"You're such a baby!"

There is nothing cool about the way it happened.

I was leaning on the back of a chair in the kitchen, listening to my younger sisters talk and watching my older sister clean the floor. The chair unexpectedly  slipped and so did I.

It hurt. We are talking "Can I get an epidural in my arm" hurt.

I cried.

They laughed. Oh, and called me a baby.

In their defense, my nickname was "Pale Face" and it wasn't because I am fair skinned, though I am that. I had a tendency to cry...a lot. You would never know that now, but it is true.

In my defense, my arm was, at that moment, shaped like the letter U.

I picked myself up and walked into the front room, to lick my wounds alone. At that moment, my mom and other older sister walked in the room. (Cue hero/ Indiana Jones music.) Mom took one look and knew a normal arm shouldn't look like that and we headed to Urgent Care.

Tammy, my rough tough older sister, wrapped her coat around my shoulders and gave me a piece of her Double Bubble gum. Such a tender gesture. Gum was a much sought after commodity in our house, and she gave me hers.

I remember walking up to the Urgent Care sobbing. I remember walking in and seeing all these people staring at me, and I was suddenly able to control it.  They took an x-ray because the U-shaped arm wasn't enough, and sure enough, it was broken.

The worst part was getting the bone placed. It was jammed pretty bad.

The best part?

Self-induced sister guilt.

What would you expect?

Things you would expect to see at a Dairy Queen:

Things that are unexpected:

Expected:

Unexpected:

Expected:

Unexpected:

Yes, apparently at this Dairy Queen, they pay attention to detail. It's the little things, I guess. 

But a real high chair? 

Really?

You can say that again.

Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny....ahem...not so much.

Awkward. That is how I describe myself in a bathing suit these days.

It hasn't always been like this. Back in the pre-kids days, the only thing I had to worry about in a bathing suit was my white legs.  I am pretty fair. But now there is a little more of me to go around and so my swimsuit and I are more aquaintances than friends.

That being said, I refuse to let my body rule my life. I am where I am and I don't want my kids to suffer because of my insecurities with my body. So we live our lives. And sometimes that includes taking a swim...which involves a swimsuit.

A few months ago we had one such occasion. We were all getting on our bathing suits and I had just bought a new suit that was not as comfortable as I had expected. Oh well. I just went with it.

As we were gathering things I asked my kids what they thought of it.

My daughter looks at me and lovingly says,

"That's okay, Mom. There will be other fat people there too."

Good to know.

 Now I feel better.

Thanks for the awkward moment, Mama Kat.)

So I Married a Deaf Man: Sam I am

"Who is that girl over there?"
"I'm not quite sure. I have never seen her before."
"Oh, wait. Isn't she Hub's wife?"

That is apparantly my new name. I took on two names when I married Hubs. Hub's-wife Burns. That's me.

You think I am kidding, but I so am not. 

You see, without him, my connection to the Deaf community isn't strong enough to warrant full acceptance. But, because I am married to Hubs, I am tolerated to a higher degree. Appartenlty being Stef just isn't enough.

Oh, and it also isn't enough to just be married to a deaf man. Nope. You need to be either a CODA (Child of Deaf Adult or the more politically correct term is "Father Mother Deaf"), or an interpreter. Certified interpreter. Nationally certified interpreter.

Here is a typical conversation between hubs and other deaf friends:

"So, Hubs. Are you married?"
"Yes, I am married. See that knock-out over there?"
"She deaf?"
"No, she can hear."
"Really? Can she sign?"
"Yes. She is an interpreter."
"Wow! Cool."

Do I sound bitter? I am not. Not in the least. You see, my personality runneth over. They are gonna love me whether they like it or not. Usually within 2 or 3 months I have earned my own name back. I am that kind of person. Not overbearing at all.

It must be said that Hubs really is quite charismatic. Really. Not only is he good looking, but he is really friendly and people are drawn to him. Everyone loves Hubs. Everywhere we go. He is the one to be remembered.

Me, not so much.

So when people ask me, "Hey, aren't you Hub's wife."

I simply answer, "Why yes. Yes I am..."

"...Stef, I am." 

It's a trap!!

You turn the corner into a residential area and there it is, in the middle of the road. A large orange. No-one is around to claim the abandoned fruit. It's there for the taking. So you turn your wheels just so...making sure that your tires will hit the orange dead center, sending freshly squeezed orange juice in all directions. Score!!

You know you do this. Confess!

I admit it. I feel that urge. And sometimes I give in. But, I am wondering if I am the only one who has these weird thoughts pop into their head:

"What if that orange isn't really an orange? What if it is a bomb disguised as an orange and some sicko is sitting around the corner just waiting for someone to give in to that impulse?" Stupid terrorists.

Am I the only one who thinks this way?

There-in lies my inner conflict.  Do I risk my life and the life of all my children, who are innocently buckled in their seats, trusting that I am going to keep them safe, simply for the thrill of crushing the bajonkas out of that half full coke bottle?

Sadly, most of the times I will risk it. So far I have never hit a bomb. I guess I live on the edge, narrowly escaping that imaginary bomb threat. Every. Single. Time.

On a different but similar note, when I was in high school I was driving home from somewhere with my mom, two sisters and brother. There, in the middle of the road was a pumpkin, a nicely decorated jack-o-lantern. In the middle of the road.

Because this was before the imaginary bomb threats were even a thought in my head, I of course crushed Mr Jack into oblivion. Sah-weet!!. There was pretty much nothing left.

I was proud of myself, until my little brother hopped out of the van and came back sobbing. That was our pumpkin that I had splattered across the road.

My mom gave me that look.  You know that one. The one that says, "Look what you've done. You made your brother cry. You should be ashamed of yourself."

I wanted to say, "I didn't know it was our jack-o-lantern! Did you forget that it was laying in the middle of the road? Who was the genius that put it there? Sheesh."

But I probably just said, "Ooops. Sorry."

Resist the urge.

You could get grounded.

Or worse, killed.

Doesn't she know the difference?

I was not sure who to believe.

I got a note in my kindergartner's agenda from his teacher that reads:

"Could you please talk to Brody about not pretending to shoot the children in class. He would not stop after we asked him several times. He had to sit out recess."

Wonderful!

So when I sat down with him and asked him what happened, his response:

"She lied. I wasn't shooting them. Diego was shooting them."

Hmmmm. This is the little boy whose birthday was yesterday. This was the little boy who got a really cool Star Wars gun toy. This is the little boy who was playing with said toy minutes before he went to school.

Now you tell me. What's a mother to do?

"Well, she seemed pretty certain it was you. Why would she write me a note in your agenda if it wasn't you? Why would she lie to me about that?" I asked.

"I wasn't shooting them with a gun...."

Big sigh....

"...it was a light saber."

Lead me not into Temptation

Today is my son's birthday. You know what this means, right? Treats for the whole class so that everyone will think he is cool and he will know just how much I love him. Of course this visit has to happen right smack dab in the middle of baby's nap. Of course!

That's alright. I can just have baby wait to go down for another hour. That would have worked out super, except that upon dropping Birthday Boy off at school this morning I was told they would be having a fire drill during the normal snack time and could I come in a little later. Baby cakes can't wait that long for a nap.

Drat! I so don't want to bring everyone with me plus drinks plus the snack. I would have baby in one arm. Camden straggling behind and my sick daughter...

Wait a second... Idea.

My daughter, who is 8 years old is home sick with the stomach flu. The school is seriously 2 blocks away. I would only be gone for 15 minutes, tops. She knows my cell phone number. We have a dog. Baby is sleeping....

But what if someone breaks into the house.

Or what if the clothes dryer catches on fire and burns down the house.

What if baby wakes up and throws up and Kyla freaks out and runs out into the street crying, "Mommy. Why did you leave us?! Help!! Can some one please help me!"

But what are the chances of that happening? I mean, really?

2 blocks. 15 minutes.

A lifetime of Mommy guilt.

Temptation.