Flicking Etiquette

I am always looking for opportunities to teach my children manners and etiquette.

"When someone says 'Hello', it is polite to say hello back."
"If you see a piece of trash on the ground, you should pick it up and throw it away. It's just the right thing to do."
"If you see a young or old woman opening a door, you hustle over there and hold it open for her. It's what gentlemen do."

That's how they will learn.

Well, I was at a loss the other day.

We pull into the Target parking lot, right up next to a really nice, gray car. I was careful not to bump it with my door, because a ding just isn't nice. I'm unloading my baby when one of my boys, who shall remain unnamed, flicked a booger...and it landed on the car. The fancy-schmancy car.

This was no small booger, mind you. Oh, no. I will not describe it to you; I will spare you that much. But suffice it to say it was big and it was ugly. And it was on the car door.

"..... that is just gross," I scolded! "Next time grab a tissue. Booger flicking just isn't cool." Apparently I need to teach them a little more about personal hygene and proper disposal of nasal discharge.

So now what? What is the right thing to do next?

Do you leave a note, apologizing for the thoughtlessness of my booger-flicking son?

Do I try and remove it, risking a car alarm that would most definitely draw attention to the sticky mess?

Or do I walk away, hoping that there are no passangers who will see it before the wind can blow it off?

You guessed it, folks. I took the high road.

I quickly loaded my kids into the cart and hot tailed it into Target, looking over my shoulder to make sure no-one could associate me with the said booger.

High road, indeed.

What would you have done??

...but luckily, nothing happened.

This morning was cuuuu-ray-Zee! I woke up panicked because I was supposed to bring treats to the music class my kids go to and I didn't have anything that would work. So I was in a rush trying to get to the store.

But not until I had gotten my three older kids clothed, shoed, lunched, angered, prayed and out the door. Not an easy task considering... Considering nothing. It isn't easy no matter what the circumstances.

So, after shoo-ing them off and clothing the younger two, we load into the van only to see that annoying, orange light blaring at me. You know the one.  The "Sorry honey. I forgot to tell you that the van is out of gas, but I didn't have time to fill it up" light. Do you have one of those lights? Yeah, well, I do and it was on.

So I hustle to the gas station, paying careful attention that the pump and gas tank opening on my van matched up. I put the car in park and look back at my two dirty faced hooligans and turn on the music. I get out, cell phone in hand, and begin to fill 'er up.

I love that the pump has those notches that allow you to fill up and text at the same time. So convenient. It's almost like they knew that my husband was deaf.

Soon I hear "Click." All done. Wonderful. Back in the hatch. No, I don't want a carwash. Yes, I want a reciept. Keys. Ummm...where are my keys. Wait a second.

Is that my car running?

Oh. My. Heck!!!!

I left the car running, with my children in the car and proceeded to fill it with gas. Was I trying to kill my children?

At first I felt a little panicked. Then a little perplexed. Wasn't my car supposed to blow up or something? Don't get me wrong. I was thrilled that it hadn't... for several reasons. But isn't that one of the warnings on the pump? "Turn off engine before filling up, you idiot! Your car could explode!!" or something like that.

But it didn't.

Huh.

Perhaps it just isn't advisable. Kind of like using a cell phone while pumping. Or smoking a cigarette, although that one is just plain idiosy.

So I guess you could say, I'm a survivor...

...because nothing happened.


Double links today with Mama Kat and Jen Matlock...Check them out!

So I Married a Deaf Man: Olive Juice

"Olive Juice."

Don't you remember that game? A person stands a few feet away and you mouth "Olive Juice" and ask them what you said. They are bound to say, "I love you." Why? Because it looks the same on your mouth.

There are plenty of deaf people who can read lips. And they are very good at it. So good it is almost scary. Hubs is not one of them.

I think it is a huge misconception that if you are deaf, you can read lips. The amount of training that is required to learn this skill is unbelievable. Trying to understand a spoken language that you have never heard. Ever. And all they have to go on is how the word looks on the mouth. That's it.

They don't know that B and P make different sounds because you can't see it on the lips. They look identical. Go ahead. Try it. The difference is in how you move the air in your mouth. And you can't see air. This is the same for T and D, Z and S, F and V.

So if Hubs asks me, "What took you so long." and I speak back to him, "I was stuck on the train," he could possible interpret that as "I was stuck in the drain." Huh? 

There are times though that I wish he could read my lips. You know, like when I am in the middle of changing a poopie diaper and I need him to grab more wipes. "Could you get more wipes? Please?"

But instead he sees, "Hood you ate mo why peas please."

Or when a child of mine has hit his head and is bleeding, I could say, "I need a wash cloth."

But instead, he hears, "I nee a was claw."

How about when I am nursing my newborn baby, which in my case requires two hands, I could tell him, "Look out! Your boys are killing each other."

But instead he only gets, "Lou ow! Yo bows ah gill eat otter."

Not great communication, if you ask me.

Probably the only thing that my husband can lipread it the phrase, "Can you read my lips?"

At which point he will sign back, "No. Can you read my hands?"

There is no Arizona...I mean California

Who here doesn't hate needles? Okay, you are just weird. Honestly, I don't hate needles. I just don't particularly like them. Unless they are the needle that administers an epidural. But as a general rule, I don't love them.

My sister once stepped on a needle and half of it broke off in her foot and she had to have surgery. But that is a sewing needle and that's not the type I am talking about today.  

I am talking about the needles are used to puncture your skin and suck things out of or squirt thing into your body. Lovely, beautiful and down right pleasurable.

This is what I keep telling my 4 year old. He is super duper small for his age. We found out that he has delayed bone age and has had blood drawn two different times. He is now terrified of doctors and needles. Also showers, but that is irrelevant.

Well, I just found out that he has low growth hormone levels and so he has to have a growth hormone stimulation test. This involves not only a needle but an IV being put into his teeny tiny arm and being left there for about 2-3 hours.

Did I mention that he isn't supposed to eat for 12 hours before the test? Oh, and the test may have to be done at 6am. Such a lovely time to wake a four year old and tell him that he can't eat for another 3 hours. Can I tell you how excited I am?

Mostly, though, I am wondering how I am going to break the news to him.

"Hey, you know how you hate needles. Well, good news..."
or
"I promise. We are going to the zoo."
or
"Maybe this time it won't hurt."

There just isn't a good way to tell a kid. I choose honesty, because that's the kind of mom I am.

"Yes, it is going to hurt."
and
"Yes, you are brave."
and
"No, we can't skip town."
and the obvious
"Please don't pee on Mommy this time."

Needles...

Let's keep it in California, shall we?

It was an accident, I swear!

I grew up in a family where swearing just didn't happen.

Okay, well, that isn't entirely true. My mom was raised on a farm and that gave her an excuse for her little slips here and there. At least that is what my dad would tell us.

But overall, most of the time, unless you saw a guarder snake in the sewing room, there wasn't much swearing that happened in our house.

Oh, wait, unless you were my older sister and had had it up to your eyeballs in house work, that you felt you were doing all alone. She would, from time to time, for sheer shock value, say hell or damn.

Nope, there was no swearing in the Lee household. It just didn't happen.

Okay, there was that one time when we were in a car accident and dad swore at us. "I knew it would get you out of the car faster," was the reason he gave.

But, really, we didn't swear at my house. Or maybe I should rephrase that. I didn't swear at my house growing up. Never. Not ever.

Do you all remember, a long time ago,  there was a program called Shick that was supposed to help people who smoked quit? I do. I remember its commercial would come on in the mornings when I was waiting for Gilligan's Island or something to come on.

Well, my sister and I were playing around and I, instead of saying Shick said.... you guessed it, the S-word. My sister stood up and said, "You just cussed!! I am going to tell Daddy what you said when he gets home."

I am not quite sure why she was going to wait for my dad to come home, because mom was there all day. Maybe she thought it would be lost on the whole farm-girl excuse and I would not be properly punished. But she waited. And I, the sweet little girl that I was...and I was sweet, fretted all day long.

Well, when Dad walked through the door, she ran to him immediately and told him what I had said. I explained what I had meant to say and didn't get into trouble.

Now that I am a mom, there is no swearing in my house. My children are not allowed to swear. And they don't. Yet. I don't swear. Ever.

Except when I am at work and am interpreting others' conversations. I swear like a sailor then.  But that is it.

I swear.

Remember to flush...

If you want to take a shower, your child will want to come with you.

On the way to your shower, he will find a toy that he simply can't live without.

Once in the bathroom he will play with said toy until he sees the toilet paper.


Seeing the toilet paper will remind him that toilet paper belongs in the toilet, and what a fun game a toilet can be.


He will take the extra roll of toilet paper and throw it into the bowl. He will giggle and giggle.


Giggling will make remind him that he has a toy in the bathroom somewhere.


Playing with the toy will make him giggle some more.


He will glance in the direction of the toilet. Hmmm.

Toy.

Toilet.

If you give a child a toy in the same room as a toilet, he will probably flush the toy down the toilet to see what happens.


Seeing all the water on the ground will cause much freaking out and screaming.


Hearing the child scream will cause you to rinse at the speed of light and exit the shower .


Seeing the water on the floor near the toilet will make you growl inside and cause you to mutter, "Not again."


You will probably throw on some clothes, comfort the child and proceed back into the bathroom to clean up the mess.


Cleaning up the mess will make you wonder, "What the heck did he put in the toilet?"


You will remember that there had been a toy in the child's hand when he entered the bathroom. Ugh!


Because if you give a child a toy,


Chances are....


He'll want a toilet to go with it.

...and I didn't die.

All mommies have battle scars. They are called children. And don't we, as laboring soldiers, have the right to tell our stories? Ummm...you bet we do. Especially if we have our own blog.

With all of my children I have had epidurals. I have absolutely no desire to feel my child ripping his way out of my body. Nope, I am perfectly fine with being numb from the belly button down, watching a movie and intepreting for my husband. That is the way I have babies.

Or maybe I should say that is the way I used to have babies. That was before Briggy.

My contractions started in the morning and continued throughout the day. By evening, some of the contractions brought me to my knees...literally. But then they would go away. We had my brother and sister-in-law come over and she and I took a walk. That did it. Less than 3 minutes apart.

So we headed to the hospital. I was sure they were going to send me home because all the way there the contractions were 7-10 minutes apart. We get there and I go into triage to get checked. I asked her if they were going to send me home.

"Nope. You are at an 8. You are not going anywhere." An 8? Seriously?
So my next question was, "When can I get an epidural?"
"You can't. The anesthesiologist is in a C-section and you will be done by the time they get out."
To which I replied, "You don't understand. I don't have babies without epidurals."
To which she replied, "Blah blah- blahdidity blah...." I stopped hearing what she was saying. And everyone else, for that matter.

No epidural!! How was I going to make it through this? Seriously. I simply couldn't wrap my mind around it. Are you serious? How? How? No, really, how??? Look at a spot and concentrate really hard. Are you kidding me?!?

Hubs was trying to be supportive. "You can do it. You've never tried natural. It will be a good experience."

Good experience? Let's take your hand and hit it with a hammer. I wouldn't call that a good experience. Would you?? I would much rather have my hand completely numb, wouldn't you? Yeah, that's what I thought. But I didn't say that. I just said nothing. Speechless...for the first time in my life.

If they could promise it would be over in 30 minutes, (which it was) I think I could have handled it. But there were no promises, no timetables. Luckily, the midwife who was to deliver my baby was able to get the epidural man to squeeze me in. Whew, I thought. Let's roll.

Only, he should be fired. I felt it all. ALL OF IT. Lucky for me it was fast. I whined and cried and then cryned (whinned and cried...in case you didn't know that word.). Then out he came. And he was and is beautiful.

I didn't die. I made it through.

And have the cute little 20 month old scar to prove it!

Thanks, Mama Kat, for letting me re-live the pain.