Borrow my Baby...Please

Has anyone out there heard of the newest reality tv show? It's called Baby Borrowers. It takes real teenage couples and has them live together and attempt to care for an infant one week, a toddler the next, then an adolescent, a teen, and then an elderly person.

Here are a few questions I have for the producers of this show:

1. Who are these parents who are going to allow their babies to live with teens for a week? Have these parents ever been around teens? Don't get me wrong, I think teenagers are great...as kids...as people. But as "play parents" to a helpless little infant? Hell no.

2. How did you choose the old person? Did you go to a nursing home and look for the most crotchety guy in the room? Did he want to go live with teens or did his family send him? Do they have to change his diapers?

3. Do they need two more kids? I happen to know a couple who are available - I could use a week off.



I haven't made up my mind about this yet - part of me wonders why these teens are interested in doing this at all. Why aren't they enjoying their friends? Visiting colleges? Lifeguarding at the pool? What teen couple is so serious that they wonder, "Hmmm... could we raise a family together?"

Then I am reminded that I was married before my 21st birthday. Come to think of it, maybe that's why I want to grab these teens and tell them to run for the hills. No reality show could do the whole marriage and kids thing justice. Don't get me wrong. I love my life and I don't regret a single choice I made - it just wasn't the easiest thing ever. Then again, easy isn't always better.

A Day at the Beach

I went to Decatur's Beach on the Block Party last Friday with my good friend Brandy and our kids. It sounded like a really good idea. Sand on the square, live music, inflatables, corn dogs. The kids and I were super excited about it all. But once we got there, I remembered something about myself that I all too often forget. I hate people.

Don't get me wrong. Individuals, I like. Small groups, that's cool. No, I'm talking about mass humanity and all the things that come along with that. When we turned the corner to Decatur square, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. The "beach" on the square was probably the size of my living room and it was ... and I am not exaggerating... so thick with people that you couldn't see the sand. It was the most ridiculous sight I have ever seen. Except maybe for this thing I stumbled across this morning on one of my favorite blogs: http://www.pregnancystore.com/zaky.htm

After losing two hours of my life, $60 of my money, and almost all of my sanity, we finally went home. Mental note: Festivals suck, no matter what any of you say. And sand just makes them that much worse.

A Proud Mom Moment

My family is not obsessed with Indiana Jones...ok maybe just a little obsessed. But we're not completely gone. I mean, it's not like we still have Hal's old school Raiders of the Lost Ark sleeping bag, or the new Indiana Jones Life game, or incriminating photos of Hal dressed as his hero for Halloween. No, that would be taking things too far.

What's been funny to watch is that Brandon is about the same age now as Hal was when the first movie came out. And if any child ever looked like a carbon copy of his father, that would be my son. I promise, I did have some small part in the process of his DNA strand forming, but to look at him, you can't tell.

Anyway, point of this post? I'm getting there! Geesh, you people can be so impatient.
The point of this post is this...We are creating a monster. Apparently one who worships Satan.

My son recently discovered the second movie in the series, The Temple of Doom. (sidenote - save yourself the trouble of emailing me how this movie is too dark for a 9 year old - he had no problem with The Shining and The Exorcist, so this is a piece of cake) (second sidenote - if you didn't detect the sarcasm in the first sidenote and took me seriously, I feel really sorry for your kids when they become teenagers - irony....learn about it).

So, he's watching the movie - with his headphones on because mom is a little anal and likes her quiet every now and again - and from the other room I hear his little scratchy voice call out with passion, "Om nah shiva! Om nah shiva! Om nah shiva!"

I almost fell out of my chair because:
1. I didn't even know he was in the next room
and
2. He was chanting what the poor soul who is sacrificed in a pit of fire chants as he prays to his own devil god.

Good Parenting Lesson 101: Expose your children early and often to devil worship and you too could have sweet looking spawn who will repeat phrases like this in the most inoportune places, such as church or when on the phone to grandma.

Indiana Jones and The Last Garage Door

If any of you know my husband, you know that he loves (and when I say loves, read "has a tremendous man crush on") Indiana Jones. There are so many stories I could tell that testify to his devotion, but there are some things better left unsaid.

What I will tell you about is his little adventure yesterday which was inspired by Indy and which left Hannah and I laughing so hard that I really do think I pulled something.

On the way to Hannah's orientation, my cell phone rings. It's Hal, who is supposed to be following us in his own car. I answer and he says dryly, "Can you please turn around and come home now?" To which I of course ask, "Why?" His response? A cryptic, "You'll see."

So, I make the required U-Turn and head home expecting that maybe the Beast (our 1996 Honda Odyssey) has a flat tire or won't start...again. What I didn't expect to see was my husband with his nose pressed flat against the closed garage door and his foot trapped under it. The look on his face was at once priceless and pathetic as he just arched his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. He was so adorable and so absolutely helpless that I almost left him there just because I could. But, I believe in karma and I think I owe him one for the pantyhose incident of 1997, so I hit the garage remote and turn him loose.

After Hannah and I stopped hysterically heaving from laughter, he explained how he ended up in a lip lock with the garage. He tried to be all Harrison Ford and sneak out from under the closing door after hitting the button, but alas, he is not quite so suave as his 66 year old mentor. As he was no doubt hearing the John Williams music fill his ears, his keys fell out of his pocket. I wish I could have been there when he attempted to reach in with his foot to retreive said keys - I guess he didn't have his whip with him and he was trying to make do. Indy would be so proud.

Today is the Big Day

Well folks, it has finally arrived...Hannah's 6th grade orientation. Today, she will venture over into the "big side" of campus where she won't have to walk in lines between classes and ... big thrill...she can sit with whoever she wants to at lunch!

I'm cool with all of that. I think she's ready. It's me I'm not so sure about. I'm simply not old enough to have a daughter in, gulp...junior high. I REMEMBER junior high for Pete's sake! I had a fully formed internal life by that point and my parents knew nothing!

I had crushes, I loved music, I had drama with my friends, I had teachers who were out to get me, I knew things that my parents could only hope that I didn't. How did Father Time let things get this far this fast? Seriously, my 6th grade orientation was only a few years ago, right?

Time to face the music. I'm getting older. The wrinkles are marching forward just as steadily as the mortgage payments. The thing I can't get over is that I still feel like a kid myself on most days. Is that normal or do I have some sort of Peter Pan syndrome? Who knows. The one thing I'm sure of is that I have to attend this thing today. I'll go, but I won't like it. I at least hope that the session for parents is helpful. Hey, maybe they'll talk about what to do when your 11 year old is posessed by demons or how to not laugh when she gets her eyes literally hurt from rolling them so much.

Four Minutes? Are You Kidding?

First of all, get your mind out of the gutter. Hal's not even in town, so that's not what this post is referring to. I'll save that for a much longer post, no pun intended.

No, this post is about the ratio of mental to physical energy that I spend on things. I know, I know, I just used the word ratio. Don't worry, I won't stay on the dark side of mathematics for long. The universe will only allow me over here for so long anyway, so we're all safe from that fate.

Anyway, like I was saying...the ratio. Ok, stay with me for just a moment so that I can explain.

I actually like doing laundry. I like sorting, washing, drying and even folding. The part that I loathe with every fiber of my being is the putting away part. So, here's what I'll do. I'll lug a nice clean basket of clothes all the way up three flights of stairs and unpack the freshly folded clothes into neat piles onto my bed. Good start, right? At this point, without fail, one of my children calls to me with a desperate plea of some sort.

"Mom??!!! These socks feel all funny."

"Mooooommmmm!!! Brandon is holding my book over the toilet again!"

"Maaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmm??? There's something that smells really really bad in the basement and I think it's moving!"

Now, readers, I am usually pretty good at allowing my children to figure things out on their own, but I guess deep down I hate putting laundry away so much that part of me would rather referee, so I invariably end up with the socks, or the toilet book, or the smelly basement creature (you don't want to know) instead.

Well, at that point, other things come into play and before I know it, I've forgotten all about my half finished chore....until bedtime. There are few things worse than walking up to my room at the end of a long day only to see piles of underwear and towels covering my place of rest. An unflushed toilet is one of those things, but again, that's for another post.

Here's where I lose all rationale. I am tired. I hate putting laudry away. I am angry with myself for not finishing earlier. So, like the logical person that I am, I toss the clothes back into the laundry basket and decide to do them in the morning when I am fresh. Can you guess what happens? For the next several DAYS, every time I walk into my bedroom, I see this pile of failure staring at me. I occassionally dig through it as I run out of clean things to wear, so that by the third of fourth day of this, nothing is still folded, let alone in neat stacks.

So, back to the ratio. Up to this point, I have spent the better part of four days dreading this chore. I now have to refold the dang clothes AND put them away. This time, I try a little experiment. After placing the clothes on the bed, I actually put them away - and I time myself just to see how long this arduous process takes me.

You know what I found out? Putting away a FULL basket of clothes takes me less than four minutes. It takes me longer to dig through the unfolded laundry to find clean underwear!!!! I am totally jazzed by the possiblilites. What kinds of mental feats will I be capable of if I extend this discovery to other realms of my life?

Mopping the floor?

Cleaning a toilet?

Writing that thank you note?

Seriously, I might be able to comprehend quantum physics or even my bank statements if I actually did the things I was avoiding rather than simply obsess over them. The world is my oyster! All because of a load of laundry. Who knew?

Bridal Magazines. Seriously?

The other day at the bookstore (actually the same day that I encountered Mr. Tumnus) I had the misfortune of sitting next to two college girls who were thumbing through a three foot tall stack of bridal magazines.

Mind you, neither one of them had an engagement ring on and based on the loud and annoying conversation I overheard, neither one of them were even dating.

There they sat, misty eyed over $1000 dresses and china patterns all gushy about how one day, they would have the perfect wedding - as if that had any impact on the type of marriage that would follow. I wanted to walk over to them and say with a syruppy smile on my face, "You'd be better off spending that $1000 on marriage counseling. That's what you'll really need. Almost 60% of first marriages end in divorce, you know. Have a great day!"

Now, before you get the wrong idea, I'm not really a mean person. I just have really mean thoughts. I ususally talk myself out of them soon enough, and in fact, that's what I did while I sat there and thought about my reaction to Barbie and Muffy.

Once I thought about them for a while and put myself in their flip flops, I realized something. They weren't that much different than me - just younger. And more tan. All they want is a little hope. A little happiness. Ok, so they are looking at unrealistic scenes of marital bliss and thinking that if they buy the perfect dress, then the perfect guy will pop out of the woodwork as well. Yeah - it's ridiculous and shallow. But don't I do the same thing? Only I don't look at Bridal porn, I drool over West Elm and Pottery Barn catalogs. I see the outdoor parties with the perfectly color coordinated table settings and outdoor paper lanterns but what I'm really hoping for is a set of beautiful friends like the ones adorning the pages of these catalogs.

When I see the casual yet organized family room spread peppered with the sandy colored haired surfer kids smiling broadly, doesn't a small part of me actually believe that a cherry colored media center with labeled bins will get this for me? You'd better believe it.

So maybe I should lay off of the sorority set and realize that I'm just as bad, if not worse. I should know better. I have lived long enough to know that no amount of stuff can bring you happiness. Just like a dress won't bring the perfect man (because, news flash - he doesn't exist), a coordinated room of Pottery Barn furniture won't bring a perfect set of friends and a perfectly organized house. But to be fair, I think I should give it a try....just for the sake of investigative journalism.