A Special Kind of Smart

Last weekend Derek and I got to go play laser tag with some friends.  It was the one thing Derek really wanted to do for his birthday, so his mom kindly came over to watch the kids, and though I've never played laser tag before and really wasn't expecting to enjoy the whole activity, it was for my husband's birthday, so I decided to close my eyes and think of England, as it were, and at the very least pretend I was having a good time while running around shooting fake guns at people.

Well.  It was actually incredibly fun, darting around a big warehouse and peering around pieces of drywall, trying to take out the somewhat obnoxious strangers on the opposing team.

The part that I keep thinking about, however, is at the end, when we were removing the velcro straps from around our foreheads, and the employee said, "Everybody hand me the non-fabric part of the strap, please, there at the end."

I proceeded to do my darndest to take that little piece of the strap off the rest so I could hand it to him, but my gosh, how was I supposed to do that when it appeared to be sewn together?

I wrestled with it for several seconds before looking around to see how everyone else was faring, but it turns out every single other person there had understood his instructions and were holding their headbands by the tips, on the non-fabric end.

Ah.  I see.


I have wondered in the past how it is that so often everyone else understands these things but me, but then I think of my mother and my daughter.

Now listen to me.  My mother is a very intelligent woman.  Our daughter is a very intelligent girl.

My mother is also the person who, when we were out for a walk through a nature preserve while she was visiting us in Connecticut, exclaimed, "I just saw a really old squirrel!"

When I asked how she knew it was really old (never having known before that she was any kind of squirrel expert), she explained that it had gray hair.

Oh, how I laughed.  But also understood.  We only have brown squirrels in Kansas, as opposed to the gray squirrels that inhabit CT.


Then I think about the time I was sitting in a bedroom in our house in Kansas, holding a baby Atticus, and asked two-year-old Adelaide to turn on the light.  She tried but couldn't reach, so I told her to go get the step stool.  A couple minutes later I turned my head at the sound of something scraping against the wall;  our daughter had the step stool stretched over her head, attempting to catch the light switch with it to turn it on, rather than, you know, standing on it.


Or how about when I was a teenager, my mom and I walking out to the parking lot to get in my car, the Little Tercel that Could, and it wouldn't start, which wasn't like it at all.  No air conditioning, no radio or in-dash clock or power steering, but that thing always, always started.  We got out, opened up the hood (which, looking back, is completely laughable- I'm astonished we even knew how to open the hood), then gasped in unison.  There was a gaping hole right in the middle of all the other unidentifiable stuff (that is to say, everything)- someone had stolen part of our engine!  

I'm guessing it was my mom who thought to thumb through the owner's manual to see just which crucial part had been taken, when we found it- that big blank space was where the air conditioner went in cars that weren't completely stripped down.  You know, the one my car never had?  We fell all over each other laughing, and then I don't remember what happened next.  I'm assuming we got out of that parking lot somehow, as I am not presently there.


I must say, if you don't mind looking foolish from time to time, it isn't a bad way to live.  At least we laugh a lot.  At ourselves.  Along with everyone else.

Memories, or Lack Thereof

Yesterday was my birthday.  I celebrated by forgetting something.  It's just what I do.


The family of our beloved baby sitter Hannah kindly invited our children over to make cookies and do other fun things.  (I have no idea what those fun things were; I tend not to ask too many questions when people volunteer to watch our kids.  Parenting at its finest, friends.)  The plan was then for Hannah to take our kiddos back to our house, feed them and put them to bed.  Great.  Super.  Whatever.  As long as I'm not there having to help.

But as it turns out, a key is required to unlock doors that have been locked.  This would have been helpful information to remember after I left the house and locked the front door and before we dropped our children off but not our house key.

You should have seen Derek's face when he got the text from Hannah's mom about the lack of a house key.  (The text went to Derek's phone because my phone was, of course, dead as a doornail.  I also forgot to charge my phone.  Are you sensing a trend here?  No?  Just wait.  I'll hammer that point home before this post is over.)  It was a bit of a cross between mild surprise and grim resignation.  I'm pretty sure there was a sigh in there, too.

It's not like this has ever been a secret in our relationship.  A few days before we were married, we drove 45 minutes south, crossing the state line to visit the courthouse in the county our wedding was taking place to apply for the marriage license.  Upon arrival, I realized I had forgotten the letter from our pastor stating we had completed a premarital course.  (That's right:  The state of Oklahoma gives you a discount on your marriage license if you go through some kind of premarital advisement, course, or counseling.  Bravo, Oklahoma.)  Fortunately, I was able to call the church office (where they know me well enough to know that if we're talking memory work or an academic test, well, I'm your gal!  If you want something that's actually useful to everyday life, I'm one very small step up from worthless), and they were kind enough to fax a copy of the letter straight into the office there at the courthouse.

Then, just to make sure Derek knew what he was getting himself into, on our wedding day I forgot the marriage license at my mom's house- again, 45 minutes away- didn't realize it until after the ceremony when it was time to sign it, and a very kind guest drove to my mom's house and back to the wedding so we could sign it and, you know, legally be married.

His reaction was a little more pronounced all those years ago.  Not terrible, but not just a simple sigh and shaking of his head.

I wonder if it will even register when I forget something important in another ten years?  And what are we going to do if I ever develop dementia?  It's gonna take forever for him to differentiate between the red flags of the disease and my normal quirks.

I'm pretty sure I meant to go somewhere else with this post, but I've forgotten just where that was.  How peculiar.






P.S.  What's a doornail?  Seriously?

It's Not a Tumor

I was friends with a girl in high school who acted like she was on the brink of death at least once a week.

While she did have one (minor) genuine physical ailment, for the most part, it was all exaggeration and moaning on her part.

It felt like every other conversation we had went something like this:

"Kristy, look at my eye.  Do you see my eye?"

"I see your eye.  It's definitely there."

"Do you see all that inflammation and pus?"

"I guess so."

"I have bacterial conjunctivitis.  I went to the doctor [who either hated her because she wouldn't leave him alone or loved her because she helped pay for his boat] this morning, he took one look, and sure enough:  bacterial conjunctivitis."

"So... you have pink eye.  Don't touch me."


Having a school nurse for a mother often came in handy with my dealings with her:  I was hard to impress when it came to medical ailments and rarely doled out any sympathy.  (Hey, Mom, remember that time I broke my hand, and it looked like a surgical glove that had been inflated and was all black and blue and nasty purple, and you were all, "No, you don't need to go to the hospital- oh, FINE, here's some ibuprofin"?  Have I mentioned that a time or twenty lately?)  Strangely enough, this only seemed to make her more desperate to impress me with the fact that her body was surely falling apart at the ripe old age of 15.


Well, if my relationship with my mom was training for that high school friendship, then that high school friendship was definitely training for my relationship with my daughter.

I'm starting to think Adelaide is a hypochondriac.

Every third day or so, she's coming to me with a different complaint:  "My left cheekbone feels swollen.  Does it look swollen to you?"  "My elbow joint feels a little loose today,"  "My stomach hurts,"  "My back hurts,"  "My knee hurts."

If I'm feeling generous, I'll give the ailing body part a cursory inspection, tell her to take a shower or go for a walk.  If I'm busy dealing with genuine emergencies, I'll tell her to lie down or to go do something worthwhile if she's that hungry for attention.

After arriving home from school yesterday, she spent most of the afternoon limping around, complaining of pain in her heel.  I finally had her lie down, took her sock off, and did a brief inspection.  It looked like a heel.  When I told her the shocking diagnosis, she asked if maybe I could call Grandma Lorri (AHAHAHA, like there's any sympathy to be gained in that quarter!) or look online.  I tried to explain the harbinger of doom that is WebMD and that there was no point in looking there, unless we wanted to convince ourselves that she has cancer of the heel or something.

In the end, she made do with a heated rice pack (we use those things for absolutely everything: headaches, stomachaches, cancer of the heel, etc), and seemed to be walking normally by bedtime.

I did feel a little guilty last night, wondering if six-year-old's could suffer from bone spurs or plantar fasciitis, thinking that maybe this time I should have done at least a little research before brushing off our daughter's pain.

First thing this morning, however, Adelaide announced that she had figured out what was wrong with her foot:  Growing pains.  I was relieved by this sudden but vague announcement, right up until she told me about her newest problem.

She jammed her right pinky finger while eating breakfast this morning.  Could I maybe have a rice pack ready for her when she got home from school today?

I guess it's cheaper than drugs.

Reader Discretion Advised

Adelaide starts 1st grade in a few days.

The thing about your kids approaching milestones is that it dredges up all kind of memories of your own past.  Fortunately, I had an excellent first grade experience, so the memories that keep floating to the surface are kind of random but mostly nice.

I remember my teacher, Miss Y, and how she used to carefully enunciate each word during our spelling tests, then sing a few lines of a song containing that word.  That's how I learned the theme to the show, "Love Boat."  I also remember that her initials combined to spell her three-letter first name, which, to a six-year-old, is pretty much the coolest thing ever.

I remember we had an old cast-iron claw-footed bathtub painted a bright blue sitting in the classroom.  It had all kinds of plump pillows in it, and if you finished your work early, you got to sit in it and read.  Also the coolest thing ever.

I remember the time my dad was supposed to pick me up from school.  Most days I guess I rode the bus or my mom came to get me, but for whatever reason, that day it was my dad's job.  I stood outside with Miss Y, watching the parking lot empty and my classmates disappear around me.  When it was clear that he wasn't coming, we went inside to the office so she could call him.  I don't really remember her side of the conversation, but I later heard him recount that the conversation went something like this:

*Ring, ring*

"This is David."  (This is how my dad has always, always answered the phone.  Even at home.  Even in the middle of the night.  I have a feeling he was probably doing this as a preschooler, his little kid voice brisk and business-like as he announced into the phone, "This is David."  Anyway.)

"Hi, David, this is Miss Y at Trinity.  I have Kristy here..."

"Ah, *inappropriate expletive*."

Then, as he realized he was speaking to the nice, young teacher of his daughter, who happened to teach at a conservative Christian school, and had just cussed in her ear, "Oh, *wildly inappropriate expletive*!"

All I know about what happened next is that he apologized, she managed to laugh about it, and he came speeding into the parking lot just a few minutes later.


I'm now really curious to see what second grade will dredge up.

Oh, You're Bored, Are You?

Summer vacation starts next week.  Adelaide has a half-day Thursday, then she's all mine for three whole months.

I can tell other children are also on the brink of freedom; Pinterest is full of fun summer activities for kids.  There are some really good ones on there.  There are also some not so great ideas.

One that I keep seeing goes by several different names, but the most popular appears to be "The Bored Jar."  The description usually reads something like, "The answer to all those times your kids come to you saying they're bored!  100 amazing fun educational activities printed on slips of paper!  Just have your child pull one out when they're bored and let the fun begin!!!"

So here's my question:  Who's brilliant idea was it to start rewarding kids for whining?

I realize that the jar is not for whining; it's for boredom.  But when was the last time a kid came up to you and said, "Pardon me, but I find myself with nothing to do at this moment.  Could I possibly infringe upon your boundless creativity to find something for me to do, please?"

No, they say, "I'm boooooooored!" in the whiniest, most annoying voice possible.

I believe that with kids, "I'm bored" directly translates to "Entertain me."  And guess what?  It is not your job to entertain your children.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm a huge advocate for spending lots of time getting down on the floor and playing with your kids, and you know how I feel about books.  I feel like every family should have stacks of them throughout the house, just waiting to be read intermittently throughout the day.

But you should not have to fill every moment of every day with some super-fun interactive experience specifically designed for your child.  Kids need time away from adults to exercise their imaginations and learn how to do things for themselves.

I suggest you do what my mom did when summer vacation lost its luster for my sisters and me, and we were tempted to let the "B" word slip.  In our house, the merest hint of the word "bored" immediately resulted in an extra chore.  "Bored" meant folding an extra load of laundry or organizing a kitchen cabinet or picking bag worms off the trees.

So go ahead.  Make a special jar.  But please don't fill it with things like "Paint a masterpiece!" or "Have a water balloon fight!"  Fill it instead with "Scrub the toilet," or "Turn over the compost heap."

Now that's my kind of Bored Jar.

Tea and Sympathy

Caedmon is sick.

He's running a high fever.  That's about it.  Well, that I know of.  He's too little to be able to communicate things like, "My head hurts," or "I feel really nauseated."  I'm well aware that he's not feeling his best, as all he wants to do is lay on either Derek or me and be rocked.  Put him down, and he cries like he's just suffered the most devastating personal rejection of his short little life.

It's pretty sad; our Caedmon is generally a sunny little fellow, smiling and being all-around cute.  So of course I want to do everything in my power to make him to feel better.

I have a super scientific way of going about this.

During the day, I hold him.  I rock him and bounce him around and give him lots of fluids and sympathy.  I do not, as a rule, give him any medicine.  I feel like his body is elevating its temperature for a reason- to kill whatever nasty bug has infiltrated his system- and over-medicating him will only prolong his illness.  This has nothing to do with the fact that as soon as our little Spud starts running a fever he inevitably climbs into my lap, I squeal, "Oooh!  Cuddles!"  and bury my face in his hair.  Nothing at all.

With this method comes the fear of things like febrile seizures.  None of our children has ever had one, but I can just imagine the phone call to the doctor if Caedmon was the one who did.  They'd ask what kind of medication we've been giving to treat his fever, and I'd have to say, "Um, none."  They'd ask why, and I'd have to tell them that I've been purposely withholding Tylenol from my sick son.

Now, before you fill yourself with some holy, righteous indignation, let me tell you that I will give him Tylenol during the day if he seems over-the-top miserable for awhile, and I always give him Tylenol at bedtime.  It's hard to sleep when you don't feel well, and I feel like lots of rest is important to recovery.  I will also dose him if his fever is getting high enough to frighten even me.

I talked to a friend yesterday after Caedmon fell ill, and she asked if I was going to take Caedmon to the doctor.

I was confused.  Why would I take him to the doctor?

Keep in mind that I didn't get to go the doctor when I was a kid.  My mom is a nurse.  We only got to go to the doc if we had cholera or tuberculosis.  I never had either of those, so I stayed home.

She didn't withhold Tylenol, like I do.  But she did wield a spray bottle.

My youngest sister, Steph, got to visit the doctor all the time.  She has a seizure disorder, the lucky duck.

When they wanted to test her little kid brain, they'd hook her up to all kinds of fun stuff to see just what was going on in there.  Oh, but before they did that, they wanted her good and sleep-deprived.

That meant she often had to stay up the night before the test.  Kids often tell you they don't want to go to bed- they're not tired!

They're lying.  Don't believe them.

My other sister, mom, and I would take shifts throughout the night, staying awake with Steph, trying to keep her from sneaking off to the bathroom, locking the door, and falling asleep on the floor in front of the toilet.  Let me tell you, I got really good at unlocking that door from the outside with a bobby pin.

Mom had the best job of all, driving Steph to the doctor's office the next morning.  The neurologist was, of course, located in Wichita, an hour's drive to the north.  Imagine having to stay awake all night long, then trying not to fall asleep on a monotonous, 60-minute drive past cows, fields, and an occasional tiny town.

Of course Stephanie kept falling asleep.

In response, Mom would spray her with a water bottle that we usually kept by the ironing board and yell at her to wake up.  While driving.

I love this mental picture.  It always makes me laugh.

To sum up, I tend not to feel too guilty about my treatment of our sick children.  Sometimes moms have to do things that might seem strange to other people.  Like withhold their medication, or spray them in the face with water.

Judge away.





Update:  I wrote this post this morning, when Caedmon and Atticus were both sleeping in.  Shortly after publishing, Caedmon awoke, and I went upstairs to get him.  He still had a fever, but of more concern to me was the red, raised rash that was covering so much of his body.  I called my mom.  She said that it was likely a virus and that although we didn't need to go to the doctor (of course), some tylenol might help, as would some children's benadryl.  Her consult combined with Caedmon's extreme fussiness and plaintive cries of, "Owie!  Owie!  Owie!" caused me to immediately cave and give him some meds.

What can we learn from this?  You really shouldn't listen to anything I say.

But you already knew that.

Books, Glorious Books

At least once a week, Adelaide asks me questions about what our lives were like before she was born.  Most of civilization divides time between "BC" and "AD," but for Adelaide it's "BA"- Before Adelaide, and "AB"- After Birth.

I mean after the birth of Adelaide.  Not actual afterbirth.  Ew.

One of her favorite topics is that of me working.  She seems fascinated by the thought of my having a job and being involved in something that had nothing to do with her.  As a result, I tell her all about what kinds of things I did and what kind of people I came in contact with.

I worked in a bookstore.  I tell her about being surrounded by books every day and working with people who love books.  We both sigh in contentment at the thought.

I tell her that someone once compared the employees of this bookstore to the Island of Misfit Toys.  It was filled with slightly socially awkward people chortling over geek humor and trying not to judge the parents buying "Gossip Girl" books for their young, fragile daughters.

I felt like I fit right in.

I knew I was going to enjoy working with my fellow bibliophiles when loading a bookcase with the then-current best-seller The Da Vinci Code.


I had read the book, and listened in confusion as so many people around me- even those who read a lot of books and have good taste in fiction- lauded the story and gushed about how great it was.

I didn't get it.  Part of the problem is that I prefer character-driven stories.  I don't care how intricately knotted your plot is, if you populate your book with flat, cardboard characters, I'm not going to like it, because I'm not going to care what happens to the people in it.  Hence my distaste for The Da Vinci Code.


I had just finished straightening my display when one of my new co-workers paused as she walked by, tapped the cover of the book, and said, "What a load of crap, huh?"

We got along swimmingly.

I also appreciated the opportunity to work with customers who loved books.  Of course, not everyone who walks into a bookstore loves to read, but even they appreciated help and were considerate.

Except for that one contingent.  Let's call them a subgenre, given our topic.  They were the ones who would respond to your offer of help by immediately declaring, "Oh, I don't read," in a voice dripping with disdain, which would invariably prompt the thought, Right.  Because why would you want to raise what is obviously a hopelessly low IQ?


Now, I realize that not everyone loves books.  That's okay.  Some people prefer television or Twister or pinochle.  But don't come into a bookstore and make it clear that you think of yourself as above me in some phantasmagorical hierarchy you've created, okay?  It's rude.

I try to leave that kind of stuff out when I'm talking to Adelaide.  She doesn't need her mother's baggage along with her own.

Speaking of baggage, have I told you about her newest fear?  It's a little thing called first grade, and she has convinced herself that it's going to be just horrible.  She was fine until she discovered that her Kindergarten teacher will not, in fact, be accompanying her throughout elementary school with the sole purpose of educating Adelaide Crisler.  I tell ya, the nerve of some people...

'Member That Time?

'Member that time (um, two weeks ago) when Adelaide and I were out weeding the flowers beds in the front yard and marveling at the size of one of our trees?  I don't know what kind of tree it is or exactly how big it is, but suffice it to say it's some kind of conifer and it is gigantic.  Adelaide started fretting that the tree might fall and smash our flowers, and I absentmindedly replied, "Honey, if you're going to worry about that tree falling, you should be worried about it crushing our house, not the flowers."  Now we get to hear her say things like, "I hope the tree doesn't fall and smash our house while we're at church," and "I hope the tree doesn't fall, smash our house, and kill us tonight while we sleep."



Don't you just love projecting your own fears onto innocent children?









Check out 'Member That Time Monday at the Van Voorst's.

'Member That Time?

'Member that time I asked my Dad what the boogeyman looked like? 

'Member how I was only really asking because I was little and wanted reassurance that the boogeyman didn't really exist?

'Member how instead of getting that reassurance, my Dad drew me a realistic portrait of the boogeyman?  Unfortunately for me, he has a reasonable amount of artistic talent, and sketched a picture of a thin-faced man wearing an ivy cap, with hooded brows over mean eyes, hollow cheeks, thin lips gathered in a scowl, and a long chin. 

I then knew exactly what was lurking outside my window just beyond my range of vision, who was hiding in the recesses of my closet, the person that was cloaked in darkness under my bed.

I have no idea whatever happened to that drawing-  not that I need it.  That image is forever burned into my long-term memory.


Check out the Van Voorst's for 'Member That Time Monday.

'Member That Time?

'Member that time I made the mistake of turning on the television during Adelaide's naptime?

Adelaide was about a year old.  We were living in Connecticut.  Derek was at work, Adelaide was down for her afternoon nap.  I don't watch a lot of tv, but for some reason I decided to turn it on.  The first thing I saw was a 30-second preview for a remake of "The Omen."  I turned the tv off.

When I was younger, I watched all kinds of horror movies.  I thought they were more funny than scary, and when I did get scared, I just thought it was a delicious kind of fun. 

Then I grew up and turned into a pansy.  I don't watch horror movies anymore.

Back to that afternoon in Connecticut. 

I knew that watching that preview was a mistake.  I guess the movie is about a little boy possessed by (or just is?) the devil.  It made me shudder and want to watch something completely benign like Pollyanna. 

Soon after this Adelaide wakes up from her nap.  I've still got devil-boy on the brain, and this, of course, leads me straight back to my old friend paranoia.  Only this time it involves my own cherub-faced girl.

 

I find myself watching her out of the corner of my eye, just waiting for her head to start revolving in 360-degree turns or for her eyes to take on a tell-tale red sheen.

I'm afraid of my own daughter.

I would really prefer to forget that time.  It was one of the creepiest afternoons of my life.




'Member That Time Monday.  Van Voorst's.  Go.

'Member That Time?

'Member that time I had to miss my fourth grade two-day field trip?

My third- and fourth-grade class had spent months preparing for this field trip.  My awesome teacher, Mrs. Yount, tied all kinds of lessons into it's preparation- reading maps, figuring mileage, Kansas history lessons, etc.  Along with the rest of my class, I was so, so excited to be going not just on a field trip, but an overnight field trip across Kansas with my fellow Lutheran youngsters.

It was the day before our departure, and I remember being at home in the evening, in my room, listening to my Garth Brooks tape.  My baby-sitter, Kari, had introduced me to Mr. Brooks the previous summer, and because in my mind Kari was the epitome of All Things Cool, I was listening to a lot of Garth Brooks at that point in time.  I was especially fond of the song "Burning Bridges."

I went to bed that night, bags packed, ready for the next day's adventure.  And I had one of the most vivid, scary dreams of my childhood.

In the dream, I was running around on a flat, two-dimensional, and enormous map of Kansas.  It was completely dark around me, but I was able to see because of the monstrous flames surrounding me.  The only way to escape the fire that was consuming Kansas was to go over one of the many bridges covering the map.  These were small, wooden, arched and otherwise quaint-looking bridges- the kind you'd see in someone's backyard or garden.  The only problem was, every time I'd run over one of these bridges, it would burst into flames and collapse behind me.  I was dashing around, trying to find a way through the inferno, running out of bridges, when I woke up.

It was just a nightmare, not real after all.  A vicious fever dream.  I was sick, and had to stay home.  I couldn't go on the field trip.

I still haven't ever been to the World's Largest Hand-Dug Well, nor have I ever seen the World's Largest Meteorite.  These items were located in Greensburg, Kansas, which was victim to a massive tornado in 2007.  The museum was destroyed (that's right, there was a museum for these popular Kansas-style tourist attractions), but the well survived, and the meteorite was later recovered in the rubble. 

Someday, I will venture forth to Greensburg, and will get to see for myself the wonders that my classmates witnessed.  I swear, they talked about it for weeks.

What's that?  You want to go with me?




It's 'Member That Time Monday over at the Van Voorst's.

'Member That Time?

'Member that time, my first day at my new part-time job in high school, when I waited on an older gentleman?  'Member how I rang up his purchase and announced the total, $19.23?  'Member how instead of digging out his wallet, as I had expected, he stared off into the middle distance and said, "Ah, 1923... that was a good year."  'Member how I just smiled politely and tried to look as if I agreed, when in reality I was thinking, "Holy guacamole, how old are you?"
'Member how working with the older generations turned out to be one of my favorite parts of working in a drugstore, in no small part because they were always saying stuff like that?

It's 'Member That Time Monday at la casa de Van Voorst.

'Member That Time?

'Member that time I was in seventh grade and had been gathered with my fellow classmates into the commons of my middle school?  After having attended a Lutheran parochial school my entire childhood, I had only been at the public middle school for a few months, and was thus one of the newer kids in my class of 200+ people.  Many people seemed to know of me, though, as the school nurse's daughter.  'Member how, that day, I watched with naive curiosity as that same school nurse came into the room where I had been corralled?  'Member how curiosity turned to horror as she began pulling out visual aids and I thought, "No... no way... she would have told me... warned me.."?  'Member how the glances of the people around me turned to outright stares and snickers as my Mom, the school nurse, then launched into what felt like an hours-long session of sex education?  'Member how it got even worse when she concluded the lecture by letting my fellow hormone-crazed hostages write anonymous questions on slips of paper, and then she answered them in front of everyone, and I got to hear words and phrases come out of my mother's mouth that no one should ever have to hear? 

Someday I may even forgive her.

Link up with Paige and create your own 'Member That Time here.