My Epiphany

I had an epiphany the other day.

No! Really! STOP LAUGHING!!

Allow me to explain.

I was at the store on Saturday, picking up a gift for a birthday party that Drew was to attend that afternoon. I had the incredible twosome in tow and I had foisted Drew off on his unsuspecting father as I refuse to take Drew to pick out gifts for his friends' birthdays any longer. This is because every single time Drew devolves into the the little boy who has no toys and why won't I buy these twelve things for him?!?! So, yes, he is not allowed to accompany me on gift acquisitions any longer. Plus, I needed to pick up a few groceries to make it through the week. Toy + food = trip to Wal-mart. Problem with a trip to Wal-mart for anyone with more than one toddler? Their double seated baskets are abominations. They are wobbly devices of failure marked by severed seat-belts or half hanging belts or simply NONE AT ALL. Simply stated, they are supreme pinnacles of suckiness. Evidence of the last time I tried to use a double seated basket and the desperate measures I was driven to are depicted below:

Note the red string that I had to devise into a Savannah security device so I might finish the last twenty minutes of shopping without chasing toddlers running in two opposing directions. Wal-mart, if you are listening, when I only have food to buy, I go to CITY MARKET with their adorable car carts with working seat-belts.

Anyway, it's a Saturday and I have no hope of getting the stinky double-seated cart so I plop Savannah into the basket and Abby into the front and away we go. It is after eleven and creeping up to noon. I placated the natives with handfuls of mini-muffins while I scurried around the store, obtaining the items on my meager list. I was close to the conclusion when rebellion struck again and I picked up a cup of the chicken nuggets that they sell in heated shelving the front of the registers.

"Chicken?" I said, waving the tantalizing cup of pulverized chicken pieces that are then mashed into a small ball for an appetizing appearance.

"CHICKEN!!" They both clapped their hands in glee and began the process of shoving it in their mouths as fast as humanly possible. For Savannah, this means her hands are a mere blur between cup and mouth.

I grab a bag of apples and to the checkout line we go! We are actually eligible for the express line and I move behind a woman who immediately has several questions about her coupons and the resulting prices.

I look down. Savannah has that red cheeked, slightly panicked look she gets when she's gagging on the obscene amount of food she's put in her mouth. I start patting her on the the back and realize that she's going to puke all over the groceries and possibly Chase's present. With no other alternative available, I put my hand under her mouth and say, "It's okay. Spit it out."

With those words, she gags, coughs, and deposits a slimy handful of chicken pieces, blueberry muffin, and juice into my hand. She reached around me, grabbed her cup, and downed some more juice, paying no mind to the grossness that is now my hand. I looked at her clothes. Clean. I looked at the basket of groceries. Clean.

And THEN I cleaned my hand of the disgustingness Savannah had given me.

Here was my epiphany. Parenthood has forever changed me. I willingly let her throw up in my hand and checked for external mess before I cleaned myself up.

I would blame this on my abnormality but I have a sneaking suspicion that some of you out there have done this, too. This is the other reason I buy wet wipes in bulk.

Apologies - Toddler-Style

I have blocked out (I think my mom has, too) the joys of sibling conflict and up until the last year or so, we hadn't had any overt fighting. As a plus, the girls hadn't really figured out how to tell on their big brother and he was riding that horse as long as possible. So, there was limited fussing, screaming, and bloodshed.

Until now.

Abby has decided to finally declare her dominance. I say this, since she actually was Baby Number One although if I waited a little longer and had a natural birth, I'm not sure if Savannah would have shoved her aside in order to lead the way down my birth canal.

Anyway...

Up until now, Savannah has been the dominant twin. She initiates games, instructs Abby in their playing, and has outgrown her sister by a good inch and a half. Her verbal development helped in this household takeover, particularly when she deduced that yelling Brother's name and crying would expedite the justice system also known as MOM. She was also more physically aggressive and was my little shover when deprived of something she wanted, deemed was hers, and so on.

(in case you aren't familiar with Toddler Rules)





Abby was more flexible, understanding, willing to give....until recently. I don't know what happened. This is my assumption.

The scene - The girls' bedroom. Savannah is still stretched out unconcious since she was up half the night, terrorizing Mommy. Abby stirs, rolls over, and begins a conversation with Baby Doll.

Abby: So, what should we do today?
Baby Doll: Let's play with every single toy you own, strewing them across the house.
Abby: That sounds fun!! Wait...
Baby Doll: What? Your mom LOVES to pick them up at naptime and as a bonus, we can hide your milk cup under the couch until it curdles.
Abby: Savannah will want to play with them, too.
Baby Doll: When are you going to start shoving her back? She's always taking your toys away, even when she had them first. (See Rule #1)

Abby: I know!
Baby Doll: You know what you should do?
Abby: What?
Baby Doll: You should develop a eye-piercing, dog communication, sonic level scream to tell on her.
Abby: OOOOOHHHH. Good idea!
Baby Doll: And you should start pushing FIRST. You are the first baby. You should initiate the fights and then cry when your mom comes in.
Abby: (Rubbing her little chubby hands together) She'll never even know what hit her.

From that morning forward, Abby honed her scream of dissatisfaction/tattling and never hesitated to shove Savannah, even when Savannah just wandered in the room in the peak of Abby's displeasure.

This led to apologies, toddler-style. This involves my saying, "You say sorry to your sister right now!" and the culprit will run up to her sister and hug her, saying, "sorry". This sweet Hallmark moment will last until one sister shoves the other off since lovey-dovey time is over and it's time to get back to playing. Should  the shove be too hard, the pushed sister will inevitably skid backwards across the floor on her tookus, screaming and crying until Newton's Law of Motion is concluded.

Cycle repeats until there are time-outs all round. Even for Mom.

The sound of happy is never quiet

I made enough confessions for this month with my admittance of possible insanity. (I said, "possible", not "probable", Amberly!) However, this statement is probably true of every person in existence. I LOVE a good deal. Craig's List - you are my friend even with the crazy serial killer putting a damper the seeking of bargains. E-bay - I was addicted to you before Drew was even a twinkle in Numero Uno's eyes. Amazon - I loved you before my Kindle Fire but that just cemented our relationship of dealer to addict. All of these things are beautiful things. HOWEVER, a garage sale is just plain fun due to the surprise factor.

The surprise factor? The surprise factor. Garage sales are piles of stuff someone is trying to make a quick buck off of prior to piling it on the curb for Monday's garbage pickup or industriously dropping it off at Goodwill. This leads to a very small tinge of either desperation to be done with it or a pure lack of caring about the items in question. Anyway, they are like little stores to peruse through, seeking whatever your heart desires.

Drew's heart desires LOTS of things as evidence by the minimum ten item requests I hear each day, normally following a commercial break in Sonic the Hedgehog or a trip to a friend's house. On Saturday, Drew came back from riding around with his friends to shake the Mommy money tree. This tree is never blanketed with crisp bills but suffers from whatever disease the tree Charlie Brown had for his Christmas festivities and as a result has a few crumpled bills sometimes and an assortment of change more often than that. However, in youth hope springs eternal and Drew never fails to ask, assuming and hoping that Mom might, maybe, buy that thing/game/toy/junk for him. The house next door to his friend, Logan, was running a garage sale and he wanted to help his friend Ally buy this cool thing with dolphins on it. He really only got to the part about the garage sale and my shoes were on, the girls were deposited in Numero Uno's office with him, and I was out the door after lightening N.U.'s wallet a bit. (You don't want him to have back problems, do you?!)

Down the street we went and if I had more than eight dollars and change with me, I might have been tempted to buy the matching scooters for the girls ten years down the road but alas, I had not and frankly, they need not. They're pretty fast right now. I don't think I need to aid and abet that. 

The sale was a mix of big items and had I needed new washers and dryers, I would have looked more closely but I stuck to the smaller stuff. A few pairs of jammies for girls, the dolphin thingy which turned out to be a glittery candleholder, and in the corner next to the Wii listed for $50, a stack of boardgames. In the mix, Hungry Hungry Hippos. I lifted it out of the stack. I said, "Drew! This game is fun. What do you think?" I forked over the dollar for it. I then brought it home, forgetting one crucial fact....

Hungry, Hungry Hippos is the loudest board game in the world.  Nay, I would say it is the loudest game without batteries in EXISTENCE.

When Drew and the girls (oh, they've been sucked in, too) are playing this game at the kitchen table, the sound bounces off the walls from the kitchen to the living room to the hallway and it is impossible to carry on a conversation in a normal voice with anyone. And they want to play it for HOURS and HOURS and HOURS. When I finally put it up at bedtime, Savannah weeps piteously, clutching my feet, "My hippos! My hippos! MY HIPPOOOOOOSSSSSSS!" (Abby just yells at me and runs for Dad. Surely, he can stop me.)

Then there are moments like this...

and I find I don't mind that noisy game at all. 

Houston! We have a problem!

I am, admittedly, freaking out a little bit. I have become much calmer in my old age and less prone to overly dramatic fits (except about vacuuming. HUGE fits about vacuuming.). As a result of senile decline and the forced patience that teaching hormonally unbalanced teenagers has wrought upon me, I do not lose my cool easily. At least in front of others....HOWEVER, today, I am rattled and rattled with a vengeance.

The disturbance in my force began when Drew came home from school today. No, he's not the disturbance (at least, not today)! However, the first run-on sentence out of his mouth was.

Drew: Mom, I wanna go to Ally's house and she gave me her address and its reeeaaaalllllllllyyyyy close so can I go over there?
Me: Um, what?

I was arm deep in making soup and rolling out the rolls for dinner and sometimes, only sometimes, I don't multitask so well and thus cannot be distracted unless we want to eat burned soup. I said, ONLY SOMETIMES! You people laughing right now, ooooooohhhhh! Knock it off!

Anyway...

Drew: Can...I....go...to....Ally's.....house? (He's resorted to the slow and measured speech we use when Mommy's IQ has plunged again.)
Me: Who....is.....Ally?
Drew: Moooommmm! (Evidently this style of speech is only acceptable for him to use on his nonfunctional parents.)
Me: Okay! Sorry! Who is Ally?
Drew: She's in my class.
Me: Where's the paper with her address?
Drew: (Hands me a ragged edge of fuchsia paper with second grade style printed numbers cramped into the triangle.) Here!
Me: Okkkaaayy. Um, I see a phone number. Where's the address?
Drew: MOOOOMMMMM! She lives on Jack Creek Road! (Because the scribbled numbers accompanied with the hieroglyphics were supposed to make sense)
Me: Did she invite anyone else?
Drew: Nope. Just me.
Me: (slowly as the parental warning/paranoia alarm in my brain begins to wail) Just you?
Drew: (nonchalantly) Yep. Just me.
Me: Do you play with her at recess?
Drew: (the cool of only the young oozing from him) I play with LOTS of people. But, MOM, she really wants me to come over.

Mini-siren has escalated into a full blown tornado siren, designed for towns with populaces of 300,000. I'm looking at this slip of pink paper with the kind of horror reserved for small nonvenomous snakes slithering under the door or showing up in class via a student's backpack. (Ask not as BOTH have happened to me.) He's SEVEN! Seeeevvvvveeeeennnnnn. Aren't we a little young (I mostly mean me by this statement) to have to start worrying about the girls throwing themselves at him?

Brandon is snickering. No. Laughing outright at my changing tones and disappears into the den to watch television, leaving me alone with the madness. (Silly Gaylene! Let him buy a television for his man-cave and be surprised when I catch him chatting up contractors for mini-bathrooms installable in closets.)

Me: Well, I'll call her mom and see if she can come over later?
Drew: But I wanted to go to her house.
Me: (Clamping down on the siren and the yet unleashed Gaylene crazy) She can come over here first for a playdate, (voice drops to a mutter) a supervised playdate.

I'm sure it's completely innocent. I'm sure she's a lovely girl and I'll just adore her. However, I cannot blot out of my eyes the moment when I entered Drew's room six months ago and his unnamed friend convinced him to strip so they could play in their make-shift fort naked 'cause it was sooooo hot. (It was 77 in the house, people and Drew's room was on the cool side of the house.) Innocent. Probably. Weird. Definitely. Desire to ever have repeated. Negative four billion and seven.

Later, Drew informed me that CHASE, his friend who also lives near us, goes over and plays with Ally all the time.

Evidently, Mom is overreacting. Good thing that happens so infrequently.

(Do not even breathe the word "zombies".)

An Alternate Plan to Daily (Almost) Tardiness

For those of you who know my son, or have read some of my other posts, I have a loving nickname for my son whenever we are on a schedule or are in a hurry or need to be somewhere before I turn sixty-five - Master Procraster. He is, undoubtedly, the creme de la creme when the sweet tune is delay. In light of this 'talent', there have been several days in the last two weeks when Drew was in serious danger of being flung into the car and chauffered to school in either his pajamas or his skivvies. Now, since he's become a touch shy, he seems loath to show his IronMan underpants to his classmates which leads to screaming from his bedroom, "WAAAAIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTT! DOOOONNNNNNTTTTTTT GOOOOOOOOOO!" after I have already strapped in the twincesses, opened the garage, and started the car while he shoving his little wiry body into his clothes at roughly the speed of light. These repeated incidents have led to the following conversation...

Me: Drew, if I don't make it to school in the next four minutes, you are going to be late AGAIN!!
Drew: (silence)
Me: Drew, we cannot keep doing this. Everyday, we are running out the door in an effort to get you to school on time.
Drew: (more silence.)

I look back to make sure he is still conscious since these thirty seconds of quiet are the longest he's offered since he cracked his eyelids this morning. Nope, not rolling his eyes, either. Then the girls start kicking my chair in unison, he busts out laughing, and I realize he's been quietly showing them HOW to kick my seats. You people wonder why I'm paranoid about silence when the kids are up. It's not paranoia. It's survivalist instincts kicking in. That, and a fear of another potty incident (See previous post).

Me: DREW!
Drew: Yeah? (I swear he winked at me!)
Me: We need a plan. We need a better way to do this. Do you have an idea to help us get you to school on time? What can we do that will help you get ready more quickly?
Drew: (Face scrunched up in heavy thought.) We could skip breakfast.

Sidenote: Drew, little boy light of my life, has ADHD and takes medication each morning. For you non-medication peeps out there, you should know that last year when he was first diagnosed and NOT medicated, he was failing his classes (Yes, you can fail first grade! Sheesh, people!) and HATED school to the point he would cry every morning because he dreaded it so and his self-esteem had plunged lower than the wads of tissue that Abby keeps sticking in the toilet. We decided to try some medication because no six year old should hate school and we didn't want him to be that hulking eight year old still trying to get out of first grade. AFTER the medication began to kick in, we saw a whole other Drew and this Drew could focus on his work (Straight A's by the end of the year!), his social skills improved, and I didn't have to tie him to that giant hamster wheel in the backyard everyday just to tire him out enough for bed. There was a downside. There's always a downside, which in a perfect world, would not exist. Chocolate cake would be calorie-free, children would always sleep in on the weekend, and I wouldn't be a Muggle. I digress. The downside was that it completely surpressed his appetite during the day so he wasn't really eating lunch. He would nibble at his snack but per the pediatrician's advice, we packed that boy like a turkey morning and night when he actually was hungry which in the evening always seemed to coincide with bedtime. Surely just coincidence...

Well, we got to Colorado and Drew hit a growth spurt but between the medication and his anxiety, he actually lost weight and when you only weigh fifty pounds to start with, that's something of a problem. So, Dr. Rosling informed Numero Uno and I that we must FEED the boy and see weight gain or take him off the meds and we both vividly remember his educational sadness pre-meds last year. He does, too and will remind me if I'm not forthcoming with the cookie/ice cream/junk in general if he wants it. "Do you want me to lose weight, MOM??" As a result, we are back to stuffing him whenever we can which means morning and night. On top of breakfast, he gets a calorie-packed smoothie concoction that he claims he likes. I know I would - chocolate protein powder, vanilla yogurt, peanut butter, whole milk... What's the problem here???? The problem is he takes AN HOUR to eat his breakfast and drink his smoothie and frequently, we've ended up in the car on the way to school and I have to spit-clean off his face from the chocolate smoothie that's still on there since he only finished drinking it thirty-seven seconds before we left.

Obviously, skipping breakfast - NOT AN OPTION!!!

Me: Nope. You know you can't.
Drew: (sags back against the seat, hope gone before a little lightbulb explodes over his blond head) I could not go to school..(Eyes bright with anticipation. Mom's gone a little crazy before and done the unexpected. This could be Time 4,378? No?)
Me: NO. Not an option. You need to have breakfast and you need to go to school.
(Silence from the peanut gallery except for the giggles of the foot thumpers.)
Me: How about if I wake you up at seven instead of 7:30?
Drew: How about if I get up at FIVE?
Me: I will send you back to bed.
Drew: How about SIX?
Me: Still going back to bed. Six is when Mommy is getting things ready for you guys before you wake up. How about seven?
Drew:  Okay...but if I wake up super early, I won't be able to go back to sleep.
(Riiiiiigggghhhhhttttt. Cause we haven't had to literally drag him from beneath the covers lately. Only every single morning....)
Me: Okay.

By this point, we are arriving at the school. I check the face for little boy debris, demand a kiss, offer words of encouragement, and tell him to get the heck to class. He gives me a big smile before the hustle begins and the estrogen nation pulls away from the curb. Plan in place, we go home to start our day since every single girl in the family is still ...

wearing pajamas.

Quietly praying that the principal won't wave me down for a quick impromptu conference. This ugly gray bathrobe I hijacked from Numero Uno will not add to my street cred at all. That's if I have any here. Does Colorado have street cred? Something to Google later in the quiet of nap time.

Mommy is neurotic...

Okay. Confession time. I have a little imagination problem. Not like I have imaginary friends pop out of closets to help me cook and clean with little mice who are better clad than I am, but things that go bump in the night imagination problem. This extends to all things creepy, scary, or terrifying in general. I learned long ago that if I want to sleep at all without cradling a firearm, I cannot watch television and/or movies that include those things PARTICULARLY since I married a man who works all kinds of crazy shift hours and interacts with or arrests more crazy people every time he goes to work. So between the scaries he sees and tells me about and the scaries my psychotic little brain concocts, I've learned that Disney movies or Pixar movies are the way to go when I need to unplug the crazy cycle.

Sidenote: Brandon mocked me for watching the Muppet movie the other night, but every time I laughed at something, he'd wanna see what it was and then I had to rewind it and then he'd laugh, too. At this point, he'd make some kind of commentary on my maturity and disappear back into his den. I know. Hypocrite!

I recently broke my rule about scary content for television. I have friends (I know! Who'd have thunk?) and Brandon has friends (Do you need to lie down? I know this is big news.) who are addicted to this show, "The Walking Dead". Now, for those of you who have no clue of what I speak or are simply smart enough not to feed the crazies in your brain, "The Walking Dead" is a show in which some viral epidemic has come along and crushed humanity by killing millions of people. But, these dead people won't stay inanimate dead. They insist on coming back to life and searching for raw flesh to feed their undead hunger AND if you get bitten by one of these zombies, you turn into a zombie, too. So, this show is terrifying. Like, 'shrieking multiple times every show, hiding your face in the pillow, running from the room until the scary part is over' terrifying. For me. People keep getting eaten or bitten and they come in these huge freaking hordes of gaping mouths and teeth to eat everything with pumping blood they can find. I cannot sleep well after watching ONE episode cause I lay in bed, planning how I would get the kids to safety (Brandon is either helping me or on his own. Sorry, sweetie.) if a zombie herd showed up or even one zombie broke in. I very conscientiously shut the blinds each night to keep the zombies from seeing the yummyness that is my family.

No, I'm not crazy. My mother had me tested.

Well, not really. But, she's really smart and I'm sure that she'll back up my non-crazy stance. Right, Mom? Mom? MOM????

Zombies must have got her or she would totally support me.

Anyway, I'm sure most of you are asking, "Seriously, Gaylene? Why are you watching this show if it is doing this to you? Don't you have other things to do...or watch? I hear 'The Lorax' is good. Or something for people who are more, er, delicate?"

It started out as a show Brandon and I could watch together. He likes television A LOT but many of the shows he wants to watch, I don't want to watch (I'm going to forgo the vampire porn) and I'd have to duct tape him to the couch to get him to watch most of the shows I like because evidently 'Glee' is just not manly enough for him. Anyways, we could watch this show together BUT I've come to the conclusion that he really just likes hearing me shriek at the television and then at him as he keeps jumping out at me from dark corners after we've watched an episode. If he does it again....let's just say there will be permanent marker involved and since he's starting shaving his head, he's providing me a nice, clean surface to work with.

Anyway, we're all caught up on the show. We only started watching it a couple of months ago and we saw the Season 2 final last week. I'm totally over my two day sleep deprivation cycle UNTIL...

Tonight, SOMEONE (or something) knocked on my door after dark. My door is big and wooden and should zombies show up, it should hold them for a little bit, but it has no windows so I cannot see who bids me come to the darkened doorway. I called out, "Who is it?" only four or five times but to no avail. Now, I spent the last five years in New Orleans with the highest murder rate in the nation, married to a cop (which New Orleans residents frequently despise even if said police are not arresting people near and dear to those residents), living actually in a district in New Orleans where my hubby's unmarked or marked take-home resided in the front so EVERYONE knew a cop lived there. I'm a little careful. Okay, a lot careful. So, if you can't tell me who you are in the dark, I'm not opening the door. In fact, I'm holding the shotgun, wondering if you are actually a criminal currently looking for another entrance and all of my neurotic craziness, recently stirred to the forefront by the faux zombie apocalypse, causes me to check every window and door and stay awake until I fall asleep on the couch, shotgun by my side or Brandon comes home and I can hand the home protection mantle to him.

Unless it's zombies. In which case, Plans A-C are ready for implementation and Mom, we're coming to your house. Make sure you have cake.

Helping Mommy...

Today, my sweet girls have been trying to help me with the housework. This includes eating goldfish off the floor before I can snatch them up (saving sweeping) and wiping all toddler high surfaces clean with what used to be a clean washcloth. Now, at the conclusion of our morning chores, I sat down to fold a couple of loads of laundry on the couch. Eager to help, over they came! Folding clothes quickly segued into throwing clothes on the floor (All the better to watch Mommy pick them up again, my dear.) and then morphed into "What can I wear that is NOT mine?"

We begin with manly clothes...

Savannah then ran around, saying in her loud (as I was told by Brandon when he got up today) little voice, "This a dress! This a dress! I a princess!!" Abby ran behind her gesticulating to her red "gown" which led to.....

And as I found out, princesses tend to be a little too busy with their house domination to "help" Mommy with the laundry anymore.

Reverse Psychology 101

Everyone who knows me knows that I am a HAIR on the obstinate side. A tiny, minuscule bit stubborn unlike my husband who could make mules cave in a war of the wills. As a result of these two gene pools combining, our children are the most pig-headed, strong-willed little people I've ever run across and so sometimes, in order to accomplish things for the good of the family and for them individually, they require finessing. I don't mean lying (outright, anyway) but approaching things from a different angle such as making them think that doing that particular task was their idea or even that they wanted to do it. What do you mean "mental manipulation"? I would never...I can't even finish that sentence without laughing. You call it manipulation. I call it parental finesse.

Today is Labor Day (Happy non-laboring to everyone!) and a few days ago, when Husband Numero Uno realized that he would be off today and Drew was out of school, he suggested that he and Drew have a fun day together going to this amusement park, Bananas, nearby. Obviously, I was concerned because who names an entertainment complex Bananas? This could tie in to Numero Uno's recent traumatic dream in which he was chased across the planet by intellectually advanced monkey who wanted only to capture Numero Uno as one of the last free humans. Don't worry. I asked what he ate before bed that night, too. Interestingly, it was not bananas.

Anyway, this park has bumper boats, go-kart racing, miniature golf, a bounce playground, an arcade, laser tag and more. Perfect outing for the testosterone of the house, right?

So in preparation for this adventure, on Saturday, Brandon told Drew of this exciting plan.

Brandon: Drew!
Drew: (came running into the den) Yeah?
Brandon: Do you have school on Monday?
Drew: (whirring sound as wheels are turning to remember what exactly the teacher had said) No! There's no school on Monday. Mrs. Green said!
Brandon: Well, I'm off work, too. How would you like to go to this fun park called Bananas with me on Monday?
Drew: Naw. I wanna go to Chucky Cheese.

If you are a parent who still retains most of your synapses, going to Chucky Cheese on a weekend or a holiday ranks right up with getting a root canal sans numbing agents and being trapped in the Black Friday masses who are attempting the ten pound sausage squeeze into a five pound skin when the doors open at Wal-Mar. Brandon's most memorable quote comes to mind. "I'd rather drink kerosene and piss on a brush fire." Crude, succinct, and accurate.

Brandon: Well, I don't want to go to Chucky Cheese. Let's try Bananas.
Drew: I..want...to...go..to...Chucky Cheese. (He dragged each word out in his effort to make dear old senile Dad understand exactly what he was saying.)
Brandon: Drew! We're NOT going to Chucky Cheese!
Drew: FINE!! (Exit stage right with foot stamping, dirty looks cast over the shoulder, and inaudible muttering)

Brandon then began to consider the hours of training he'd had in investigative units where he would convince a suspect or witness to talk to him and tell him what he needed to hear. It was time for some finesse.

Set the scene. Computer on, internet up, Bananas homepage on the screen.

Brandon: Drew!
Drew: (A little slower response this time and arrival is tinged with sulky footsteps.) What?
Brandon: (He leaned over the desk, intently staring at the computer monitor, scrolling slowly up and down over the various attractions. Half a glance at Drew.) Could you get me some water, buddy?
Drew: Yeah.....Hey? What's that?
Brandon: (Feigned a surprised glance to see Drew still standing there and now peering intently over his shoulder at the website.) Ooooohhhh. You mean, this? (He casually gestured at the screen.)
Drew: Yeah.
Brandon: Oh, this is Bananas.
Drew: Wow! That's really cool! They have bumper boats! Could I drive one?
Brandon: Well...
Drew: What's that?
Brandon: A laser maze.
Drew: That looks so cool.
Brandon: Well, let's see what else they have.

Several minutes are spent perusing the various attractions.

Drew: We should TOTALLY go here. You said we can go on Monday?
Brandon: Nah. I think we should go to Chucky Cheese.
Drew: NO! I want to go to Bananas!
Brandon: Well, you said Chucky Cheese first so that's where we are going to go, okay?
Drew: NOOOOOOO!!! I changed my mind! Bananas is way cooler!
Brandon: I don't know, Drew.
Drew: (He's developed this intense stare that he's fixed on Brandon - half-desperation and half-persuasion) I really want to go to Bananas. It will be soooooo fun, Dad.
Brandon: (Big sigh in resignation) If you really want to, I guess we can go.

Drew came scrambling out to announce his persuasion of Dad to me and behind him, I catch Brandon smirking at the computer as he opens up his fantasy football league page, wiping that tell-tale smile off just as Drew goes running back into the den.

They left at around eleven this morning, Drew euphoric with his friend, Chase, along for the ride and as Brandon closed the garage door, he dropped me a conspiratorial wink. Partners in persuasion but masters in finesse. 

Daddy! Get the Mail!

Recently, I have discovered that Brandon, bastion of law enforcement, has a fatal flaw. This flaw will hinder him the remainder of his life in his efforts to fight crime and gather our mail. You, gentle reader, will discover this flaw as I spin you a tale of frustration, promises unfulfilled, and unexplained occurrences.

About a month ago, Grandma came to visit our new Colorado home. She, being Grandma, brought a host of small toys designed to entertain the ankle biters for a few glorious moments. Among these toys was a glow stick and a watch that flashed multiple colors across its face. Drew was smitten by these things to the point, that he wore that watch more than Grandma when actually the watch belonged to her. When Grandma left, she promised Drew that she would send him more glow sticks and some other fun things in the mail.

A couple of weeks later, the day of glory (school starting) arrived. The before promised package had not arrived but Drew had pretty much forgotten about it unless prodded to memory by either Grandma or his father. Grandma asked Dad multiple times if the package had arrived and the responses were always negative....until tonight.

The scene: The whole family is lounging like rock stars across our bed if you can call it lounging as I am smushed by two toddlers jumping up and down upon my stomach, shrieking, "Giddyup!!" repeatedly. Drew and Brandon are attempting to pummel each other and are rolling around, endangering the very estrogen existence of the house.

Brandon: Man! I wonder what happened to that package my mom sent. She keeps asking me about it.
Me: How did she send it? UPS? FedEx?
Brandon: UPS.
Me: Did she get a tracking number or some kind of receipt confirmation?
Brandon: Nope....You never saw it?
Me: Nope.
Brandon: Well, it was never in the mailbox.

(Side note - We do not have a mailbox parked in front of our house. It's a row of metal boxes located up the street and I do not check the mail. Brandon has the only mail key in the house therefore all snail mail correspondence goes through him and yes, for some reason, he does open my mail. Amberly, send me a plastic snake, will ya?)

Me: Well, you checked the over-sized box for packages, right?
Brandon: (complete silence)
Me: You know? The one used for packages that wouldn't fit in our box?
Brandon: What are you talking about?
Me: The two big boxes at the bottom of the mailbox? With the one key sticking out and another empty keyhole? They put the other key in your box if you have a package in one.
Brandon: Ohhhhhhh. That's what that other key was for.
Me: (Total silence followed by shrieks of laughter) You have got to be kidding me!!
Brandon: Yeah! I didn't know what the hell it was for.
Me: (Still laughing) No clue, huh?
Brandon: Yeah, it was pissing me off that they kept leaving this key in our box. I just started throwing it to the ground cause it wasn't ours.
Me: OMG!!! Please tell me you are joking.
Brandon: So, you mean that package was in the box the whole time?
Me: (am resisting banging head against nearest flat surface) Yep. The mail key's on your keyring, right?
Brandon: (look of sheepishness crossing face as he realizes I will torture him with this for at least the next two years) Yeah.

After redepositing the dynamic duo on Daddy's tummy, I went out to the mail box. In the box was our mail. No key. I could only assume after picking up and replacing the box key often enough while uttering profanities linking with Brandon's name, the postal worker had given up trying to tell us that we had a package. Just for giggles, I thought I would check both package boxes. One was locked up tight and sans key, I wasn't getting in. The other wasn't locked at all and inside was a rectangular brown package addressed to the masses under ten in our home. Success!!! Now, to suck up to the tortured postal worker before the craze of Christmas....

Side note: I have been instructed to include Brandon's rant about how the postal worker should be leaving notes or some form of instruction as people cannot be expected to know that a key with a box number on it goes to that particular box. I feel years of fun for me as a result of this incident.

I took the box home and ripped it open for the kiddos revealing a wealth of glow sticks, bracelets, and even a ball of sorts along with watches and a notebook for me to record shining examples of Ludwig brilliance such as seen tonight. ;) This led to a jumble of glow sticks on the night stand after they all finally gave into the Sandman.

And on that shining, quiet note, I bid you, "Good night." All is well in the house of Ludwig tonight.