Corn is one of the most indestructible elements on the face of the earth. At one time it was on Mohs Scale of Hardness, but was later replaced by Conundrum. Or something like that. Which is a good thing because had it stayed on the list, your birthstone might be corn. It’s true. I would not make up something as serious as that just to amuse myself.

Anyway, you don’t need Moh to tell you about the properties of corn. You’ve eaten corn. You know that it can pass through the length and breadth of your digestive tract unblemished, unscathed and in tact. I became acutely aware of this fact soon after feeding the little boy corn for the first time. From the changing table, I called to Antique Daddy, “Dude! Get in here! You gotta see this!” He never falls for that.

Since then, I have learned that corn can even hold up to the most stringent of wash cycles – the setting that I call The Last Chance Cycle — hot and harsh. But this is not the time to bring up Antonio Banderas, this is about laundry. Anyway, that which emerges from The Last Chance Cycle  unrepentant and uncleansed is cast into the rag bag of damnation and destined to wash cars and mop up the unspeakable for all eternity. Be warned. It only takes one indiscreet fling with chili sauce.

I bring up the fascinating topic of corn for a reason.  As I’m pulling some clothes from the washer yesterday, I notice there is corn on everything. And I wondered from whence does this corn come? I did not remember opening a can of corn and dumping it in the washer. But I’m a 46-year-old woman with a toddler, so I don’t remember a lot of stuff. Nonetheless, being the logical and scientific CSI person I am, I began to seek clues. So I yelled out, “Hey Dude! Did you put corn in the washer?” And oddly enough, he did not even bother to dignify my question with a response.

I continued my investigation by checking pockets, which based on previous laundry experience, was probably a dumb thing to do. I hear of women who pull out ten dollar bills and even lottery tickets from pockets while doing laundry. I pull out things that breathe. And now? Corn. Someone, and I won’t name names here, had apparently filled his pockets with corn at the dinner table last night. On the bright side, it’s unlikely that I will be seeing corn on the changing table again, as it appears that none of it made it into his mouth.

In our next episode of Great Laundry Mysteries, I ask this question: How is it that a kleenex will disintegrate in your hand while dabbing a runny nose, yet survive a Last Chance cycle no worse for the wear?

My theory is that kleenex is made of corn.

This post was originally published in April 2006.

Sean has never been much of an eater, but when he was around 18-months old eating stopped almost entirely.  Somedays we are lucky to get five calories in him.  We try not to worry about it because watching us nervously wring our hands at the dinner table has not increased his appetite.  Wise people say when he’s hungry he will eat.  Wise people are wrong.

In an effort to encourage eating, we tell Sean that if he hopes to grow up to be big, he’s going to need to eat something — specifically something not made of orange dust or coco/fruity/frosty/gummy/happy stuff – something with protein to build bones and muscle, something like meat.  

Apparently he has been giving this concept some consideration because the other day we had this conversation:

 “Mommy, I’m going to start eating MEAT like you so I can be big –  like you!” 

“You eat MEAT all the time and you are willy willy big (holding hands out in front of him in a big circle.” 

“That’s fabul  ….. hey, I’m not that big.” 

“You eat sooooo much MEAT!  You eat hamboogas and pork chops and ham and wunch meat and woast beefs and chicken and hamboogas and…. (pauses to think up other varieties of meat) you are big Big BIG!” 

“Look dude, I’m not that big.  Okay?  According to the insurance charts, I’m average.” 

“Oh no mommy – you are SO big (again with the hands in the big circle) because you just eat meatmeatmeat all the time.” 

“You are big MEAT-eating BIG!” (making a circle from front to back like a hula hoop).

“Go away before I eat you.”

We were at a restaurant recently and Sean was busy playing with the poison pink/yellow/blue packets. He was angling to dump one or seven packets into his drink, my drink or anyone else’s drink that was within reach.

AM: (removing the chariot of aspartame to a nearby table): Sean, stop with the packets.

Sean: Why? Papa Ed drinks sweet tea. I want sweet tea like Papa Ed.

AM: You can have some sugar if you want, but this stuff — it’s not good for you. We don’t eat it. We only eat the natural stuff that God made.

Sean: Oh! Like Cheetos!

AM: Touche my friend. Well played.

You must be at least 4-feet-tall to ride this ride. Please remain sedated seated and keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times. Do not attempt to exit the ride until happy hour it has come to a full and complete stop.

7am: Aaaaw! Look at him sleeping. What an angel! I adore him. How lucky I am to be his mother.

8am: You wanna wear this shirt? No? Okay, don’t cry. How about this shirt? No? Please, don’t cry. How about this shirt? No? Okay. You’re crying. Don’t cry.  You want to wear this? Okay, but that’s not a shirt, it’s a bandana. This is not a fun game. I don’t want to play anymore. It’s someone else’s turn to be the mommy. I want to be the lady who goes shoe shopping.

9am: Ooooh! Thank you for the kiss my sweet little soldier. I wuv oo too punkins! It’s so great to be a mom!

10am: What do you mean mommy’s purse is in the toilet? WHAT was I thinking having a kid? I have no business having a kid. I shouldn’t be left in charge of anybody with less than four legs!

11am: Aaaaw-uh! Look at him quietly watching Elmo, his little eyeballs glued to the TV. He is such a good boy! I love being a mom!

Noon: Why is the VCR smoking? You did WHAT? You put your juice box in the VCR? Good gravy I’m not even a competent baby sitter – what am I doing with a kid?!

1pm: Aaaaaw! Look at him sleeping! My precious boy! What a blessing it is to be a mother!

2pm: Throwing Macaroni and Cheese is NOT an acceptable form of dissent! DO YOU hear me buster? Neither is throwing the spoon! Neither is throwing…. Okay! O! K! FOR YOU MY FRIEND! I am not mother-material! I do NOT! look good in Macaroni and Cheese!

3pm: Aaaaaaw! Look at him coloring in his coloring book. How he loves to color! He is artistic like me! Motherhood is so rewarding.

3:05pm. X#%*&! That’s not a coloring book! That’s my new book on Post-Impressionist painting! So help me! Whose kid is this?

5pm: For the 10th time, I don’t know WHY, okay? I don’t know the answer to anything! Is my shift over yet? This wasn’t on the motherhood syllabus!

6pm: Aaaaaaw! Look at my precious boy helping mommy set the table for dinner. What a good boy. Being a mom is such a joy. Hey can you bring the spoons back please? Hey… where ya’ going with those spoons. Hey….

7pm: It would be better if you kept the bath water in the tub. The water needs to stay…. I’m just saying…. What the hell AM I saying? I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. Am I still speaking English?

8pm: Aaaaw! Look at him sleeping in his little footsie pajamas like a little mookie wookie! He is so darn cute I can’t stand it. I adore him. I wish I had ten more just like him! Being a mom is the greatest thing ever.

Please watch your step as you exit the ride. The next ride starts tomorrow at 7am.

* * * *

This post was originally published in October of 2006.

“Mommy can I have some Jello-O”

“No, not right now, it’s 7 o’clock in the morning.”

“Well then I don’t wudz you anymore.”

“You can have some yogurt if you want.”

“Oh! Okay! I wudz you again.”

First of all, thank you all for your kind words and comments and support about my previous post. Blogging is the only thief that takes so much (time) and returns so much more (love, support, community, conversation). So I sincerely thank each and every one of you.

Second – I really and truly don’t think it was a personal slight. In fact, I am sure it was unintentional. Suzanne’s comment struck a chord with both Antique Daddy and I as we read through your comments. The “unintentional slight” played on our biggest fear that because he is quiet and reserved and polite and generally cooperative and not one to be “in the teacher’s face” that he will go unnoticed and overlooked and shuffled to the bottom of the deck.

Third – This is not really a situation that warranted open confrontation, especially given the fact that I am so bad at that kind of thing. Yes it was hurtful (to me, Sean was oblivious) but operating on the theory that it was not intentional, I did take the opportunity to seek more information from the teacher. The information I received did not make me feel better, but I did voice my feelings and that’s that. I also have a voice here and you all have made me feel better and now it’s time to forget it and move on.

Fourth – It was a school-wide video, so I know that Sean’s teachers did not put the video together, they only contributed the pictures. When I spoke to her about it, she said there were two pictures of Sean. I only saw one, but there could have been two. However I know for certain that I did see two pictures of other children before I ever saw one of Sean. The first picture I saw of Sean was three songs into the video.

Fifth – My observation about Sean’s teachers is that they have been kind and loving towards him.

Sixth – We are constantly considering home schooling vs. public vs. private education. It is a huge decision to determine who will influence and teach our child and we are in prayer about it.

Sean’s second school year has come to a close.

Antique Daddy and I attended the closing ceremonies that included a video montage of snapshots of all the kids taken during the school year and set to music. I was surprised at how the video affected me. It evoked in me a stinging, sloppy, messy welling up of tears — tears that seem to have been jerked up out of their sleep from the deep dark underside of my soul. Unfortunately the tears were not for the same reasons as last year or for the sweet and sentimental reason’s that you might imagine.

The one and only reason a parent attends an event like this is to see a picture of their kid up on the big screen. And I am no different. Even though I have sixty spajillion pictures and as many miles of video of my child, I wanted to see Sean on this video. It meant something more to me than what I understood.

As the video started, I straightened my posture, sat on the edge of my seat, trained my eyes on the screen like a Golden Retreiver waiting for a treat and anxiously waited for the image of my precious boy to appear. After three songs and the faces of every other child in the school had flashed before my eyes, I began to feel a bit uncomfortable. I remained hopeful and did not avert my eyes from the screen. Two and three pictures of other children were shown – not that I was counting — okay I was counting – but no Sean. Had he been forgotten? How could that be?

Tears began to sting my eyes. I was fighting the good fight in holding them back. And the more I struggled to hold the tears back, the more I felt a new word must be invented here to describe this feeling. Finally towards the end there was one blurry distant photo of Sean with a look of terror on his face as he stood in the vicinity of Santa. And then the lights came up and everyone applauded. And I bit my lip until it bled.

I felt new word and then I felt silly for feeling that way. Silly. Small. And stupid. And this is only pre-school.

When I was in Wal-Mart recently, I found myself in the row with the curling irons and hair dryers and bows and clips and conditioners and whatever. In spite of a life time of disappointments, I remain hopefully (or delusionally) convinced that there is a product out there that will tame my hair. My hair was a Tasmanian Devil in a previous life – perpetually snarly and in a bad mood. And it remains so.

Nonetheless, there I was reaching for yet another curling iron. “Mommy! Put that back,” Sean scolds me from the cart seat. “You don’t need that!” Wonder where he has heard that? I turned my head away from the curling iron and gave him the Are you talkin’ to ME? look.

“Oh really?” I asked. “Well then, I guess we don’t need any toys today either.”

He stopped for a nano-second to consider that and then quickly advised, “You should get that.”

And then he snatched the curling iron from my hand and threw it in the cart.

And thats how we increased our collection of curling irons and Matchbox cars.

Hi. I’m hiding out down here in the archives with a bottle of Merlot and some cheese and crackers. Want to join me? Oh lookee! Here’s a post from last August.

We are officially in the dead of summer here in Texas.

My flip flops have melted into the pavement like bubble gum. What the mole hasn’t destroyed of my lawn, the sun has burnt beyond recognition. I can barely stand the sight of my shorts and tank tops that I couldn’t wait to wear back in April. I have soured on summer. I am ready to break up with summer. If summer were my boyfriend, I would beat him to death with my electric bill. The thrill of summer is gone folks.

Because it has been so miserable outside, Sean and I have been spending a lot of time indoors together. A lot of time indoors together. Which has given us both a bad case of cabin fever, the primary symptom of which is repeating ones self. Repeating ones self.

One afternoon last week, in a state of Freon-induced dementia, I decided to get out our Ryan’s Room Mambo Combo Tent Playhouse and assemble it in the den in an effort to occupy and amuse my child thus alleviating the symptoms of cabin fever and so that I might avoid cannibalizing my child for yet another day. Although my precious little spawn is mighty tasty – a little like cheese enchiladas.

In my mind, my very tiny blonde mind, I imagined my child sitting quietly and patiently nearby assisting me in the construction of Ryan’s Room, handing me the little white framing tubes upon request like a surgical nurse. Delusion is another symptom of cabin fever. Another symptom.

What Ryan doesn’t tell you about his stupid room is that the assembly of the 147 parts requires an advanced engineering degree, the flexibility of a Chinese acrobat and the patience of Mother Teresa. I have none of these things.

Because I am a methodical person when delusional, I dumped out all the parts and sorted them putting all parts of similar shape and size together. Because Sean is also methodical, he resorted all parts of similar shape and size into one big pile, which he stuffed into the bowels of the sofa. Yet, I managed to assemble one whole tent frame without losing it. Too much. It was a feat of engineering and personal restraint.

As I stood back to admire my work, Antique Daddy walked through and asked how I planned to get the frame inside the nylon tent form. Some people are so annoyingly logical. Of course I had a plan. My plan was to curse Ryan and his room and his tents and his mother and father. Then I would locate the nylon tent form, which Sean had filled with Brio train tracks and taken somewhere. Then I would disassemble the frame, afterwhich I would wedge my antique behind into the flaccid boneless yet cheerfully colored tent form and finally I would reconstruct the frame from the inside. Right after I remembered where I last put the Tequila.

So I disassembled the frame, resorted the parts, crawled into the deflated tent and asked Sean to hand me one of the long white plastic rods, labeled A so that I might begin constructing our afternoon of summer fun. As I stuck my hand out to receive Part A, I felt Part A beating me on top the head. Beating me on top the head. And then I lost it. I tried to get out of the tent and have a word about respect with the boy, but I was trapped like an angry cat in a pillow case.

And then I realized I was craving a Margarita and cheese enchiladas.

The other night, Antique Daddy took Sean off to read books and put him to bed while I went off to prostrate myself face down on my bed like a priest in ordination. Sometimes after the end of a day with a three-year-old, I feel like I’ve been riding the Kamakazi on the midway at the fair and all I want to do is lie motionless and alone upon my bed.

As I lay on my bed encouraging and willing the scant remaining energy in my body towards my thumb that was working the remote, I came across a documentary on TLC about a couple who had trouble getting pregnant and decided to undergo infertility treatment. They conceived easily and immediately with twins. After their twins were about a year old, they decided that they wanted “just one more” – and got six instead. So lets see, 2 + 6 = GULP!

And this woman! This woman who bore an entire day care center in her womb — she is not only mother to eight tiny children, but she cooks all the meals from scratch! And she works 16-hour shifts every other Saturday as a nurse! Her one luxury that I could discern is that her husband, who is laid back and easy going and reminds me a bit of Rupert Gee from David Letterman – he brings a cup of coffee to her bedside in the morning. Then he leaves at 7am and returns at 7pm. That’s it. Beyond that she has no help. None. And? She never complains.

She runs her house like a navy ship. She has her day scheduled down to 15-minute intervals and everything is labeled. After she has her coffee, she gets those kids up and put clothes on them. And shoes! Shoes people! Sean didn’t wear shoes until he was a year old. I don’t think I wore shoes until Sean was a year old. Putting on shoes required more energy than I was willing to part with that first year. And when you are wearing your pajamas all day, there really is NO point in putting on shoes.

At one point in the show, they met another couple who also have sextuplets at a local restaurant. I was exhausted just watching them get all those babies into car seats and out of car seats and into the strollers and out of strollers and into high chairs and out of high chairs. The husband tells the camera that they’ve been at the restaurant for two hours and he is just now going to sit down and eat. I’m watching all of this in disbelief that anyone would go to the trouble. Because on me personally, the combination of tired and hungry is very unattractive. Not. Pretty. I probably would have just ordered in pizza, which I could eat without having to put on my shoes, let alone eight other little pairs of shoes.

As I watched the controlled chaos that was her life, I didn’t know whether to be impressed and inspired by her organization and good attitude or to hate her for making me with just my one baby look like a whiney, inert bed slug with a remote.