Mama & The Angry Sprites.

Today I had the supreme privilege of shopping on my own, without my groupies. As I strolled quite leisurely through the aisles at my "reserved-for-when-the-girls-are-in-school" slow pace, I observed several other mothers who were toting their blessings around. Most of the kids were younger than mine are, and a few were not the "Happy Shoppers" that we've been overjoyed to see ours become.

The screams.
The angry, red faces.
The fury at being strapped into a cart; stuck.
It brought back so many memories.

Anytime you have to put "Kids" and "Shopping List" into one sentence, it can become an almost insurmountable effort. Trying to get through a list is taxing alone, when you're not playing referee to the fighting and or squabbling siblings that you must bring with you.

Mine had a knack of being perfect angels right up until we'd hit the "bought air" of a store. The doors would open and "whoosh", my sweet, happy mannered little
Dan-clones would turn into feral creatures, itching to unleash a reign of terror. It would happen so instantaneously that I'd almost look around to see if I could catch a glimpse of their formerly happy selves high tailing out to the parking lot.

And there I'd be, alone with Them. (Not the nice 'Them' that so lovingly and cooperatively went into the stroller and sang as I pushed them into the store; no, it was now the 'Other Them' who snarled and whined and hit).

With a smile, I'd press on. I had shopping to do. A list to tackle. Pushing the stroller in front of me and pulling the cart behind, I'd alternate between referring to my list (crossing off found items with whatever crayon happened to be in my pocket at the time), and acting as "Mad Cap Entertainer" to my stroller-bound captives.

They'd cry in the Produce section, but never fear! "Listen to the celery sing a song, my children!" And just like that, a performance worthy of many awards spilled forth. (You really should have been there.)

They'd fight in the Dairy department; the Girl In Back snagging a handful of the Girl In Front's hair and giving a hard yank. But never fear, dear children! "Watch Mommy do a happy cheese dance!" (Let's just say, Michael Flatley ain't got nothin' on me.)

By the time we reached the household supply areas, both kids were through with mommy's antics and no amount of my particular brand of product-based entertaining could sustain them. As I perused the paper towels and plastic bags, I'd usually be alternating between holding one crying baby to another, still pulling the cart behind me, and now using my hip to shove the stroller forward a few inches at a time. "Shush, shush, shush, my Heart," I'd cluck, "look at these pretty toilet brushes". After plopping that now-quieted offspring back into her seat holding a pristine Johnny Mop, I'd pick up the still-crying other one and attempt to interest her in the fascinating world of toothpaste and toothbrushes.

What seemed like a short list nevertheless managed to take up quite a bit of time and energy, leaving me ragged, on edge, and (quite frankly), in need of chocolate. Ready to be done with our outing, I'd always manage to pick the most ill-chosen check out line possible. You know the one, it 'seems' to be moving along 'just fine'. Then all the sudden, you find it has stopped and you are not moving forward at all. And you are faced with the choice of "Should I Stay" or "Should I Switch Lanes", only you're so worn out and bedraggled by the escapades of your children as you 'shopped' for the few things you needed and now your brain will explode if you have to make one more choice. And it no longer matters at that point because every other line is backed up and nearly as long. No matter how you look at it, you're stuck.

You know. THAT line.

When I did finally manage to break free from the grasp of retail hell, I'd have two much displeased and unhappy children; the extra long wait in the check out line having undone all my calming, and angering them anew. I'd set out for the doors at a near run, anticipating, nay....almost feeling...that moment of escape that awaited me just through those big, beautiful doors.

Whooooosh!

Two crying girls calmed down, instantly shushed by the outside world around them. Two happy girls, sitting in car seats and pleasantly babbling as we made our way home.

One very tired, very worn out mama, looking very much forward to the next big event in our day: Nap Time.

For everyone.

In Which The Van Wouldn't Start...

First off, I am not a car person. I drive them, but that's about it. I depend upon them and trust that when I turn the key, it will start; push the gas, it will go; press the brake, it will stop. As to the magic behind the scenes that allows all this to happen, well ,that's the wizard behind the curtain. The Dodge version of "Great And Powerful Oz". And today I almost caught a glimpse of his elusive person...

This morning I dropped the ladies off as usual, waiting in the playground until their class was called in. Returning to my car at a run (brrrrrr, it was cold), I hopped in to start her up. Sadly, "tickticktickticktickticktick" was all I heard.

(What the?)

Ticktickticktickticktickticktickticktickticktickticktickticktick.

(Grrrr)

I began firing phone calls off in rapid succession: Husband. Mom. Dad. Brother. (Everyone needed to be in on this).

I've never really been in a non-starting car before; my aforementioned trust has never been tested, you see. I called AAA (so this is why you join every year? Miraculous!). They were very kind and helpful, and got a tow truck out to me faster than I would have thought possible.

Hello, Roy.

With a smile, Roy attached cable-thingies (the technical term for "Jumper Cables"), and got my stubborn van started again. He left after giving me instructions to let the van run for 10 minutes and then go straight to Auto Zone (the closest place) to get a new battery.

Bye, Roy. Thanks.

My 2 mile drive to the auto store was fraught with nerves for me. I was now officially wary of my once faithful companion: my car. Every light, every stop sign, I wondered, "Is this it? Will it stall? What will it do?" (It clearly couldn't be trusted, after all.)

The folks at Auto zone were all smiles and joy when I walked into the store. (I have that effect on people wherever I go, you see). They tested and affirmed Tow Truck Roy's diagnosis of a bad battery and got me hooked up with a brand spanking new one. (Oooohhhh! New battery!)

So now the van is "fixed" and should be "okay". But I admit that I hesitate and whisper a prayer every time I go to start it. "Please start. Please, please start." Exhaling with gratitude as the engine catches and sparks to life.

As I said before, I'm not a car person. I just trust that whatever the mechanics are that make the thing go are all lined up and in place when I need them. A magic-machine. That's what it is. And when the magic falters, even if only due to a dead battery, some of the sheen of that is scuffed up a bit.

Here's to auto clubs, tow trucks, auto stores, friendly people with smiles, and new batteries.

And may the remainder of this Monday be just a bit less eventful.

When the girls were born, the first thing my husband did was look for some difference between them. Some identifying mark that would help us tell one from the other.

Anything.

He didn't have to look long before finding one. Ashlyn, our precious Baby B, had a small freckle on her right cheek. Tiny. Discreet. But there.

We were told later that it's somewhat unusual for a baby to have a freckle of that type straight out of the womb. We smiled. It was God's little cheat sheet for us.

And how we used it! The thing about babies, is that they look alike, no matter if their identical or not. Put 2 or more balding, red, squalling things side by side, and you'll be confused as to which is which. And as they grew, the confusion only got worse. Now we had two baldies on the move, scooting here, toddling there.

I've lost count of how many times I've uttered the phrase: "Thank Goodness For That Freckle".

And I think Ashlyn liked it. It has become her symbol, of sorts; part of her identity. She's always been fine with it. Never seemed to bother it or be upset about it. And she understood that we looked at cheeks when talking to both of them, sorting out who had the freckle and who didn't before assigning a name. If that bothered her, she never let on.

So you can imagine my surprise when I wake her up yesterday to find that she's effectively picked the freckle off. First off, I cannot imagine how uncomfortable that process had to have been; and second, I'm not sure why she did it.

But she did.

And I can't say the results are very good. Nails being what they are, it's not quite as nicely done as a doctor would do, you see.

So I took her the doctor to check out the sore on her face. Is it okay? Will it get infected? A thorough check of it and a prescription for anti-fungal cream. 3x a day. Don't forget. (I won't). We also were given an appointment for a bona fide plastic surgeon to have it done the right way; to undo any damage she did.

And what about that freckle? Ashlyn has already expressed a sadness that it will be coming off. She probably should have thought of that before digging it off with her fingernails. Hind sight, right?

She despaired that she wouldn't be Ashlyn anymore.
I explained that her freckle is not what makes her Ashlyn. She'll still be Ash.

She despaired that it would hurt.
I told her it won't.

She delighted that they won't use anything sharp to cut it off. Just round things.
I'm letting her go with that one.

We'll see how this turns out.

How life is without That Freckle.

Anyone For Coffee?

Ever wonder what $159.00 of K-Cups ordered via a coffee club looks like?



                     Well wonder no more.



4 glorious boxes. Each awaiting the scissors, wanting to be let out! Waiting to be opened and enjoyed.



Ahhh, there you all are my Lovelies. You are all welcome here. Very welcome indeed.

              Before you ask, no these are not all mine.    

         But I truly wish they could be.

     Sigh.