Not Your Run-of-the-Mill-Recliner

My Grandmother has one of those chairs that looks like a normal, average, everyday recliner but in fact is so much more. With just the push of a button, it rises slowly and places her in an upright, standing position. My kids think it is the coolest thing ever. When we visit, they are constantly asking her for "rides." She is usually happy to oblige. I need one of those chairs right about now. That and a Craft-matic Adjustable bed and I'll be set for the next four weeks.

The baby is set to arrive on March 11. I'm going to try to keep up the blog a little better for the next few weeks.

Status Quo

Julianne has a little problem with Facebook. She's hooked on it and has, as a result, begun thinking in terms of her Facebook status which, for those of you unfamiliar with Facebook, always starts out with the word, "Julianne" and must be confined to 160 characters or less.

Julianne now thinks in the third person. She worries this may be a tad narcissistic.

Julianne likes for her Facebook status to either be clever, poignant, humorous or some combination of the three. This is difficult for her to accomplish in less than 160 characters.

Julianne hopes that this thinking in terms of Facebook status condition of hers doesn't seep into her everyday life. She may hear herself say things such as this:

Julianne wants her daughter to stop asking for a snack and start eating her meals. If this doesn't happen, her daughter will be placed in time out.

Julianne does not want to ask her son to turn off the Wii again. If she does, she will take his privileges away tomorrow.

Julianne is trying to talk on the phone. She wishes her two children would stop making requests long enough for her to change her doctor's appointment. If they don't, Julianne will be forced to lock herself in the closet.

Julianne is now locked in the closet. Thankfully, she remembered to bring her laptop.

 

 

Pop-Tart Fetcher Extraordinaire

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School was cancelled today because temperatures were a chilly 12 degrees this morning. I'm not sure I agree with cancelling school due to cold temps but that's probably because I don't have kids that have to wait at a bus stop in the a.m. I took advantage of the off day, letting the kids stay up a little later than usual last night so I could catch some extra shut eye this morning. This plan rarely works but that has never stopped me from trying. Today was one of those rare occasions that the kids were compliant and let me sleep while they watched some morning cartoons. It was blissful, not the kind of sleep that people without young children would appreciate (There was the occasional elbow in the stomach and lots of noise) but given my ability to tune out all non-emergencies, I slept like a baby. I awoke at around 8:30 and decided to roll myself out of the bed. I sat up, scanned the room and bid a formal good morning to my kids. My son didn't waste any time getting to the whining. Here's what he said:

Son: Why do I always have to get the pop-tarts for us in the morning?

Daughter: Because you're my Bubba.

***It should be noted that Pop-Tarts are not a typical breakfast around here. I keep them in the house for mornings when I can steal a little extra shut-eye***

That seemed to satisfy him and it made me smile so I got on with the business of my morning routine and we braved the cold for a fun day of indoor play and a lunch date with some friends. After we came home I made the kids play in their rooms for a bit while I got some things done around the house and my daughter seemed to completely forget the conversation she had that morning when I heard this coming from my son's room in a high pitched scream:

I DON'T LIKE YOU AND I DON'T WANT YOU TO BE MY BUBBA ANYMORE!

Who's going to get her pop-tarts now?

Nothing Better To Do

I received a comment today from someone who calls themselves, "BeastTube" on a blog entry that was the most vile, poorly written fragment I've ever laid eyes on. I deleted it immediately but it left a lasting impact. In addition to feeling the need to take a long, hot shower to wipe the filth out of my mind, I wonder some things about Mr. BeastTube:

1. Who is BeastTube?
   
2. What possible satisfaction does it give him to post his sadistic sexual fantasies on a semi-inactive Mama blog like mine?
   
3. What is this BeastTube compensating for?
   

Just for shits and giggles, I'll give my own questions a shot. Here goes:

1. He's 43, lonely and hasn't been with a woman in over 3 years. He watches way too much porn and plays, "Grand Theft Auto" at least two hours per day.
   
2. He's reaching and has tapped out most other demographics. Next on his list: quilting grandmas and scrapbookers
   
3. This is a no brainer. Just look at his name.
   

Anyone else care to post a theory or two?

Come Again Some Other Day

I've got nothing these days. Nothing but rain. Rain. Rain. In January. It sucks.

So, to combat my bitterness, I'm going to make a list of things I'm thankful for:

1. Smoothies. Without them my digestive system would stall completely.
   
   
2. Rock of Love III: Thank you crazy DJ Nikki for making me laugh on a day when laughter was scarce by reading your Ode to Bret Michaels rap from a paper that you clearly got from the health clinic entitled, "Genital Herpes Instructions." Holy guacamole, I love that show.
   
   
3. My son's general goodness. He received a belated gift from my grandmother yesterday that included three board books that are appropriate for a two-year-old (he's six) and a set of "erasable" markers that don't work. He responded to it by saying, "Nana doesn't really understand what a 6-year-old likes does she?" We both giggled and he gave his books to his sister. Man, I love that kid.
   
   
4. A healthy pregnancy. I'm moving right along at 29 weeks, feeling good, even cooking again.
   
   
5. The huz. God bless him for his patience and willingness to teach my son how to play Star Wars Battleship. I would have made it 15 seconds.
   
   
6. Tiaras. My house is filled with them now and my daughter puts them on at random times and declares herself a princess. This is followed by a dance. Yeah, I love her too.
   
   
7. Semi-trashy vampire novels. They're my new thing.
   
   
8. The Dud (our lovable mutt). My snuggle jar runneth over.
   
   
9. Eric Hutchinson. I've been rocking out to his tunes in my kitchen for days.
   
   
10. January 7^th: the date that school resumes. My kids are bored. I'm ready. Let's get this party started.
    
    

    
    
    

All Wrapped Up

As I was rolling up a shirt in cheap paper today, I thought back to the days of yore when I actually cared what my presents looked like. I'd buy all manner of coordinating ribbon and paper, get custom tags made and even add little touches like coordinating ornaments taped under elaborate bows on each gift. I would painstakingly wrap each present, catering my wrapping to the individual recipient. I loved the whole process.

I'm over that now. My husband took one look under our tree last night and laughed out loud at the misshapen bundles wrapped under it. When I have to wrap an article of clothing these days, I just roll up the item, roll it up in paper, and tape it shut to the best of my ability. I've bid a fond farewell to gift tags, custom or not, and replaced them instead with a big fat black sharpie. I write directly on the paper in large letters TO: and FROM:. I don't take the time to cut out a make-shift card with the wrapping paper and tape it. Who has time for that? No, I just write directly on the package. My poor children think that's the norm. They think every mom across America wraps her gifts in random three-dimensional wrinkly blobs of paper and tape.

Pretty packages are just one of the many luxuries I've happily tossed aside in favor of sanity and the true holiday joy that comes from being DONE with all of that wrapping nonsense and sitting down to enjoy the pleasure of introducing my children to the best Christmas villain of all time: the Heat Miser.

Monday’s Rant

Be forewarned I'm feuding with my husband over something about which he has no control and I'm feeling the urge to scratch my own eyes out with a rusty knife. It's been a great day. Suffice it to say this post may seem, hmmm…, a tad bit angry.

For those of you who are unaware, I have lupus. I realize this may seem like a random statement but it becomes relevant later. I have lupus and so do 1.5 million other Americans yet very few people even know what the disease is. There is no celebrity spokesperson for the disease even though it is statistically impossible that a celebrity or five does not have the disease. The only press it ever gets is when one of the staff members on House throws it out as a possible diagnosis every week. I'm not kidding. EVERY week. Pay attention. This lack of awareness drives me nuts. Fret not, all of this will make sense in a few minutes.

Anyone watch The Shield out there in cyberland? My husband and I have been fans of it since the first episode and have watched it faithfully until its painful conclusion last week. For those of you unfamiliar with the show, it is a gritty (that might be the understatement of the century) cop drama about police corruption and the activities of one particular group of cops in L.A. It's violent and thought provoking and shocking at times. It's the kind of show that I love. I was so pleased last season when one of the show's primary characters came out of the closet with a lupus diagnosis. She's a smart, successful, highly capable woman and I was thrilled that lupus was finally going to get some serious treatment on a relatively high profile show. My pleasure turned to shock when it was revealed that the reason for the revelation about the character's diagnosis was that she was going completely insane. She was losing perspective, unable to perform the functions of her job, getting irrationally emotional and had even let her house get so filthy that it could have been condemned, all of this from a woman who, prior to her lupus diagnosis, had been an exceptionally successful woman in every aspect of her life. Are you kidding me?

So the character she came clean to took it upon himself to shelter and protect her from those who might discover her illness and subsequent meltdown. Being the gentlemen that he is, he talked her down when she was overly emotional, over compensated for her rash behavior, and hired someone to clean her house. What a gent!

The final few episodes revealed that it was her medication, not her disease, which was making her crazy. This left her with a difficult choice: continue to take the medication and remain a crazy person or stop taking it, get some normalcy in her life, and die a slow painful death from a relentless disease. She chose the latter. Nice. My heart swells with pride at this oh-so-accurate portrayal of a relatively common and treatable disease that affects many intelligent, successful, capable-of-keeping-our-homes-clean women who take their medication regularly without going crazy. Come on!

Rage Against the Machine

What's every parent's Christmas nightmare? We've all been there. We've got our Santa clothes on and finally have the kids secure in their beds. We unload the items from the attic and bring them down to the living room to begin the assembly process. Some of us drink a few cocktails and watch It's A Wonderful Life, trying to savor every minute of it. Until the minutes become hours. Why? Because of the ridiculous measures that toy manufacturers take to securely fasten the toys to the packaging so that they are displayed to utter perfection on the store shelves, catching the eye of young passer-bys. These days the displays involve all manner of torture devices from plastic wrapped wire to strategically placed rubber bands, screws and industrial staples. It all adds up to a frustration filled Christmas Eve when Santa hats become sweat bands and holiday cheer turns into yuletide rage.

Time allotted for assembly of the Littlest Pet Shop Fitness Center: 5 minutes.

Actual time required: 47 minutes

Cost: your mental health

After five or six of these episodes, you are tired, frazzled, angry and half drunk and the pile of trash that has accumulated in the corner is beginning to resemble the debris of a demolished building.

The purpose of this post is not to wallow in this misery but to let parents in on a genius little secret: THIS CAN ALL BE AVOIDED!

In a move that can only be classified as genius, Amazon.com has partnered with Mattel and other manufacturers to provide its customers with "Frustration Free Packaging." What this means for me is that the Barbie Cruise Ship (no, my daughter is not into age-appropriate toys) that I ordered yesterday will arrive on my doorstep in a big cardboard box with zero packaging. They'll be no clear plastic viewing window, no attempt at aesthetic shelf appeal, just a toy in a box, a big, glorious toy in a box. This brings me great joy and hope for humanity and, coupled with the free shipping offered on many Amazon.com products and their low prices, gives me almost no motivation to shop elsewhere.

So, get out there and rage against the department store machine and do your holiday shopping at Amazon.com. Maybe toy manufacturers will take the hint and do a little good for our collective mental health and the environment and get rid of the ridiculous over-packaging that has taken over store shelves of late.

Semper Fi

My son hopped into the car today with all manner of Marine Corps merchandise. He had a book cover, a large poster and a pencil, all covered in Armed Services logos. I was a little surprised and asked him what he learned about the Marine Corps. Here's what I learned:

• Marines carry guns and get to set off fireworks.
  
  
• Marines blow up buildings.
  
  
• And, my personal favorite, Marines get to help Santa Claus with his toys.
  
  

I explained to my son that Marines were very brave men and women who fought for their country and that they had to fight in wars and many unpleasant things in addition to blowing stuff up, setting off fireworks and filling in for Santa's elves. I dare say the recruitment techniques for the under-7 set have gotten a bit skewed. Is there really recruiting for the under-7 set? I'm not ready for that yet. Not even close.

Sluggish

I just pulled a slug, a SLUG! out of my daughter's hair. She came inside and said, "Mommy, I've got something gooey in my hair." I leaned in for a closer look and there it was: a one inch slug writhing around in her beautiful brown locks. I have an aversion to slugs. I can't stand them. They feel like those globs we used to get out of the grocery store vending machines as kids only they are actually living breathing organisms. I have no problems with most of the creatures of the insect world (I'm assuming here—probably wrongly—that a slug is an insect. What else is it going to be? A reptile? I think not). I digress. Most insects don't even phase me. I live together in peace with the moths, the flies, the wasps, the bees, the spiders, even the occasional cock roach but I can't handle slugs. Is it too much to ask that they steer clear of my daughter's head? Geez.

In better news my children have been playing outside for over two hours in the rain, wearing their fireman hats. They are covered in mud and slug feces from head to toe but I don't care. I love to watch kids playing in the rain.

Sappy Six

I’m feeling a little sappy this morning so here goes:

Six Things I love about my kids:

1. My son can’t just have toast or waffles for breakfast. He has to invent something. This morning it was a peanut butter cheerio boat, translation: a piece of bread with peanut butter spread on it and cheerios sprinkled on top.

2. My daughter is, as I write this, wearing a pink sparkle headband around the circumference of her head Karate Kid style. I told her she looks like Daniel Son. She replied, “No Mama. I look like a cheerleader.” Who knew?

3. My son gets extremely excited about eating a school lunch. This happens very rarely as a result of his finicky palate but, when it does, he skips towards the entrance to his school like he’s walking into a theme park.

4. Yesterday, after dropping my son off at school, my daughter asked that we play a horse game (she has a tendency to skip consonants so her “horse” actually sounds like “whore”). This is what she said to me, “Mama, you be a big whore and I’ll be a little whore.”

5. Whenever my daughter does something silly, like this morning when she insisted upon eating her toast from the middle out and licking the butter off of her plate, my son and I look at each other and chuckle quietly. Yep, we’ve got inside jokes.

6. Both of my kids refer to our main vacuum as “Big Yellow” and get very excited whenever I haul her out of the closet. They call the other vacuum “Little Blue” and flash disappointed expressions in my direction whenever I plug Little Blue in.

What's In a Name?

I found out at a doctor's appointment today that this unexpected bundle of bun in the oven is most likely a little girl. While I am excited about the prospect of having another little girl, it complicates the naming process. My boy name was an ace in the hole, chosen beyond question. The girl name remains up in the air. Some of my friends have emphasized the importance of carrying on the T-name tradition, "You already have two kids with T names," they say, "It would really stink for the third one to be the odd one out." While I agree with this logic to some degree, my agreement stops at the prospect of naming the child Tiffany or Tonya. Please, all of the Tiffany's and Tonya's out there, don't take offense. You had no control over your parents!

I've got a great name picked out but, alas, it does not start with a T. I will not post it here yet because my husband and I have not agreed and I will not entertain any negative commentary about my child's name choice. There is an inherent danger in telling people prior to the birth, what your choice for names is. They can be judgmental and harsh because they feel as if their opinion could sway the parent one way or another. This ridiculous charade stops as soon as the baby is born and people say with a smile, "Tallulah Does the Hula. What a great name!" So, to you the faithful readers of this ever-dwindling blog, I pose the following question without revealing too much:

How important IS continuing the T-name tradition?

Would you dare break it?

If I do break it will it cost my child years of therapy (Why Mom, WHY didn't you just name me with a "T" name?)?

WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

Pluggity Plug Plug Plug

I'm all about supporting other moms trying to get their feet wet in the world of business and Gloria Moser is one such Mom. She works full time, has two kids under 4, and has recently started a local website geared at parents in the Cleveland, Tennessee area. The website is www.funandfrugal.com and it lists upcoming events, coupons, sales and contests that would be useful for area moms and dads in the Cleveland (and Chattanooga for that matter) area. Go check her out and if you live in East Tennessee, subscribe to her feed for updates on local family-friendly happenings that won't break the bank.

Indoor Topography

Do you ever look around your house at the chaos and wonder, "How could I even considering adding another person to this mix?" I find myself doing that allot lately. Maybe it's the hormones or the ceaseless bouts of dry heaving but I focus on the chaos in my home. I am either a glutton for punishment or I have just accepted the fact that my house will never, ever even have the appearance of cleanliness again. It's over. With kitty cages and a dog that likes to shred things like paper, pillow stuffing, cats, Littlest Pet Shop toys, and all variety of apparel and a husband who could walk by a trash bag at the door, ready to be taken out to the curb, 17 times and never even notice its existence; I might as well just accept my fate, embrace it. Instead of fighting this constant battle to keep up a façade of cleanliness, I'm going to turn over a new leaf. I'm going to become a hoarder. In ten years, I'll have a guaranteed appearance on Oprah, something my writing career may never afford me (yes, I'm optimistic—if I hoard and write successfully, I might just morph into Oprah's ideal guest).

I'm going to start collecting things now, lots and lots of things. I'll throw nothing away and count on my husband to take the recycling to the center, thus ensuring that it will never leave the home. I'm going to stop consigning my children's clothes when they outgrow them and save them, every single piece, for posterity's sake. I'm going to start ordering things from QVC. A QVC addiction is an absolute must for any self-respecting hoarder. I'll turn each room into a labyrinth. My kids will love that. There will be specific trails that will get you from one room to the next, surrounded by walls of things. I'll make my son our official topographer, turning each day into a treasure hunt, What Mommy? You need the dishwashing detergent? Let me consult the map. I'll need 25 minutes and a machete but I'll find it for you. His topography skills may just lead him to become the next Rand McNally, mapping the floor of the ocean or the surface of Mars. My hoarding will become his career inspiration. I can hear the Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech already. Sure, they'll be mildew and odor but that's a small price to pay for an Oprah appearance and a kid with a Nobel Peace Prize, right?

Humiliating Library Moment #1

The staff at my library are usually hip, young folks from the local university. I glow with the approval of them when they look over my literary picks. Kurt Vonnegut, huh? Cool., the skater dude with the longish hair will say as he puts the final kid's selection, "Yurtle the Turtle" in a pile to reveal my choices at the bottom. I bask in the awesomeness of myself and my reading selections. On another occasion it was the hippie chick who can rock a no-make-up face like nobody's business and usually has a homemade peasant top on, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle… Don't you just love Barbara Kingsolver? I smile and nod. This is the first Kingsolver book I've read but cool hippie chick doesn't have to know that, right? Aaahhh… there is nothing as pathetic as seeking approval from the young, is there?

Today was not one of my shining moments. First of all, my kids were with me and I was taking back one book and one book on tape that may or may not have been overdue. Secondly, there was a huge line and only one person at the check out counter. She was not the usual youthful presence. She was a crotchety older woman who was clearly flustered by the crowd gathering in front of her desk. I had the kids throw their selections on the counter and handed her my card. She scanned it and said, "You owe $2.00 in late fees."

Blushing, I replied, "Can you tell me what those late fees are for?"

She turned the computer screen towards me and scrolled to the page that listed my overdue books. I saw the listing and said, "Oh, I see. I won't make you say that title." And I laughed uncomfortably.

She said, without batting an eyelash, (she was at least 75 years old), "Skinny Bitch and Skinny Bitch in the Kitch." Suffice it to say, she didn't use her inside voice and everyone in line and within a 2 mile radius of the library for that matter, heard her.

Not wanting to seem like a library loser and in a desperate attempt to draw attention away from that unfortunate title, I immediately jumped to my own defense, "Oh. I brought that back today. I put it in the drop slot when I walked in."

This news was not received by Crotchety Old Library Lady (COLL). She sighed heavily and walked slowly over to the drop slot. She opened it up and said snarkily, "What does it look like? I mean, it could be anywhere."

Me, trying to remain cheerful, "It's a book on CD and I turned it in less than five minutes ago so it should be close to the top."

This did not go over well either and COLL kept pulling out VHS tapes, holding them up and asking, "Is this it?"

"No Mam. It's a book on CD."

Finally, she held up the correct title. Relief flooded my body. "That's it." She returned to the counter, took my $2 and gave me a mini-lecture on how I should tell her up front that I had an overdue book when it was really busy. I thought about explaining to her that I wasn't sure whether it was overdue but thought better of it. I thanked her in my most sickeningly sweet Southern draw and sashayed out of there with my kid's books in hand, hoping like hell everyone wasn't looking at me thinking, "She might want to listen that Skinny Bitch book a couple more times."

Déjà Vu

The kids and I sat down for an early lunch this afternoon. It was an odd mix of leftovers. My daughter had a slice of pizza and some broccoli. My son had a PB&J and some strawberries and I had some teriyaki chicken and rice. We were all very hungry for some reason so we weren't talking much at

the table until everyone's plates started to clear. Then the chatter started. My daughter had eaten her pizza to the crust and then tore the crust in half and handed me a piece. She said, "You be this guy and I'll be this guy." Then she held up her half of the pizza crust and started bouncing it around, attempting to anthropomorphize it (do I get props for that word, or what?!). Here's how our little pizza crust dialogue went:

Daughter: (in strange, muffled deep voice) What are you doing friend?

Me: (attempting to imitate the bouncing with my half of the crust) I'm getting ready to be eaten.

Daughter: NO! NO! Don't let her eat you! No!

Me: How do I stop her?

Daughter: (looks mischievously at the pizza crust in her hand and takes a big bite out of it) Ah! No! No! Help!

Me: (taking a big ol' hunk out of my half of the crust) Sorry man. I can't help you.

My son, the whole time, was watching our conversation with great interest, smiling as the poor crust halves met their fate. I couldn't help myself. I turned to my daughter and said, "You could not be more like your brother." I winked at my son.

He looked at me innocently and said, "What do you mean?"

I just laughed and said, "You know what I mean."

Neither one of us spoke again. I just marveled at my two glorious weirdos who can turn the most mundane items into dramatic scenarios and smiled.

Cafeteria Style Social Life

An impromptu viewing of Mean Girls this weekend caused me to ponder the great philosophical questions of parenting life. I wondered, for example, what I would pick for my children if I could walk down the cafeteria aisle of teenage social existence. What choices would you make?

Would you choose A or B:

1.

A. Star Athlete

B. Mack Daddy Mathlete

2.

A. Valedictorian

B. B+ Student with a good sense of humor and a decent social life

3.

A. Head Cheerleader

B. Marching band French Horn Section Leader

4.

A. Football Player

B. Golf or tennis player

5.

A. Card-carrying member of the "In-Crowd"

B. Card-carrying member of a Motley Crew of cerebral misfits

I choose B every time. Now, don't get your panties in a wad about letting my kids be themselves and tell me to stop trying to dictate their future. I realize, also, that there are many, MANY more social possibilities for teens these days and that very few actually fit into any one of these categories. This is a fantasy exercise people. It's completely hypothetical, on the same level as the "5 Celebrities" game we've all played with our spouses (although some, who shall remain nameless, refuse to give an answer—party pooper!). Just play it. I'm curious to know, given that you've all survived the teenage years, what you would choose for your child to create the best possible high school experience. Here's mine:

Son: Good grades, mathlete, class clown, a little too confident and terrible with the ladies but he doesn't realize it. He wears weird shirts with sayings that I don't always understand and he plays soccer well enough to get some field time during home games.

Daughter: Good grades, yearbook editor, cute with a strong sense of fashion that's a little left of the norm. She plays tennis but doesn't know if she wants to commit to playing for the school team. Her friends are smart and fiercely loyal to each other. They resemble the girls in "The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants"

Man, am I in for a reality check or what?

Tankini Wahini

Is anyone else appalled at the price of bathing suits? I just ordered one on clearance from Land's End, the crown jewel of the bathing suit empire for those of us who are looking for bathing suit descriptions that include such phrases as:

• The texture that slims
  


• Tiny vertical ribs smooth and slim your figure
  


• Details that flatter your figure
  


• You'll look a size smaller—instantly
  


• Skip the sit-ups!
  


• Anxiety zone solution: tummy control firms you, yet you feel comfortable
  

If you are looking for a bathing suit that will make you look hot, do your shopping elsewhere but if, like me, you are looking for all of the attributes listed above (taken directly from the latest Land's End swim wear catalog), you need to look no further than LandsEnd.com. Better start saving now though because a suit that lets you skip the sit-ups isn't going to come cheap. I got a bargain, snagging one from last year's collection off of the online clearance rack for $39.99. Any of this year's line will run you $90 and up for a tankini, the only acceptable mom-suit at pools these days. Sure, traditional bikinis are always acceptable for the lucky Mamas who can pull them off but for most of us, its tankini city.

But $90? $90! Does that seem a bit excessive to anyone else? You can hop on LandsEnd.com and order a pair of men's trunks for $19.99, NOT on sale. What's up with that? It's not like women's suits are incredibly detailed and made of high cost materials, we're just desperate to pull them off, so desperate that we'll drop $120 on a good suit without hesitation. So, don't be snowed by promises that you can skip the sit-ups if you wear a particular suit. Do a few sit-ups, shop the clearance racks and flash dirty looks from under your sunglasses at the hot moms in bikinis at the pool. Everybody wins.

Abracadabra

Siegfried and Roy watch out! My son is only five years old and well on his way to becoming the next hot magician. I'm going to encourage him to stay away from sequins and albino tigers but, other than that, I'm all about him making his mark on the magic scene.

Today, for instance, he put on a dynamo magic show. The first couple of tricks were standard fare involving cards and pennies but the last one was a doozy. He walked into the room and stood on his "stage" in front of the coffee table, waving his magic wand in dramatic circles,

Son: Would you believe that I can turn myself into a metal robot?

Me: No way. I'll believe it when I see it.

Son: Close your eyes. Don't open them until I tell you that you can.

Me: OK

Lots of rustling takes place at this time, and I can hear him walk from the living room to his room and then back. There's some additional rustling and then some footsteps into the kitchen.

Son: You can open your eyes now

I look around and try to figure out what is going on. There, on the coffee table directly in front of where my son's "stage" was, is a little silver plastic robot, an Ironman Kid's Meal toy. I hear a voice from the kitchen,

Son (in best monosyllabic robot voice): I'm a robot. Would you like me to bring back the magician?

I did my best not to laugh and oohed and aahhed in amazement at my son's trick.

Me: Yes, please bring him back.

We went through the same process, lots of rustling and footsteps and the next time I opened my eyes my son was standing there with a proud grin on his face. I could have smeared him with butter and swallowed him whole, he was so adorable. Maybe I should take him on, "America's Got Talent" and let him perform his trick for David Hasselhoff in the hopes of becoming someone that won a show once and now does weddings and bah mitzvahs. Vegas, here we come!

Naegleria Fowleri

I've become obsessed with brain eating amoebas. Yes, that's right, brain eating amoebas, naegleria fowleri if we're getting technical. Go ahead, google it. You'll never set foot in a lake again.

I took a beginner's kayaking class yesterday with a friend and, in an effort to impress our cute instructor, I volunteered to be the idiot who tipped my kayak over (because, let's face it, there's nothing more impressive than someone losing their balance and falling out of a boat). It was fairly painless but I did get some water up my nose. My first thought was, Crap. What if I sucked in some brain-eating amoebas?

I realize this is probably not the typical reaction to getting water up your nose but, alas, it is mine. I'm a freak like that.

While Jacquelyn and I were braving the rip roaring waters of the quarry with our mad kayaking skills, our kids were cruising around the lake on the Byrne's super fly boat, "The Wareagle." As soon as I saw my husband I gave him the third degree about my children's water experiences, focusing primarily on the amount of water that may or may not have gone up each of their noses (the amoeba can only access the brain if it goes through the nose). My son's risk factor is very low but my daughter's is relatively high, given that she went under at one point and sucked in a lot of water. I was up half the night last night obsessively researching naegleria fowleri. I've become quite the expert on this disturbing organism. Feel free to post questions at any time. My husband's response, "You've got a better chance of walking out your front door and getting hit by a mack truck than getting your brain eaten by an amoeba." True, but I'm not going to walk out there with a blindfold, hoping that there's no truck around. I'm going to look both ways. The same needs to be true of my lake time. So, be sure to look for me and my family out on the lake. We'll be the freaks with the nose plugs.

Look both ways, people, look both ways!