One Big Eye Roll

Dear Laney,

Yesterday, while I went to an appointment with a real doctor, your dad took you to lunch at Wheat Montana:

Mom: How was it?

Dad: I did not have a good time.

Mom: Why not?

Dad: Because there was this table of old ladies that kept staring at us like I was doing everything wrong.

Mom: That's weird. Well, what did Laney have for lunch?

Dad: A grilled cheese...and a pickle...and a strawberry smoothie...and some chips...and a bite of my sandwich.

Mom: Maybe that's why they were staring.

From The Genius Who Brought You "Buckethead"

Dear Laney,

Your dad has a knack for inventing new games for the two of you to play. His latest masterpiece?

"Fencing."

I don't know all the rules, but Fencing seems to involve the two of you wearing my mesh colanders on your heads and poking each other.

Then, like all great warriors, you have to hit the kitchen for a smoothie break.

Love,

Mom

A Change Of Heart

I do not like this thing called "snow."

I do not like it, don't you know?

It's no fun - I know - I've tried,

To barrel down an icy slide.

I do not want it on my ball.

I do not want it here at all.

I don’t like sweaters, socks or shoes

I’ve got the "I Hate Winter" blues.

Because Tattling Is Wrong.

Dear Laney,

Today, you and I went into town and had a great time at the library. You're moving so quickly these days that I can't take my eyes off you for a second. In the time it takes me to reshelve a book in the 747s (Remodeling), you're already two rows over in the 641s (Gardening and Canning).

In the Children's section, we met a little boy who wanted to read you a book about the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, which you thought was pretty cool. In fact, you thought it was so cool that you kept patting the boy until I think he started to suspect that you weren't right in the head. I wanted to explain to his mother that we live out in the boonies and never see other people, but I didn't want her to think that I'm the crazy one.

Because we both know it's really your dad.

Then, we went to the Children's Museum. Because tattling is a really terrible habit, I will just say this: When it was time to leave, ONE of us protested by screaming, then throwing herself in the middle of the Museum's entryway and banging her head on the ground in the middle of a big crowd of people waiting to enter. And then She-who-will-not-be-named was picked up by her mama, who put on a big fake smile and said "I'm so sorry you feel that way," because that sounds so much nicer than hollering, "MOVE ALONG! THERE'S NOTHING TO SEE HERE, PEOPLE!"

But I wouldn't want to name names.

Love,

Mom

If You Wonder What We Do All Day...

Dear Laney,

Something like you trying to put on my bra can kill a good thirty minutes of our afternoon. I happened to catch the start of this sequence with my camera, and I thought it was a hoot.

For any of our male relations who might be uncomfortable with seeing my undergarment in action, you will at least enjoy the soundtrack to this reel: "Who Put The Turtle In Myrtle's Girdle," as recorded by Sid King and the Five Strings in 1954. Ah, the good ol' days.

Love,

Mom

You Put Your Right Foot In. You Put Your Right Foot Out.

Send In The Antidote, Stat.

Dear Laney,

Anyone who thinks I haven't been updating the blog enough lately can hush. Hush, I say. Because here's what's been happening at our house:

After briefly visiting two day care facilities last week, you came down with a cold. Previous to this, you had not been sick a day in your life. Not so much as a sniffle. "She's a mighty fortress!," I would brag, "Just like her mama!" Seriously, I am (almost) never sick. I last took a sick day from work in the year 2000, and that was because I was working in Maine in the winter and it depressed me so much I took to my bed.

But I now realize that's it's probably less a vibrant immune system than the fact that you and I basically live in quarantine out in the boonies that has kept you so healthy. Like the Native Americans circa 1500, we were sitting ducks for smallpox. Or in this case, the common cold.

First, you came down with it, and it was awful. You had a runny nose, but you wouldn't let us pry your pacifier away, so it was a constant effort to keep your nose area goo-free. Then, you developed a cough that reminded me of the old Westerns where Doc would say "Ain't nothin' we can do - she's got the consumption."

Then, I had what I'm going to call "a weird skin thing" happen (because to detail it would completely skeeve out all of our readers who aren't nurses), and it compromised my immunity and I got the damn cold, too. So you and I have been locked in a house together for days: angry, congested, ornery and infected.

We take Tylenol on the same schedule. I take deep cleansing breaths. You throw forks at me.

I think the fact that we haven't killed each other yet bodes well for your teen years.

Love,

Mom

ADDENDUM:

FOR NURSES / HARD CORE READERS / FANS OF DERMATOLOGICAL HUMOR ONLY:

So I had a cyst on my back. Completely benign. I usually forgot it was there. Then Monday, it ruptured. Got big and red and hot and infected and it hurt to move. So this morning, I went to the walk-in clinic conveniently located in the mall so I could get some antibiotics, return a scarf to The Gap, and be on my merry way. Instead, I spun the wheel and ended up with a doctor who perhaps completed medical school by taking some online courses in between keg stands.

You know how in every romantic comedy that involves the star couple having a baby, they go to the hospital to discover that their normal doctor is out of town, but don't worry! We've got this kooky character actor and hilarity will ensue! Yeah, this was that guy.

Here's an excerpt from our appointment:

Brooke: It's hot and red and I have a fever and I'm exhausted, so I assume it's an infection.

Doctor: Well, I don't think so. If it were infected, it would be warm to the touch. And red.

Brooke: Rolls eyes. Secretly suspects her selective-hearing boss is playing the role of the doctor.

Doctor: Let me draw you a picture of what we're looking at. Gets out pad of paper. Draws a circle the size of a nickel. Crosses it out. Draws your standard extra-large egg. Scribbles it out. Finally splits the difference and settles on a circle the size of a quarter. So, you've got two choices. You can do nothing, or we can cut it out.

Brooke: Looks around the room, remembers that she is in a walk-in clinic AT THE MALL with a guy who may or may not be licensed to practice medicine outside of Panama. I think I'm going to opt to do nothing for now, and see my regular physician as soon as possible.

Doctor: Audibly sighs with relief. Yeah, I have like a 30% failure rate with this kind of thing.

Brooke: Really? It doesn't seem like it'd be difficult - like removing a conjoined twin or something...

Doctor: Shakes head, indicating that's EXACTLY how difficult it is. Well, if you change your mind, you can always come back. My assistant loves to help out with surgical things like that.

Brooke: Around 70% of the time, right?

Doctor: Laughs - you got me! Right.