Thursday, April 22, 2010

waiter, we need more jelly!

Before I even start, I know what you are about to think – I can read minds in advance, among my other talents and skills. I know I have been writing about my own kids a lot lately. Before you throw a toy truck at my head for doing it again, you need to know that Wesley is like a little comedienne, only he isn’t even trying to be funny. I think lots of kids are like that but I hit the jackpot with this guy. He provides a lot of potential writing material.

We were out last night and decided to have dinner at a little café in Elk City. And by café, I don’t mean romantic little restaurant with lots of charm and ambiance – I mean little restaurant with mounted animal heads on the wall and a salad bar chock full of iceberg lettuce. And no background music at all, which means you can hear every little sound in there. But the food is good and there aren’t a whole lot of choices, so…

When we walked in it was pretty empty, only about three other tables had customers at them. We were led to the corner (they always put us in the corner – what is it about a frazzled couple with two young boys that makes them think we should be in the corner?!?). On the way to our table, we went past an older couple and I noticed with fear that the man had an eye patch. Not fear because I have a phobia of eye patches but because of what was going to happen next.

Sure enough, when we got to the table, the chatter started and quickly turned into conversation about eye patches. Or maybe I should type it like it was spoken – EYE PATCHES. Because the volume of my son was more like the volume you would need to carry on a conversation during a Metallica concert. And with no background music at all, we were sort of stuck.

I whispered to my son ,”We don’t talk about other people’s eye patches – it could hurt their feelings.” But it was answered like this: “WHY CAN’T WE TALK ABOUT HIS EYE PATCH? IS HE A PIRATE? CAN I BE A PIRATE FOR HALLOWEEN?” I finally let him eat the little packets of jelly on the table with a knife – it was the only trick I had to offer. The eye patch was quickly forgotten.

Poor eye patch guy.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

don't try this at home

Bryan has been working a different kind of schedule lately. He has been gone for a week at a time, leaving me to be a single mom to our two youngsters. It is tiring. So last night, I collapsed into bed and noticed that I was feeling a little light-headed (probably from some serious chemical deficiency like potassium or chocolate). I thought, “Great, I’ll probably pass out in my sleep and Wesley won’t be able to wake me up in the morning.” And then I started thinking about what would happen if Wesley really couldn’t wake me up for some reason. I tried to imagine exactly what would happen and my little vision ended with Wesley wandering in the street until some neighbor found him…

Well, that whole experience made me realize that we have never discussed what to do if Mommy trips on a toy car, breaking all her limbs, and passes out from the pain. It’s not like the old days when we were taught to “dial 911.” It isn’t that easy anymore. I mean, I can’t even find my own stinking cell phone half the time – how would I expect my three year old to find it in an emergency?

I started the lesson by asking Wesley what he would do if Mommy couldn’t walk or talk and needed help. He just stared at me blankly – I could see that there were some ideas in his mind – ideas like climb up on the forbidden top bunk and play with the blender…so I tried to steer him in the right direction. I told him that he would need to call the police. Then I got my cell phone and gave him a lesson in how to dial 911 and hit “send.” It was complicated by the facts that he doesn’t know the number “9” yet and that he doesn’t really know which button is “send.” And that you can’t actually practice it or you call the police for real. Hmmmm.

I also tried to impress upon him the importance of NOT dialing this unless there is really an emergency. I told him if he called the number and there wasn’t an emergency, the police would come to our house. Telling him this was a bad idea. Three year old boys WANT the police to come to their house – the only thing better than the police at your house is a pet elephant that can tap dance. Which led to this conversation:

Wes: I need to use your phone a minute.
Me: Why?
Wes: I am going to call the police.
Me: Wes, remember, we don’t call them unless there is a real emergency.
Wes: I am going to tell them some bad news. That once a house was on fire somewhere. And that Wyatt hit me this morning with a block. It’s an emergency, Mommy.

Three and a half might have been too young for this lesson. Suddenly the vision of Wesley wandering in the street and a neighbor finding him doesn’t seem so bad.

Friday, April 16, 2010

an important note

Dear Man at the Fitness Center,

I would like to speak on behalf of all the users of the cardio equipment and BEG you to stop walking around without your shirt. I don’t care if you have just come from the pool or if you have been lifting weights or even singing show tunes to nursing home residents – put your shirt on! This is western Okla-stinkin-homa, buddy, not southern California. You are pale and hairy. So please, put your “I heart BBQ” t-shirt back on before you catch a chill.

Your friend,
Sweaty lady on the elliptical machine

Thursday, April 15, 2010

rip it off!

It’s been awhile since I’ve written and it feels sort of like ripping off a band-aid – I just need to do it fast and not think about it. And it will probably leave a little patch of hairless skin afterwards.

Since it has been so long, I feel as if I need to update you on the cast of usual characters. So here goes:

Bryan has quit his teaching job and now works in the oil field again. It’s the same kind of job he had a year and a half ago – the kind of job that makes money. He is still the same guy with perhaps a little less hair on his head. Don’t tell him I said that.

Wesley is three years old, going on thirty. The other day we were driving and the radio was on sort of in the background and he exclaimed, “I haven’t heard this song in years!” He only eats grilled cheese, which makes him a grilledcheese-atarian. Not even chicken nuggets. It’s very un-American and irritating. He is outgrowing a lot of his fears so now we can drive through the automatic car wash without listening to him sob. That is nice.

Wyatt will be two in June. His hobbies include crying for no reason, hitting people with random objects, and climbing things. He is trying to get a good jump on the terrible twos, apparently. Unlike his brother, he will eat pretty much anything, including mouthfuls of dirt. He is terrified of all animals, especially the neighbor’s dogs. He has his daddy wrapped around his sticky little finger.

I finally sold enough of our personal belongings on ebay to purchase a nice camera. This purchase made me instantly into a professional photographer. Or at least I could be one for Halloween. The first couple months that I had the camera, I pretty much took a lot of crappy pictures for free because I didn’t really know what I was doing. I’m getting better. Now I only take crappy pictures some of the time. I still have the home daycare. I love it with the same fondness that one might love a lingering case of hemorrhoids.

There now, that didn’t hurt a bit.