Ted Ferguson ain't got nothing on me

I think most of you expect this to be a post about Molly’s recent ophthalmologist appointment, but in a strange twist of fate, she was angelic during her three-hour exam. Honestly, she hasn’t been that good since she was an 8 lb. burrito that slept 22 hours a day. And as I’m sure you know by now, when my kids are good, I don’t have anything to write about because no one wants to hear about what well-behaved, perfectly parented cherubs they are (well, suckers, the joke’s on you because you just heard all that anyway).  

Plus, the whole point of this blog thing is to make it clear to the kids how much I suffered for them in their formative years as a gateway to a quality nursing home that has daily bingo and a string of handsome widowers (because, let’s face it, if Sutton makes it out of his fifties after being married to me for three decades, somebody’s gonna have to check that he’s not a vampire).

No, this post is going to focus on a more universal annoyance: the furlough. Like many of you, our lives have been affected by the recent sequestration, although in a less damaging way than most. Since my husband works as a contractor on the Arsenal, his pay wasn’t affected by the furlough, but his hours were since his building is now closed on Fridays. So instead of his usual schedule of 5, 8-hour days, he’s now working 4, 10-hour days.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I am colossally thankful for the fact that our annual income isn’t diminished by the government’s inability to clip coupons. And Fridays off sounds great…but only if all four of us make it til then, and adding 2 hours to the length of my “work” day, when we barely make it to naptime as it is, puts that possibility at serious risk. (Note: I’m sure that it’s hard on Sutton, too, but this isn’t his blog and since our marriage in 2005, he’s become really good at internalizing his frustrations).

Maybe a visual will better explain. Have you ever seen that Bud Light Daredevil commercial where the guy tries to stay at work 2 minutes past 5:00pm? (If you haven’t, then the YouTube gods have looked kindly on you today: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7nBqh7I1kdY) Yeah, that’s what it’s like here at 5:30 pm after a day alone with the chillrins. And then you’re gonna tell me that Sutton has to leave before the kids are up and get home after I’ve fed them a third meal by myself? Ssshhhhiiiiittttt. 

P.S. Whoever invented those pouch baby foods is on my short list for president.

And when Sutton finally gets home, I expect him to run, not walk, to the door to get into this house and save us all. For serious, he better pray that I don’t see him stop to pick up some trash out of the yard or let the dog go potty or else it’s gonna be Nag War III up in this beesh. And God help him if he has to go to the bathroom…

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Which brings me to an important subtopic of this post. What is up with guys and pooping? Seriously?! As a female, I have two intestinal modes: using the bathroom and not using the bathroom. But, no, not men. They have at least 5 different stages to go through before they finish putting one through the hoop.

Stage 1: The alert – I just ate some food; I’m gonna have to poop within the next 24 hours. Therefore, I must stay within at least 20 feet of my “home toilet”.

Stage 2: The inklings – I feel the first flutterings of a bowel movement. Let me go sit on the toilet and lock the bathroom door even though I won’t be productive for another 45 minutes.

Stage 3: The devices – Well, now that I’m in here for the foreseeable future, I might as well play a few rounds of Candy Crush, catch up on my Reddit posts, and text my buddies size and shape details with this iPhone/iPad/laptop that I smuggled in here without my wife seeing.

Stage 4: The deed – self explanatory.

Stage 5: The rinse and repeat – Okay, I’m done. But all that’s waiting for me on the outside is a bunch of screaming kids and an unmowed lawn. Wait, what’s that I feel? The possibility that I could have to go again sometime within the next two hours. Better stay right here.

Meanwhile, when I have to go, I’m forced to leave the door open to ensure that the kids aren’t killing themselves or, worse, deleting my DVR contents, and I basically have to wait until it’s a life and death situation so that I’m not in there for more than two minutes tops. In fact, I’ve started a pros and cons chart for the use of adult diapers.

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In closing, until September 30^th, we must soldier on…by spending those two extra dad-free hours a day at our local and state representatives’ offices – you know, just hanging out and letting the kids copy their butts and stuff. So maybe the next time Congress is feebly trying to balance a budget, they’ll remember having Jolly Ranchers stuck to their sweet leather chairs and listening to Suttie sing the entire soundtrack to The Nightmare Before Christmas (twice) and finally learn to do some basic math.

VBS: Value Basic Survival

Ahhh, summer. Tis the season of Vacation Bible School, a time when eager parents seek out free babysitting and naïve volunteers finally understand why so many elementary educators end up in straight jackets.

Our church completed this year’s VBS session last week (which means we’re all in a state of euphoria this week), and I’ve decided to share a few of the lessons that I learned during my tenure as maestro of the preschool class.

#1) If you aren’t scheduled to visit the snack station first, you’re screwed.

It doesn’t matter if you’ve fed your child a Thanksgiving feast before VBS; like me, they come to church for the food. Thus, one verse into the first song on the first day, I felt a tug on my shorts and heard a little voice whisper, “When’s snack?” Looking at my schedule, I sadly discovered that we were slated to have snack last, right before the closing session.

And for the next four days, I was asked “When is snack?” and plaintively told “But I’m hungry now” four-thousand-six-hundred-and-fifty-eight times. No lie. My co-teacher Selena kept a tally to ensure this blog’s historical accuracy.

So if you want to have even a sliver of a chance at keeping the kids’ attention on the lesson, you better bring some food: “Okay, guys, we’re talking about Gideon and the Midianites today, and do you know what the Midianites liked to eat? This giant ass tub of cheese balls. Have at it, kids.”

#2) There’s a sure-fire way to get kids to be still and listen. You don’t know it.

My VBS preschool materials came with lessons that matched up with that of the older classes. Which was cool…in theory.

As I carefully planned out the lesson for the first day, I imagined smiling, angelic faces looking back at me, lapping up every bit of biblical wisdom I cast their way.

But around 42 seconds into a story about Joseph being forced into slavery, I looked up to see one child running from window to window, snatching up all of the stuffed animals that decorated our “campsite”; my son giving the “I’m watching you” signal to the décor thief because they were his stuffed animals from home; another child trying to escape out the door without being noticed; and a fourth staring into space while quietly muttering, “snack…”

And every day, we pressed through the story amid interruptions, potty breaks, and thievery, and everyday I thought about replacing it with a game of “Jesus, Jesus, God” (modeled after “Duck, Duck, Goose”) and letting them pick up a Bible on their own time.

#3) Kids ask some weird questions, but that’s better than an over-share.

During the course of a 4-day VBS, you will be flooded with inexplicable and outlandish questions, such as this gem, “Miss Kate, what does wind taste like?” The key is to be both honest and direct: WTF, kid? I don’t know. If PBS hasn’t taught you this by now, then I don’t know why you’re bringing it to my door. Jesus says quit asking stupid questions and go back to your seat.

Of course, strange, unanswerable questions are always preferable to the random over-shares that kids like to spew out into the universe: “I sing ‘Jesus Loves Me’ while I poop.”/ “If I bees quiet, I can hear ghostes in our basement.” / “My mom said her legs are spikey today” (thanks, Suttie).  

#4) VBS is a little less fun when your mom’s there.

Part of the fun of VBS is being able to escape your parents for a little while…except if you’re Suttie or me; both of our moms were there. My mom was heading up the music for the opening and closing sessions, and of course, I was Suttie’s teacher.

Now, I have to tell you that, despite being 29 and 1 year old, I still look to see if my mama’s giving me the stink eye in church.

And, poor Suttie, when the other kids did roundhouse kicks during storytime or colored their eyelids at the craft table, I would say, “No, sweetie, we shouldn’t do that.” But when Suttie asked for a different colored marker, my eyes filled with hellfire as I growled, “Are you kidding me? Do you think God had twelve different markers to choose from when he wrote the Ten Commandments? That’s strike one, son.” The poor kid didn’t have a chance.

#5) Kids’ feet are more than gross; they’re straight-up nasty.

If there’s one part of the human body that God could go back to the drawing board for, I’m guessing it’d be feet. Seriously, you have to pretty messed up to want to deal with feet (yeah, I’m looking at you podiatrists, you sick sons of bitches).

But somewhere in the Bible, Jesus washed feet and now it’s trending on Twitter, so part of the VBS lesson involved washing the children’s feet.

Now, I know, I know. Jesus did it, so it shouldn’t be a big deal. But Jesus had a supernatural gag reflex and obviously wasn’t washing the feet of the shoeless Victorian street urchins that apparently occupied my classroom.

And I don’t know why I was surprised because one of those urchins was mine, who I’ve personally seen wander barefoot through the yard without concern for mud, mulch, or doggie doo. But it is another experience entirely when it’s not your kid and not your dog’s doo.

And this is where I suggest disposable baby wipes because if Jesus had them, I’m pretty sure he would have used them. Even with these bad boys, I checked for two days to make sure that my fingernails weren’t trying to fall off.

#6) You’re old now, and the arm motions that go along with the songs will make you sore for a week.

What happened to VBS music? I remember when I was a kid, we rocked out to “The B-I-B-L-E” and “The Wise Man Built His House Upon a Rock,” but these days the music has to come with a hipster-styled music video and a complex routine choreographed by Beyoncé. I should have been doing Zumba since January to prepare for this shit.

#7) Just because it’s church doesn’t mean that you won’t be gut-checked.

Kids will tell you the truth, especially when it hurts. Which is why, one little darling turned to me and said, “Miss Kate, you say ‘awesome’ too much.” Really? Really?! Well, you have a bat in the cave at this very moment, so maybe we need to check ourselves before we wreck ourselves.

           

Or this sweet nothing from day 2, “Miss Kate, I liked the teacher from last week’s VBS better.” First of all, good lord, parents, how many VBS programs are you sending your kids to? For real. I’m gonna need names and addresses here. Denomination doesn’t matter – Methodist, Baptist, Hindi, Orthodox Greek. Whatever. If they have a loose drop off and pick up policy, I’m in.

Second, I liked your teacher from last week better too…because it wasn’t me.

#8) You’ll show up again next year.

And yet despite all of the inattentiveness, the snack-mongering, the dusty feet, the insane questions, the insults…nevermind, run.

Taking kids to church...it's the devil's business

After church service on Sunday, a friend said that she couldn’t wait to see what I posted about the experience on my blog (because, as you’ll soon understand, the experience was worth some color commentary), and the idea gave me pause. I mean, is it okay for me to write about church on here? Will I have to sacrifice my patented cynicism and derisive wisecracks? Will it cause me to be any further in the divine doghouse than I already am? Well, the answer is a resounding hell no! The good lord made me this way, and I think he can deal.

Let’s start at the beginning. I sometimes take the kids to church by myself so that Sutton can go to work or do things around the house without their…let’s call it “help.” I’m 48% sure that this kind of martrydom gives me double Jesus points (it’s like a rewards program for the afterlife – after 10,000 points you get dead celebrity visitation and haunting privileges).

Sunday was one of those days. And I should have known that I was in for it when the kids were dressed and ready to go on time and they weren’t fussing or trying to shank me as I stuffed them in their carseats. Nothing good comes from cooperative children at home; they use up all of their best behavior before you back down the driveway, and it’s pandelerium once you hit the streets.

When we got to church, they were eerily calm, and I could feel the little hairs on the back of my neck reach skyward. But they continued to be relatively well behaved through the first half of the service, and I started to relax a bit. Even during Children’s Moments (an opportunity for the rest of the congregation to enjoy the off-topic interruptions and barely-intelligible banter that their parents get to experience all…day…long), Suttie and Molly were on point, despite Suttie’s misguided response of “Hazel Green” when asked what nation other than the U.S. he belonged to (the answer was the Christian Nation, but I can’t fault him for representing his roots – Trojan pride, what! what!).

And then my son marched off to the nursery with the other diminutive parishioners, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief, knowing that I only had one heavenly blessing left to wrangle. But Molly knows when the sermon starts, and that child does not like to be told what she should and shouldn’t do in this life. As soon as our preacher started to pour out his wisdom, Molly started to pour out her apple juice, right down the pew in front of us by expertly hitting the nozzle against the wood with a perfectly timed repetitive thud.

So I did what any reasonable parent would have done. I took the cup. Big mistake. Huge. Because when you take the cup, you poke the bear. And the bear will claw your face off.

Amid random slaps and manufactured tears, I started to dig into my Mary Poppins carpet bag and pull out anything and everything to keep her quiet and content. “Molly, do you want this princess phone? A pez dispenser? A baby doll? A pocket knife? Some pepper spray? A floor lamp? A coat rack? Dammit, Poppins, none of this is working!”

At this point, I looked at my watch to see that we were only five minutes into the sermon and I had no toy options left. And then, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but Suttie handing me a piece of construction paper that read, “Suttie is lovable” and pushing himself into the seat next to me. Now, typically, the nursery lasts until the end of church, so you can imagine my shock and confusion when he showed up with thirty minutes left in the service.

So I asked him what he was doing there, and he said, “I came for community,” which translated means “I came for communion,” which translated means, “I came to get my take of the bread and grape juice.” To which my mind said, “What the hell, kid! We’re doomed now,” but my mouth said, “Ok.”

At the end of this exchange, I realized that Molly had somehow found my phone and was now using it to scratch the back of the person sitting in front of us. And then it fell. And you know when you have kids in church and there’s a hardwood floor and they drop some brick of an object and you’re just praying that it doesn’t have wheels so that it doesn’t roll all the way down to the altar. Yeah, that’s a pretty craptastic feeling.

And you want to interrupt and say you’re sorry or something like, “Don’t mind us; we’re just here from the district office to test the preacher’s performance under pressure,” but you can’t because you can’t lie in church. And you aren’t from the district and you’re not sorry – no, you’re pissed because every man, woman, beam, board, and nail in the place is part of a conspiracy to make you look like an idiot parent who let your child get ahold of your rubberized phone and then drop it. Am I right? No? How about over here? No? It’s just me then.

At this point, Suttie, realizing that there’s a free phone up for grabs, picked it up, and I thought, “Oh, good, he’s old enough to help a sister out,” so I turned my attention back to Gollum who was pulling out everything she shouldn’t have and whispering “My precious!” only to look back down at the “good one” long enough to realize that he was playing Angry Birds in the middle of God’s house, a.k.a. prime smiting position.

So I sat on the phone (something I don’t like to think about when it’s pressed against my face) and started to map out an exit strategy. Only I couldn’t concentrate because my mom gave Suttie a giant calculator the day before that he insisted on bringing with him and he kept typing in numbers and asking me, “What does this spell?”

Finally, I set Molly down in front of me, thinking that she might be content to simply stand (and also to get myself out of the line of fire), but before I had a firm grasp on her hand, she immediately walked out of the pew and toward the door, as if to say, “Peace, God! I’ll hit you up next week or sumpin” and then I was faced with my own Sophie’s choice because there was Suttie smacking his lips at the little vials of grape juice that he knew were hidden within the communion trays while Molly was doing her Frankenstein stagger toward the Fellowship Hall. So, I frantically whispered, “Be good! Go to communion with Aunt Selena” and took off after the child who still tries to eat dog food, knowing that this was the only choice that I could make, but still feeling no better about it.

Nor should I…because five minutes after being in the Fellowship Hall with Molly (which has speakers that project the goings-on in the Sanctuary), I heard our preacher ask if anyone had any prayer requests to make and then a small voice, like a sparrow trilling into the wind, asked the entire congregation to “Pray for Molly to be good.” And I knew whose voice it was. And I palmed my face.

Yes, it was one for the record books, people. And I invite you, the next time you’re in church with me and two of God’s more distracting angels, to take one of them. Seriously, just come and grab one. I don’t care which; just get your hands on one and walk away. I’m not gonna say it’s God’s will, but, I mean, who knows, it could be. Doesn’t the Bible say something about it taking a village? No, that was Hillary Clinton. Whatever, Jesus points, y’all.

Follow me, kids; my mom has candy and toys and a puppy in the car...

Since I’ve already devoted a blog post to describing my daughter’s “spirited” temperament, I feel like I owe my son the same unapproved, unwanted exposure. That way, in a few decades, when they look back on these posts, they can bond over a sense of shared humiliation.

If Molly is my spicy child, then Suttie is my saccharine. He’s sweet…sometimes too sweet. He loves hugs and cuddling up next to you…like right next to you…and you start to sweat because kids are like crumb-covered furnaces…then he blares a YouTube video featuring the world’s creepiest 50-year-old man performing toy demos or insistently says, “Mommy, watch me play Sonic…are you watching…I’m about to get the gold rings…Mommy, why aren’t you watching...” until you can’t take it anymore and bolt from the couch, screaming, “Geroff me, bro! You’re crowding me out!” Sigh, I’m gonna miss these days…

He also seeks out every opportunity to receive a comforting embrace. When Molly falls down and I try to console her, she throws up her dimple-knuckled dukes to ward me off and, through her angry mutterings, I can make out, “Geez, woman, that was embarrassing enough; don’t make it any worse!” Suttie, on the other hand, relishes minor mishaps and injuries. When he’s on the business end of his own ninja turtle nunchucks or falls out of a chair because he was sitting backwards and balancing on one knee, he runs over within seconds to tell me about the incident and collect his consolatory hugs and kisses. He’s done this so much lately that our new rule involves the injury producing at least a full ounce of blood or my irrepressible laughter to merit any pity.

But he doesn’t expect to merely receive affection; he doles it out, too. I’m hoping that, one day, this translates into a loving husband and father rather than a handsy pervert with a penchant for lingering eye contact.

For example, he says “I love you” at least forty-two times a day and is destined to scare off numerous girls on the first date. But no worries, we’re working on a few new sight words right now…like “restraining” and “order.”

A couple of weekends ago, we took him to see Monsters University, ‘cause you know, Raisinets, and during the after-movie potty break, he turns to his dad and says, “Daddy, I need a hug”…..mid-stream at the urinal. Because nothing says totally appropriate than a grown man and a young boy hugging in a public restroom while one of them has his pants around his ankles.

Other than his poor timing, my biggest fear regarding Suttie’s overt warmth and affection is that he’ll give other parents the wrong idea. When we visit the park or other kid-infested locales, Suttie is quick to latch onto a fellow patron, usually one of a younger age since he sees his “big brother” status as a service to all. Thus, he often can be seen leading toddlers around the playground, through the jungle gym, and past the swings with a genuine sense of care and purpose. And that’s when I feel them…the eyes of the other parents as they try to figure out if I’m using my son as bait to lure their precious babes to the back of my unmarked van. Rest assured, Mom and Pop Stink Eye, I don’t want your kids…but if you’ve taken a fancy to one of mine…

Suttie with one of his charges

Anyway, the point is that, when I’m tired of Molly hitting me in the face or telling me with her eyes that she thinks my shirt is stupid, I can turn to my first born and know that I’ve got a hug waiting and at least a few more years that he’s willing to admit that I’m the bomb….even if I still say, “the bomb.”