the cart down the aisles and running into people or you will lose video games for a month.  Sophie, stop kicking the cantaloupe display or you will not get to go to ballet lessons this afternoon. 

The trick is:  follow thru. 

Hey, I don’t want to be the bad guy in my household either, the one my kids hate.  But it is more important to me that my kids respect me than like me. 

I am their parent, not their friend. 

MOV

933. I Is for Ikea

Ikea is a store that has lots of really cool streamlined Swedish furniture that makes you want to throw away everything you own and start over. You think if you owned this stuff you would have really cool streamlined dinner parties with really cool streamlined friends who speak Swedish.    

I go there sometimes to get ideas.  I usually get a new end table instead. 

The only down side to Ikea is that for them to keep their prices low, the furniture comes unassembled.  That’s right:  you have to put it together. 

Sometimes the fact that I only paid $100 for a stylish couch makes the 12 hours of actually building the couch totally worth it, but that is not what I am thinking when I reach hour number nine and sweat is dripping off my nose and slat G will not click properly into slat H and it seems I am missing plastic piece J and no one is answering the 800 number for the “Help Line” and I have misplaced the Allen wrench again. 

In that moment, I am thinking I should have just bought a Pottery Barn couch that comes already built and cost $5000.  That is what Visa cards are for. 

At least then I would not have random “extra” metal pieces strewn about my living room floor and young children mocking me with their cruel taunts of “Mommy, you’re still not done yet?”        

My dad and step-mom Nichole have a continuing love affair with all things Ikea.  We fly to visit them and they merrily announce that their local Ikea has free breakfast at 9:30 on Mondays!  Who wants to go? 

Please do not think that I don’t like Ikea, because I do.  It’s just that … well, imagine what breakfast would be like there: 

 

 

 

 

 

MOV

931. G Is for Going to the Post Office with a Toddler

My children have always been good at embarrassing me.  Projectile vomiting on the pediatrician?  Check!  Tantrum in the middle of Target’s toy section?  Check!  Pooping on Grandma?  Check mate! 

So it should come as no surprise that when Tall was a toddler, I was reluctant to take him a lot of places. 

Movies and plays were no longer options.  No one wants to pay good money to sit behind a small child who asks questions (loudly) every two minutes.  Shopping was out.  I was not about to try on dresses at Nordstrom with a toddler whining.  Fancy restaurants?  Just a blip in the rearview mirror of my life. 

But the post office?  That seemed relatively benign. 

When Tall was not quite 2 ½ and I was pregnant with Short, I had some sort of errand at the post office.  I am sure that I begged The Husband to go to the post office on his lunch break to save me from having to pack up the stroller, toys, books, diapers, wipes, five outfit changes (one for me), a sippy cup, a back-up sippy cup, pacifier, and snacks.  This suggestion was most likely received with great enthusiasm: 

“MOV, you are a stay-at-home mom!  You can go to the post office, for Pete’s sake.  What do you do all day, anyway?  It’s not like the house is ever clean or dinner is made when I come home.” 

Right after he said that, I vowed to buy only ultra-feminine flower stamps, absolutely no manly airplane or car stamps, no matter what. 

So off to the post office Tall and I went. 

And really, how bad could it be?  I decided that we didn’t even need to take the stroller out of the car, Tall could just walk or I could carry him.  I planned ahead and chose a time when I thought the post office would not be too crowded, and I made sure the time coincided with right after Tall’s snack so that he would be fed and happy. 

We got there with the package I had to mail or whatever my reason for going there was (I forget now) and we stood in line. 

And then I saw her walk in.   

And Tall saw her, too. 

The most morbidly obese woman you have ever seen in your life.  She must’ve weighed 500 pounds and she looked like a "Before" ad for gastric-bypass surgery.  She stood right behind us in line, and Tall stared at her. 

I tried to distract him with some random plastic truck I had in my purse, but it was too late.  Tall was absolutely mesmerized by this very large individual. 

I knew what was coming next.  I had heard horror stories from friends that when they were in the grocery store with their preschool offspring, said offspring decided to ask why girls have “baginas” and boys have penises.  Or ask if the cashier was a man or a woman because “I can’t really tell, Mommy—she looks like a girl, but then there is a lot of hair on her chin!” 

Of course I could predict that Tall was going to make some comment like “Why is that lady so fat?” or “Mommy, does that lady have a baby in her tummy?  Or maybe five babies?” 

I told myself that I would just apologize to the woman as soon as it happened.  I would say that he is only 2 ½ and he really doesn’t know any better … and that he is adopted and not even really my child. 

Yeah, I had the whole speech mentally rehearsed.  Because I knew it was just a matter of time. 

Then, unfortunately, the woman noticed that Tall was staring at her so she began to engage him.  “Hello, Sweetheart!  What is your name?” 

Tall got a strange scowl on his face.  He looked at the poor woman with a mix of contempt and disgust.  I braced myself for the inevitable. 

Tall pulled on the edge of my sleeve, implying that he wanted me to pick him up.  Then he turned to the obese woman and (while clutching tightly to my neck) said,

“This is my Mommy!”  He patted my shoulder for extra emphasis.   

I was utterly bewildered.  He did not care that the woman was fat, he merely did not want to talk to a stranger.  And when she spoke to him, he simply wanted to clarify that the chick he came to this post office party with was the same one he would be going home with later. 

She smiled at him and said to me, “What a cute little boy!” 

Tall met her gaze, and merely repeated, “THIS IS MY MOMMY!!!!” 

And then when we got to the car, he asked me why she was so fat. 

MOV

925. A Is for Abominable Snowman

The Abominable Snowman lives under my bed.  At least that is what my former 9-year-old self used to think.  Of course, my current 44-year-old self no longer believes in such nonsense.  That is, until The Husband and our young sons go camping without me for two nights. 

At first, I revel in the freedom.  Forty-eight hours of Me Time!  I can eat chocolate ice-cream for dinner.  And breakfast.  I can wear pajamas the whole time and not wash my hair and no one will care.  I can read trashy movie-star magazines or watch back-to-back episodes of House Hunters for three hours straight and no one will stop me.  Yay! 

This is going to be the best 48 hours of my life!    

But then the clock ticks up near 11 pm and I start to feel uncomfortable being So.  Very.  Alone.  All you can hear is me slurping melted Haagen-Dazs, and in the background an animated conversation between those first-time home buyers from Nashville who have recently relocated to Miami and are shocked at the high prices of beachfront condos.  I finally turn off the TV, and my house goes eerily silent, like it is covered in Saran Wrap.  Saran Wrap made from Abominable Snowmen fluff.    

I go from room to room, making sure every door and window are locked and there are no signs of Abominable Snowmen footprints or sheddings.  I barricade the kitchen door with a chair and a big bag of recycling, just in case.  I leave the hall light on, something I never do.  The house glows bluish-white, the exact color of Abominable Snowmen.     

For no absolutely reason at all, I have trouble falling asleep.  Huh.  Weird.    

The Abominable Snowman lurks under my half-empty queen-sized bed, waiting for me.  To keep him company, he has brought along his BFF, Big Foot.  How could I ever have agreed to let The Husband and the boys go camping without me?  What was I thinking? 

Ultimately, I drift into a fitful sleep, but find myself saucer-eyed awake at 5 am, Big Foot’s finest hour.  Of new and immediate concern are the potential UFOs landing on the roof. 

Of course there are no UFOs, what with the age of the roof and all.  No alien in his right mind is going to chance crashing through the decrepit old shingles.  Neither are there any Abominable Snowmen, as my house is much too warm now that I have cranked the thermostat to an Abominable-Snowman-wilting 74 degrees. 

But we all know that heat does not bother Big Foot.  He likes warm.  That is why he has been sighted in summer as well as winter.         

Somehow I manage to make it through the rest of my day, and around dinner time, a miraculous thing happens:  my loving family walks in the door. 

“What are you doing home so early?” I ask, trying to contain my relief and pleasure that they are home so early.  I do not want to disclose my bizarre fear of scary creatures last seen on the Discovery Channel’s Myths and Legends series.  (Really, MOV, what next?  The Loch Ness Monster?  Unicorns? Centaurs?  Gargoyles and Griffins that come to life?)  “I thought you wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.” 

“It started to snow,” says The Husband matter-of-factly with a slight shrug for emphasis, “we didn’t want to get stuck.” 

I nod.  I suppress another smile.  “You made the right choice, Sweetie.”    

“But guess who I saw at the campground!” squeals my younger son, Short, excitedly. 

I wait for him to tell me one of the usual suspects:  raccoon, deer, hawks, or some happy cartoonish woodland creature.   

“I think I saw Big Foot!” he confirms. 

I involuntarily gasp.  Turns out everyone has seen Big Foot at one time or another.        

It’s going to be a long night ….

MOV

752. X-ray Starts With "X"

We didn’t actually start with the x-ray, we finished with it.  “Yes, it’s broken,” verified the doctor, proving that Short was, in fact, not being overly dramatic after all when he was screaming in agony.  “His collarbone is broken.” 

I had been with him.  Short was merrily running down the sidewalk with me following along just five feet behind him, like we do every day of our lives.  He tripped on something (a branch? a bump in the cement?  his own two feet?  nothing?) and then next thing you know, he was crumpled on the ground, gripping his shoulder in pain. 

I'd heard the bone break.  (It's a chilling sound, it haunts me even now—a decisive "snap.")  Time stood still while I prayed that Short's face would not be covered in blood.  There was no blood, not a drop.  I scooped up my wailing child and carried him two blocks home.  We made a frantic call to a neighbor so we could drop off Tall, then The Husband and I drove Short to the ER. 

“Well, hello, MOV, back so soon?” greeted the girl at the check-in desk. 

“Hi, Denise, nice to see you again,” I nodded at her.

A nurse brought us back to a small exam room where we waited for the doctor.  Short lay his head on my lap and whimpered.  After what seemed like four hours but was most likely 20 minutes, he came in. 

“MOV, how’ve you been?  Which kid do you have with you today?”  the doctor asked.  “Oh, and did you remember to bring your frequent patient card with you this time?  You know the 10^th visit is free.”   

I handed him my keychain, where I had wedged the frequent patient card through the loop next to my car key.  “I never leave home without it,” I forced a laugh. 

Short sat up.  “Am I going to get a cast?” he inquired. 

“Let’s just take a look at what we’ve got here.”  Next, a technician took Short into the x-ray room.  A few minutes later, the doctor and I were looking at the x-rays on the light screen.

“See that?  That’s the break.  We’ll put him in a sling and he’ll be good as new in six weeks.” 

Six weeks?  The bone could repair itself in just six weeks?  There was to be no cast, no surgery … just Children’s Tylenol, rest, and a sling.  The doctor gently touched Short's shoulder as he adjusted the small sling across his chest; Short cried out unexpectedly, his loud scream piercing through the hospital chaos.   

It’s a good thing they didn’t x-ray my heart at that moment:  there’s an irreparable fracture from me being helpless while witnessing my child endure such pain. 

MOV

750. Very Starts With "V"

Very was lurking around again.  He knew he should just get back in that sentence where I’d put him, but he was having none of it. 

“You know what I hate?” asked Very rhetorically, “I hate when you say you are very, very tired.  Well, guess what—I am tired from being used twice in a row when once is fine!” 

Just lately, Very had been known to be very dramatic.  “And another thing,” he was on a roll now, nothing would stop him, “sometimes I am just not the right word!  Don’t get lazy and just grab at me when you know the word you really want is an extreme adjective and not just an intensifier or qualifier.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I could see he was getting very upset. 

“Please, Very, come on, sit down over here,” I pointed to a very comfortable couch, which I knew he would deem just too squishy.  “Sounds like you’ve had a rough time lately, what with being overused and all.  Maybe you could just use a very cold drink?” 

“NO.  That is exactly what I am talking about.  I don’t want a very cold drink, I want a refreshing drink or an icy-cold drink.  You’re just wasting my time.” 

I stifled a very small laugh.   

Very started to cry.  I’d never seen this side of him.  “Just stop using me!  Why can’t I ever catch a break?  Make someone else do some extra work for a change!  Just leave me alone!” 

I leaned in to give him a very sympathetic hug, but just then, our good friend, Just, walked in. 

“Talk about overuse,” said Just, just picking up the last words of our conversation, “you have no idea.” 

MOV
(“Manipulating Obstinate Very”)

747. Spontaneity Starts With "S"

I am a very spontaneous person.  This is no fluke.  Spontaneity takes advance work, and total dedication.  Like anything worth doing in life, spontaneity requires a list.

How To Be Spontaneous:  An Indispensable User's Guide 

1. Write down when you plan to be spontaneous.  For myself, I usually do this 2-3 weeks in advance. 
2. When your spontaneous day arrives, put on an outfit that encourages spontaneity.  For example, an orange sweater screams “impromptu.”  (Ed. note:  make sure you have picked it up from the dry cleaners the day before.)  Take an umbrella with you in case it rains.  It’s hard to be spontaneous when you’re soggy.
3. Kids are pretty much synonymous with spontaneity.  Ask them what strategies they recommend.  Wait, kids also eat worms for fun.  Maybe don’t ask their opinion after all. 

Sometimes, I will go for a short walk to coax my spontaneity from captivity in the locked cages of my brain.  I tell myself, be spontaneous!  be spontaneous!  be spontaneous!  It’s working, I can feel it.  I’m starting to get a headache. 

I bring a notepad with me so I can track my spontaneity.  I set the timer on my watch to beep every five minutes so I can rank my level of spontaneity for that precise moment.  I was using a scale of 1-10 (with 10 being the most spontaneous), but then I switched to 1-100 for improved accuracy.  And then I decided that the number 1 should be the most spontaneous, not 100.  Then I changed my mind and switched back.  Then I couldn’t remember my scale, so I gave everything a ranking of 50. 

Oh, gotta go!  My timer is beeping! 

MOV

746. Refund Starts With "R"

Queen Virgo insisted that we file our taxes early this year.  At 8 AM on January 1^st, when most people were sleeping off a hangover, Queen Virgo was calling her old boss at the high-end kitchen store asking where her W-2’s were.  

We received our refund last week.  The Husband and I knew exactly how we would spend it.  Yep, we each got a latte at Starbucks.  Grande.
No, actually, I'm joking.  We had enough money from our tax refund to have a custom bookcase built in the boys’ bedroom (they share a room).  It is anchored to the wall and cannot be moved.  If we ever sell the house, it will automatically convey, along with fresh splinters of my soul. 

I will show you the bookcase we had before.  It was nice, but did not make maximum use of the space. 

BEFORE

photo taken by MOV


So, we gave that bookcase to a friend of mine. 

Now, here is the new bookcase below.  

AFTER  

Photo taken by MOV

We love it.  As you can see, the capacity is more than double.  To put it in perspective, here is a photo of the bookcase with my younger son Short in front reaching for something.  It is a huuuuuuuuuge bookcase. 

photo taken by MOV

I designed the bookcase.  There are a few special features I would like to point out.  The shelves are deeper on the lower half of the bookcase.  The top part (sort of like a hutch) is only 12 inches deep.  The lower portion of the bookcase (base) is actually 18 inches deep (some of their books are oversized).  The counter top area (right where Short's hand is) is made of a natural birch wood. 

Let me give you a close-up of that so you know what I'm talking about.  

Photo taken by MOV

Each child gets to put his books on their half of the shelf unit.  We did a bead-board backing to go with the overall style of the room.  The counter top part lines up with the height of the ledge that tops the bead-board and wraps around the room.  The top of the bookcase by the ceiling has a thick molding, about 4 inches.  I thought this would look nice and dramatic.  The bookcase is so large (it is constructed as one piece), it would not fit down our tiny hallway (there is a turn in the hall).  The carpenter had to pop a window out and bring the whole shelf in through the window!  (He did put the window back later.)  I wish I took a picture of THAT ordeal! 

Here is one more photo of the finished product. 

photo taken by MOV

Ta-da!  The boys are really happy with it, and I am happy that there is less stuff on the floor.  I love built-in bookcases. 

MOV 

745. "Queen Virgo Hires The Grammar Police" Starts With "Q"

Queen Virgo went pale.  She had read an awkward sentence about “a man running down the street chasing a cat, when unfortunately his scarf got caught on a tree branch.”  WHOSE scarf got caught in the tree branch?  From the sentence structure, it seems like it must’ve been the cat’s scarf.  Since when do cats wear scarves?  Queen Virgo shuddered.

Queen Virgo got out her red pen, the one with fresh ink.  She crossed out the entire sentence, and wrote in its place:  “A cat was being pursued by a man; unfortunately, his scarf got tangled in a tree branch and slowed him down.”      

The red ink did not wash off the computer screen later. 

MOV

743. Other People's Children Starts With "O"

I am not that mom.  You know the one:  She loves all children equally, sings to squirrels at the park, coos over strangers’ babies at the grocery store, and feels her uterus contract ever so slightly when she sees a pregnant woman.  She is one part Earth and ten parts Mother, and 100% Hollywood fiction. 

I thought I might become her when I had kids.  I thought that with the plastic ID bracelet, a pristine diaper bag, and an eight pound infant, I might go home from the hospital with a whole new outlook, an outlook that made me a nicer person, a person who adored all children. 

No. 

Don’t get me wrong, I adore my own children.  And I’m sure if I met you, I would adore yours, too, because your children most likely are wonderful and I might even view them as an extension of my own children.  As in, perfect. 

Sadly, after more than eight years of studying Other People’s Children (OPC), I have come to the shocking conclusion that some kids are great and some kids suck. 

Sort of like adults. 

Before you call the New York Times with this startling news (“Mom Reveals:  Not All Children Are Fantastic!”), let me explain.  I am not in love with the kid who is having a tantrum at 10 PM at Target (yes, the parents have him out too late—I am not in love with them either).  I am not in love with the child who grabs three books out of my toddler’s hands at the library and then runs away laughing while his oblivious father does nothing.  I don’t like the child who climbs up on top of the roof of the play structure at the park (while the nanny texts her pals), thus introducing the concept of invincibility to my sons.  I am not a fan of the kid who threw up on me during that five-hour cross-country flight (oh, wait—that might have been my own kid).

However, I do adore the gap-toothed little girl in Tall’s class who ran up and gave me a hug because I volunteered that day.  I’m crazy about the neighbor kid who practices his ukulele at the bus stop, for the sole reason that his fun attitude is contagious.  I’m quite fond of Short’s best pal who frequently announces to no one in particular, “I’m having a great day!”  So I do like some OPC; I am not a monster. 

The problem I have is the problem all parents (and teachers?) have:  faking it.  We have to pretend that every child is adorable and sweet, that we want to hug our best friend’s three-year-old when he has snot running down his chin, that we are enamored with that red-headed boy who trips your older son repeatedly on purpose.  Yes, so cute, I just love kids! 

But it’s a lie.  We know in our heads it’s not true. 

And if you find yourself loving every single child you have ever met, please send me the name of the drugs you’re on.  I need that prescription. 

MOV

742. Nothing Starts With "N"

Nothing had caused me grief before.  Back when I was dating Brad in college, he would often be bothered by my moodiness and ask, “Lovebug, what’s wrong?”  to which I’d respond (unsurprisingly), “Nothing.”
 
Nothing’s favorite first cousin is Nobody.  Nobody makes an appearance when things turn sour.  “Short,” I query my younger son, “who colored on the couch with marker?!”  He looks at his feet and mumbles, “Nobody.”

You’ve probably talked to Nevermind before.  I’ve haven’t met her in person, but she calls a lot.  She likes to dial wrong numbers and ask for people like “Raji” or “Sven” and then when you say, “Who?  I think you have the wrong number,” she laughs and says, “Nevermind.”

Nowhere is popular, too.  When I want to get away for the weekend and fly to say, Miami, I mention this to The Husband, thinking he’ll be supportive.  Instead, he responds, “MOV, we can't afford it, and honestly there’s Nowhere I’d rather be than right here.”  I, myself, am kind of sick of Nowhere. 

Our household has gone bilingual.  We embrace Nada into our lives.  My older son types away furiously at the computer, looking up new Lego sets and man-eating sharks.  When I ask, “Tall, whatcha up to?” he clicks the mouse and replies, “Oh, Nada.” 

As you can imagine, things are getting pretty crowded around here with Nothing, Nobody, Nevermind, Nowhere, and Nada.  Seems like a party.  I call out, “Hey, if you all want to stay, did someone at least bring some Nachos?”

You know the answer:  Nope.

MOV

739. Kids Start With "K"

Kids start with a Kiss in the backseat of a Buick, and a few months later, you find out that strange Knot in your stomach actually means you’re Knocked up.  The doctor forbids you from drinking but, oh, how you’d Kill for a beer right now, or a whole Keg:  you’re being Kicked in the Kidneys by what feels like a Kangaroo practicing Kung-fu.         

When the baby arrives, he throws your whole world off Kilter.  He brings no Keys to his behavior, no book of Knowledge for you to flip through—you must always guess.  You wonder how some other parents just Know what to do, because you don’t.  You can’t Keep up.  One thing is for sure:  there is a new King in your castle, and it’s not you. 

Those sexy abs you used to be so proud of?  Kaput.  Impromptu Kayaking trips on the weekend?  No longer.  Any hobby you were Keen on is a distant memory.      

Is this some sort of Karmic payback from terrorizing your own parents for 18 years?  Maybe you should have Kowtowed to them once in a while and treated them with Kindness.   

It seems you spend your whole life in the Kitchen now, cooking meals that will be scoffed at by people under three feet tall, people with a Knack for perpetually skinned Knees, and Ketchup on their faces.       

Finally, unbelievably, your children reach school-age.  Kudos to you for lasting this long.  You meet Kindred spirits at the Kindergarten open house, and when one of them stops to ask you about your Kooky Kids, you smile wide and reply, “Yes, we’ve decided to Keep them.”

MOV

738. Jumpseat Therapy Starts With "J"

You are a flight attendant.  On the plane, complete strangers wearing identical flight uniforms to yours confess their innermost secrets to you.  This is called:  Jumpseat Therapy. 

It is a strange phenomenon.  You go to briefing, meet five other crew members you’ve never laid eyes on before, and then, based on seniority, choose which duties you will be responsible for on the plane (which also determines where you will sit).  Next thing you know, you are buckled in next to someone who will inevitably share her entire life story with you.   

No topic is off limits.  Your new best friend tells you about her recent divorce, her five miscarriages, her mean former sister-in-law, her impending court date, and her flirty neighbor.  This is during boarding.  By take-off, she has revealed that she was abused as a child and always felt her soul mate was her second cousin. 

You want to participate in the share-fest too, but your life is pretty boring.  So you make stuff up. 

“My boyfriend just got out of jail,” you say competitively, “for tax evasion.” 

She ups the ante.  “My grown son just got his alcoholic girlfriend pregnant, and they’re moving in with me.” 

“My twin sister got fired from her last job,” you throw down the gauntlet, “for seducing her supervisor’s wife.”    

“My youngest daughter is bulimic and in the hospital.  Again.”  

“My neighbor crashed his car.  Into my living room.” 

“My former best friend set my house on fire.  While I was in it.” 

You cannot win, so you give up. 

“I think I just broke my nail?” you squeak. 

She looks at it sympathetically.  “That's a pretty serious injury.  You might have to have a paramedic meet the flight when we land.”

You nod. 

MOV

733. Walking On Eggshells Starts With "E"

You get in the car and drive an hour to the in-laws.  You subconsciously (or consciously) don’t really want to spend your Sunday this way, but what choice do you have?  Your mother-in-law hijacked this holiday years ago and now it is tradition. 

The boys, God bless them, are excited.  You are, at least, happy for that.  They have been jabbering all morning about what colors they plan to decorate their Easter eggs. 

“Maybe a red striped design,” offers the younger one, “or blue polka dots!” 

“Don’t be silly!” exclaims the older one as he shakes his head dismissively.  “Grandmom doesn’t have anything to make such a complicated pattern!  I plan to do a yellow and turquoise spider web with orange spiders and fluorescent bugs.” 

You arrive late because you kept stalling when it was time to get ready.  Your mother-in-law gives you a perfunctory hug but zooms over to your young sons, the real reason for the visit.  “Boys!  How are you!  Come in and let’s see your cousins!” 

Everyone is already at the table, decorating the eggs.  Your sons get settled in immediately.  There is no chair for you.  You stand.  You are used to it. 

You glance at your watch, trying not to be obvious about it:  12 noon.  Judging by how many eggs are already completed, they must’ve started an hour ago. 

The boys take rubber bands and stretch them around the eggs.  They dip the eggs in rainbow colors.  Your older son has green dye dripping down his thumb.  He looks like he murdered a frog. 

Your mother-in-law makes ham sandwiches for everyone and offers you a soda.  You wonder if it would be improper to ask for a glass of wine.  Your husband gives you a look, a look that says, “Do not ask for wine, I know you are thinking about it,” and you hear your voice say Coke, please. 

Time slows and bends and drips and stops and migrates backwards.  Time is a Salvador Dali painting.  You look at the kitchen clock, because you know it has been about three hours and you wonder if you can go yet.  It has been 10 minutes. 

In the yard, the older cousins hide plastic eggs filled with candies in artificial fruit flavors.  Some of the eggs have dollar bills in them.  You wonder if any of them have a one way ticket to Hawaii.  Or the moon. 

The boys run wild outside, shrieking as they find the eggs.  This isn’t so bad, you tell yourself, they are having fun. 

The younger one, the candy-obsessed one, opens his eggs.  Dollar after dollar after dollar tumble out.  He cries real tears, thinking he has been cheated out of candy. 

You go back in to check on the finished eggs sitting in the dye.  You count how many each son has done:  four each.  They both have 14 more to do.  At this rate, you might get to go home sometime next week. 

Miraculously, your husband finally says you need to get going.  You are internally congratulating yourself on marrying someone who is clearly a mind-reader.  You all walk outside and somehow get stuck talking to a neighbor.  The boys go back in and everyone forgets that you were supposed to be leaving. 

It is now 5 PM, time for dinner.  You must leave or you will go insane. 

You get in the car and sit in traffic.  The boys bicker all the way home.  You walk in your front door and notice the clock on the fireplace mantle reads 6:30.  You set the decorated eggs on the front table and forget about them.  You pick up the phone.  The pizza place confirms your address, and says they will be there in half an hour. 

The next day, you remember the decorated eggs sitting on the front table.  You are forced to throw them out. 

Your sons find them in the trash.  They pull them out and proclaim them to be “perfectly good.”  Without you knowing, your younger son hides them. 

You smell something very bad, but have no idea where it is coming from.  You tear the house apart and find the rotten eggs.  You are missing one egg.    

You are not a fan of Easter this year.