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  • Best of Antique Mommy Comments

    December 28, 2006

    Yay for you, my marvefabuwonderlicious readers! You made me laugh every day this year with your funny, thoughtful, kind and insightful comments. And so, to solute you and the year that was 2006, I present to you the best of your comments, taken totally out of context!

    * * *

    Pammer – I will NEVER put bologna on a pizza and try to pass it off as pepperoni. Sorry, mom.

    SJ – Every great once in a while you might meet other children who you approve of. But there does seem to be an extraordinary amount of nose-pickers out there.

    M&Co – You know, AM, I’m not sure Dom Perigon and Margaritas actually count as a FOOD.

    Gwen – Chicken wipes are used to clean up baby chicken bottoms. Did you not know that?

    SJ – When Mark worked for a smaller airline years ago, he used to fly into Mexico. He and the crew were out to dinner one night and Mark tried to order some kind of cheese dip. He added an extra syllable in there somewhere and what he said was “cheese of the ass.” I suspect they might still be laughing at him in Mexico.

    Pieces – You make me want to inhale on my boy. Which is risky business as he is heading into puberty!

    Shannon – YES! I had me some fat-free shag carpet for lunch today. Yum.

    Veronica Mitchell – I once sliced a 1/4 inch deep into my hand trying to open a container of cole slaw at KFC. Those plastic lids are sharp. And cole slaw does not not taste good with blood in it.

    Veronica Mitchell – And when JellyBean gets upsettingly stubborn, I comfort myself with the idea that if we are ever taken over by a totalitarian regime, she will lead the resistance.

    Kelly Jeanie – You’d better hope he doesn’t figure out the microwave. Start watching your back if he does.

    Nettie – If He can turn water into wine, I’m sure M&M’s won’t be a problem.

    Emi – If you really want to be noticed, fall down face first in the Costco parking lot. It really works.

    Sweatpants Mom – Will this method work on grown men, in getting them to ask for directions when lost? Or will they just continue to poop in their pants?

    Kristin – I’ve worn a bucket on my head… but I don’t think a bike was involved and I certainly wasn’t looking as winsome!

    Blog Antagonist – I need a monogram, but I’ve been procreating because I don’t like doctors.

    Veronica Mitchell – Poor kid. . And by that I mean you. It’s like trying to appease a hungry jackal. With a mood disorder. And a megaphone.

    Meredith – May your ice cubes stay put and shoes stay on in the tomorrows to come

    Chilihead – Get out of my head!

    Karla – I’m a boxless wonder myself!

    Heather – …you should publish one of those “read on the toilet” books

    Anne Glamore – If I didn’t lie, I’d have nothing to blog about.

    Mommy Dearest – I hide bags of gummy bears in my closet

    Shalee – Okay, this kinda makes me want to be Catholic.

    Robbin – I figure I can start out by setting his expectations low. Less to disappoint later.

    Jeana- The first paragraph literally made me hoot. Having never hooted before it was somewhat surprising, but I hope to do it again in the near future.

    Big Mama – It’s because once you reach your mid-80’s, you’re fully aware of what makes a good party

    EDJ – My friend Heather is weird like you.

    Kim – I love tuna!!

    Chilihead (in her typically warm and fuzzy way) – And I’d make wassail or buttered rum and not put the damn tree up.

    Big Mama – And nothing usually makes me want a drink more than sitting through the 3 year old musical presentations…at least you looked festive.

    Birdiemom – Insanity runs in some families…. In mine it practically gallops!

    Blog Antagonist – Now, if I could just get them to wipe, I would be a happy woman.

    Happy New Year Y’all!

    ~ Antique Mommy

    Kids Say The Darndest Things

    December 27, 2006

    AM: Sean, do you have poo poo pants?

    Sean: No.

    AM: Are you sure, because I smell poo poo. Come here, let me check.

    (Stands with his back to me and bends over slightly, a pose we call the check for poo-poo-pants stance, one I half way expect airline security personel to add to their arsenal of ways to humiliate the flying public in the coming year. I pull his diaper back to expose the cutest little plumbers crack ever.)

    AM: Sure enough, no poo poo, but I smell something.

    Sean: Must be you.

    Look! A Peemo Boat!

    December 26, 2006

    Photo Temporarily Unavailable

    NOT!

    Even though Playmobil sounds somewhat like Peemo Boat to the untrained ear, it is in fact not. Christmas is as good a time as any to crush the hearts of little children so that they should learn from the great philosopher Mick – you can’t always get what you want, yet you still have to say thank you. I give it six weeks before this non-Peemo Boat and it’s 78 parts finds its way to the trash heap goes missing.

    The most favored toy status has been officially conferred upon the Magna Doodle, a gift from Aunt Annette. Thanks Annette!

    And now, this Christmas season, it is finished.

    Except for the fight over when/how to take down the tree and and the Discover card bill. Those things of Christmas 2006 shall live on into the coming year.

    Glory To God In The Highest!

    December 23, 2006

    Photo Temporarily Unavailable  

       

    and on earth peace,

    good will toward men.

    Luke 2:14

    Premarital Counseling – Now Available At Home Depot!

    December 21, 2006

    A Perfect Post - December
    If there is one thing that defines my relationship with Antique Daddy it is this: gutter covers.Before we were even married, we embarked upon a home improvement project together and in the process, we discovered everything we needed to know about surviving and sustaining a marriage partnership:  Never do home improvement projects together.

    Forget premarital counseling. Before couples are allowed to marry, they should be required by law to complete a home improvement project together. If both parties emerge with all their limbs in tact, then that’s a good indication that they can tolerate being married, having kids and having their gall bladder removed without anesthesia.

    I met Antique Daddy in the fall of 1996 and as it happens in the fall, the leaves had fallen off my trees and my neighbor’s tree and all the trees in Arkansas, Louisiana and Oklahoma, and into the gutters on my house. Being a childless person at the time, I had more time than sense and things like scrubbing the grout around the toilet and removing leaves from the gutters were on my To Do list. Now my To Do list includes things like brush teeth, bathe, sleep. I am all about goals these days.

    And so.

    One day when Antique Boyfriend was over at my house, I mentioned that removing the leaves from my gutters was on my To Do list and that I thought I would buy some gutter covers so that I wouldn’t have to clean my gutters every year. His eyes lit up as visions of power tools danced in his head. So off we went, hand-in-hand to Home Depot in search of true love and gutter covers.

    When we got to the gutter covers department, as luck would have it, I saw — gutter covers! And I was elated. And like the Ethiopian eunuch in Acts 8:36 who said, “Here is some water! Why not be baptized now!?” I said, “Here are some gutter covers! Why not buy them now!?” And I put them in my cart and skipped happily toward the checkout lanes. There’s nothing a girl loves more than a cart full of gutter covers!

    Cue sound of a needle dragging across a record – Skreeeech!

    Antique Boyfriend is not like the spontaneous Ethiopian eunuch, who by the way, was probably a lot more fun to take shopping. Antique Boyfriend needs to study, analyze (notice the root word “anal” in analyze? I don’t think that is a coincidence), read the fine print, go to three stores to comparison shop, take measurements, read up on how gutter covers are made, talk with gutter cover experts, make a spreadsheet and then return to the original store and stand in the gutter covers aisle with arms folded while scratching his chin for three additional hours or until I try to remove my gall bladder with a gutter cover.

    Therefore.

    In the middle of Home Depot, we had a “discussion” about the proper way to purchase gutter covers and I may have even cried. In the name of Bob Vila, was it too much to ask to buy a girl some gutter covers? I think because he wanted to win favor with me because he hoped to eventually sleep with me, Antique Boyfriend acquiesced and we ended up leaving the store with the original gutter covers upon which I first laid eyes and fell in love.

    We went home and attempted to install said gutter covers together, a simple process which involved a ladder, a box of Band-aids, a bottle of Cabernet and more tears. They did not fit or work worth a flip and then I got aggravated, stomped them into an abstract environmental sculpture and then threw them into the garage along with all the other ghostly remains of home improvement projects past.

    Yet we married anyway, because we learned so much about ourselves and each other in the process. We learned that a home without gutter covers is a happy home. We learned that Antique Daddy should be in charge of purchases requiring anal-yzing – cars and gutter covers and that I should be in charge of purchases requiring impulse – gum, lipstick, shoes.

    And we learned why you never see Bob Vila’s wife on the show.

    The Contest

    This morning, Sean and I were putting together a puzzle on the coffee table. We worked side-by-side together in silence for a while and I enjoyed watching him methodically choose, try and then discard ill-fitting puzzle pieces until he found the correct piece. That is so like his father – rational and systematic.

    Then for no apparent reason, he chuckled.

    And so I chuckled in return.

    Then he tried out another laugh, “E-e-e-eeee-ah!” (The Hi-Karate laugh)

    So then I responded with “Ah-ah-ahahahah!” (The Wicked Witch laugh)

    Sean: Ha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a (The Machine Gun laugh)

    Antique Mommy: “Hoo-hoo-hee-hee!” (The Lamaze or The Monkey – depending who is doing it)

    We went through our entire repertoire of maniacal laughs until I finally ended it with the silent laugh, the one where I throw my head back with mouth open wide, but alas, no sound.

    Aside: When I was 16, I worked in a SuperX drugstore and the lady who ran the cosmetics department was a crazy high-miler AARP kind of gal. She always wore a big starchy beehive hairdo and she drew on these big Joan Crawford eyebrows that extended out to her temples and sometimes she managed to get her red red lipstick on her lips, but usually just close. She would always open her mouth really wide and gasp before she said anything, which made everything seem way more dramatic than it actually was. I suspect Edna liked her some drama. Anyway, I stole The Silent Laugh from her. (Thanks Edna!)

    After the silent laugh, he conceded victory with a “Hmph.”

    And then we went back to working the puzzle.

    Systematic and rational he gets from his father. Maniacal laughing and spontaneous interpretive dancing? Those life skills, he gets from me.

    Because My Dad Is All That And A Gourmet Cook Too

    December 20, 2006

    In 1965, I was in Mrs. Kelly’s afternoon kindergarten class at Wanless Elementary School. Because my parents were young and poor, my dad worked nights and my mom worked at a bank during the day. That meant that my dad had to look after me in the morning and get me to school.

    My dad has never changed a diaper or gotten involved in the care and feeding of his kids. Most men of his generation just didn’t interact with their kids like they do today and that’s a shame. But that’s just the way it was. In spite of his nearly queasy discomfort with childcare, he took care of me every school day for an entire year. He fixed my lunch, made sure I had on some kind of clothes and then took me to school in our beloved car that we called Clunker #2 (which was later replaced with Clunker #3).

    Every day before school, my dad boiled a hot dog, put it on a fork and served it up on a Correlle dinner plate garnished with a splotch of ketchup for dipping. I remember sitting at the kitchen table eating my hot dog in silence and watching my dad read the newspaper. He didn’t pay much attention to me, but I didn’t mind. Our relationship has always been about just hanging out.

    After lunch, he would stand me up on the bathroom sink and awkwardly try to wipe ketchup off my face as I flitted and twitched and fidgeted. 41 years later, I now understand the difficulty of this feat. Then in an exercise of futility, he would clumsily try to convince a comb through my unruly hair before we headed out the door for school.

    Looking back, my dad was a pretty sorry mom. He would be the first one to admit that. But I don’t remember it that way. I remember thinking he was a gourmet cook, even after hot dog #83. I remember sitting at the kitchen table and being fascinated with how his soft brown arm hair laid around his wrist watch. I remember sitting beside him on the front seat of Clunker #2 unable to see anything but the dashboard and bumping down North Grand on the way to school. But mostly, I just remember it as being a special time when it was just me and my dad.

    And that gives me hope. It gives me hope that Sean won’t remember my many failings and shortcomings and ineptitude as a parent. But that maybe 41 years from now, he will just remember these days as a special time in his life.

    Remember When…

    December 19, 2006

    I wrote this last year? No? Okay then! Enjoy!

    * * *

    The Tree

    It is December 3rd, 2005 in the year of our Lord, and I am kicking off the season that celebrates His birth by standing on the top step of an 8-foot-ladder, where there is a sticker that reads “Only An Idiot Would Stand Here.” And for those idiots who can’t read, this point is illustrated with a picture of a stick man falling to his death.

    This Norman Rockwell scene is made even more ridiculous by the fact that it’s 80 degrees outside. I am wearing a tank top, shorts and suede flip flops (suede because it’s after Labor Day) and I’m sweating bullets as I try to coax, cajole and contort sparkly wired ribbon into appearing as though it fell effortlessly and naturally from heaven into cascading spirals onto my big fake tree. The thought that I might rather be doing something else, like flossing my teeth with an ornament hanger, crosses my mind. Why oh why do I do this? Because it’s our tradition.

    Two years ago, Sean was due on Christmas day he but came six weeks early. Needless to say, after a C-section and then the stress of having a baby in the NICU followed by the marathon sleep deprivation that comes with a newborn in the house, I was in no position/mood/state of consciousness to get on a ladder and put up a tree. My sister-in-law, Terrye, who is the nicest woman on the entire earth, came to my house and put up my tree that year, and it was never more beautiful.

    There were many nights that first Christmas season that Sean and the dog and I got up for 2am feedings and then snuggled together under the glow of the Christmas tree afterwards. I remember watching him sleep and trying to memorize his face as it looked bathed in Christmas light. I would bend my ear down low and listen to him breathe, amazed at what a miraculous thing that life is. Those are special memories for me. Those are memories I wouldn’t have had if it were not for Terrye putting up my tree.

    Last year I was recovering from thyroid cancer but I managed to put up a tree and all the trimmings anyway. Having been surgically relieved of my thyroid, I had the energy (and appearance) of a Three-Toed Sloth, but it seemed important to maintain a sense of normalcy, which in December means doing too much, spending too much, eating too much and putting up a tree. But again, there were many nights last December when Antique Daddy and I just sat in silence on the sofa with a sleeping boy in our arms watching the lights twinkle on the tree. We didn’t have to look much beyond our noses to find blessings to count.

    So this year, once again, I am risking my life on a ladder to put up a tree because willful and wanton violation of OSHA standards is our tradition. And I am complaining the whole way because that is part of the tradition too. I know that my little family will make precious Christmas memories in the shadow and light of this tree in the coming days of December that I will store up and treasure in my heart long after the season has passed.

    And for that I would stand on anything.

    An Old Friend

    December 15, 2006

    Photo Temporarily Unavailable

    This is my old friend, Sitting Santa $1.39. I bought him the first year I moved to Texas when I was 21-years-old.

    I was poorer than a church mouse in those days, yet I was out coveting shopping on my lunch hour. When you’re 21, nothing has to make much sense and that’s the beauty of being 21. Anyway, I spotted him in a Tuesday Morning and I was enchanted. The box in which he came, which I carefully return him to at the end of every season, has a sticker on it that reads Sitting Santa $1.39, so that’s what I’ve always called him.

    The day I bought Sitting Santa $1.39, I think I had maybe $1.55 in my purse, so I skipped lunch and bought him instead. Like Antique Daddy, I knew the second I laid eyes on him that I had to have him and that he was mine, mine, mine and that we would be together always!

    Every season, I look forward to unpacking him and fluffing out his poinsettias and placing him in the holiday seat of honor, the kitchen window. Unpacking him is like running into an old friend and then realizing how much you’ve missed them. Seems kind of silly that a cheap little piece of ceramic from China could mean so much, could do so much, but it does.

    The past 25 Christmas seasons here in Texas have sometimes been joyous and filled with life and plenty. Other seasons have been sad and lonely and slim. Some years there have been big sparkly heavily-laden department store trees and other years little Charlie Brown trees and a few years no tree at all. But Sitting Santa $1.39 has been the constant in all the craziness that has been my life as a Texan. Sitting Santa $1.39 has helped to make the past 25 Christmas seasons a bit more bright.

    That’s what old friends do.

    The Well-Placed Curse Word Is At The Top Of My New Year’s Resolutions List… Again

    Antique Daddy: I can’t believe the language Sean uses.

    GULP! I get that sickening “Called To The Principal’s Office” feeling in the pit of my stomach. I am mentally beating my breast and tearing my clothes. Where did I put my sackcloth and ashes? I am caught and I am guilty. I knew that one day it would come to this. I knew that one of these days it would come back to bite me in the…. behind. I knew that kids repeat everything. I knew that I had to overcome my love and appreciation of the well-placed curse word. I was in trouble. I cringed and braced myself for a well-deserved rebuke.

    Antique Mommy: (coyly) Oh, really? Whatever do you mean?

    Antique Daddy: This morning, he pulls out your computer lap desk from under the bed and he brings it to me and says, “Look Daddy. This lap desk is similar to yours, only smaller.” How many 3-year-olds use the word similar?

    Sean: (from under the bed) One!

    Antique Mommy: (Heavy sigh of relief — comic relief)

    It looks like item one on my New Year’s Resolution list will be the same as it has been for the past 25 years.