The Avengers

Monkey is afraid of bees. Really, really afraid. I’d go so far as to call it a phobia. So I looked up fear of bees and discovered that it’s called either Apiphobia or Melissophobia. Who comes up with this stuff? Apiphobia sounds believable, but if you tell someone you have Melissophobia they’re going to ask you why the heck you’re afraid of people named Melissa.

Furthermore, if the fear of bees is called Melissophobia then WHAT pray tell IS the fear of people named Melissa called? Beeophobia?

Silly scientific community.

Anyway, it’s hard to get Monkey outdoors in the summer. This is mostly because of his love affair with screens, but the Apiphobia definitely contributes.

The other day Kory came home from one of his strange shopping rambles and said, “I found something that might help our son go outside.”

I expected an insect-repelling bracelet or something. We’ve tried them in the past. But he held up an electricity-charged tennis racket, a bug zapper. Of course, my first question was, “What will it do to people?” I wasn’t born yesterday. Monkey has a little brother who is at times quite vexing. I could see the temptation becoming more than a big brother can bear.

Anyway, Kory assured me it was mostly harmless to humans.

So the other day we planned to take the dog to a nearby field for some exercise. Monkey raised his usual objections (bees!), but Kory pulled out the bug zapper. Thus armed, our less-than-intrepid 11-year-old stepped out into the wilderness of suburbia.

As you might guess, having the bug zapper prompted Monkey to search out bugs for annihilation. But it’s spring in Colorado. We’ve had approximately two and a half warm days. There weren’t a lot of bugs roaming the sidewalks. And turns out it’s hard to angle the electrified racket to zap a tiny ant.

We trudged out of our neighborhood and into the grass and packed dirt of the nearby field. Monkey kept his eyes on the ground, searching for victims. And then, a big black beetle ambled across the path.

Monkey froze, zeroing in on the bug. He yelled for his brother to come. They hovered over their target, exited, blood-thirsty.

You see, the beetle was exactly like the one who viciously killed Monkey’s roley poley last October while we were out for a walk. They resurrected the travesty of the roley poley’s demise and pinned it on this beetle representative.

Things went a little Lord of the Flies. Shouts of “The roley poley shall be avenged!” rang out. The racket was raised. Chunky had found a trident-like stick which he waved in the air in support of his brother’s campaign.

I thought, this is a good time to teach them about appreciating nature, the sanctity of life, the fact that vengeance belongs to the Lord.

Then I walked away. I can’t justify it. I just did.

Whoops, hollers, and the distinct zip of electricity followed. I cringed as they shouted, “We are avenged!”

I joined Kory up on top of the hill, ready to lay the blame for our vicious children on his Y chromosome contribution. I found him scooping up another black beetle from the path. He tossed it into the weeds, saving it from the oncoming monsters.

The boys joined us, pink-cheeked and triumphant. Monkey held up the racket. “It works, Dad!”

Then he handed his weapon, his defense against bees, his “safety net” to me and ran off to play with the dog.

Demons in the Drains

In my last blog I was looking forward to being Human Again in April. Well, it’s April and I’m not human yet.

Many of you know I’m trying to finish my young adult urban fantasy novel for a conference this month. Progress is good. I’m at around 96,000 words and closing in on the finish, but there have been a few hiccups in my real world.

At the end of March I took my mother in for what we thought was a detached retina. After two doctor visits, we were told she’d had a stroke and would never regain the vision she lost in her left eye.

Mom is very positive about the whole thing and thinking of designing a line of bedazzled eye patches for her online Dragon Lady Shoppe. We also thought about dressing her bunny up as a parrot to go with her new pirate look. Our poor pets probably don’t have a clue what animal they actually are.

We don’t know much more about Mom’s condition as we are waiting to have tests and get results back.

So we managed to get through our crisis and Spring Break which is always a bit of a crisis too, and get back on track. Then Kory went on a business trip.

In just a little over 24 hours:

1. I got one of those calls from the school. “My son said what? MY son?! Put him on the phone!”
2. The boys’ toilet spewed water all over the bathroom. I suspect a poltergeist. Now that they no longer flush toys and plastic cups, I fail to see what biodegradable substance could’ve caused such an epic clog.
3. We had a blizzard.
4. The dog took allergy medicine. She seems fine and not once has she complained of a runny nose, sneezing, or itchy eyes.
5. The kitchen sink clogged. Poltergeist again?
6. Monkey came down with a virus.

 When Kory texted that he’d landed in Denver I told him both boys were in bed with me (Monkey sick, Chunky had a nightmare) and that he should just find a hotel room. My exact words were, “Save yourself!”

He came home anyway. Good because he fixed the sink. Bad because three adult-sized bodies (plus allergy-free dog) in one bed does not make for a good night’s sleep. At least we managed to get Chunky back to his bed.

My husband teased me that he couldn’t leave me alone for one night. He knows I can handle things, it’s just that when Kory’s away, the poltergeists come out to play.

I know I’m not the only one who’s experienced disaster while my spouse was gone. Please, share your stories. It’s a less violent way to relieve stress than attacking said spouse the moment he or she returns.

Nothing Says "I'm Sorry" Like . . .

So Chunky had a fight with his special friend. He came home Tuesday with a disjointed tale of lunchroom rejection. I gave him the “Sometimes Girls Need Space” line, which I’ve used on him more frequently this school year.

I expected it to blow over, but the situation escalated yesterday. His teacher even called me, disbelief in her voice, to say that Chunky’s friend accused him of calling her stupid. We agreed it didn’t sound at all like him but that we weren’t getting the full story.

I talked to Chunky who said it was all a misunderstanding, then I talked to his friend’s mom, who had a few more pieces to the puzzle, but was also perplexed. We agreed to talk to our feuding kiddos individually then allow them to work it out on the playground.

After some discussion, I suggested to Chunky that he draw his friend an “I’m sorry” picture. He liked the idea but chose bedtime to create his work of art.

I slumped into his room, aggravated that he was still drawing at his little table when I wanted to tuck him in bed and catch an episode of Big Bang Theory. He eagerly showed me his drawing, a comic book style page of stick figures and captions divided by a giant SORRY across the middle. Chunky pointed to the first strip.

“See, Mom, he has a gun.”

“What?!” I glowered at the stick thug.

“It’s ok.” Chunky pointed to the next frame. “See, he drops it and the other guy says, ‘Phew!’”

“GUNS ARE NOT APPROPRIATE FOR ‘I’M SORRY’ PICTURES!”

Chunky turned wide eyes on me. “But…he drops it.”

I dug my hands in my hair. Where were the rainbows and hearts necessary to placate an 8-year-old girl?

 
Chunky moved on to his second story strip. Two stick figures, one with long scribbled hair, stood beside a giant ice cream cone. The boy’s stick arm ended in a clumpy fist.

At least the ice cream was a good move. I pointed to one of the cones. “Why is there ice cream here?”

“That’s not ice cream. It’s a tree.” Chunky pointed to the next picture where a caption above the boxer-fisted boy read ‘Nope,’ and explained. “See, she’s thinking ‘You wouldn’t hit a girl, would you?’ and he says, ‘Nope,’ and he hits the tree instead.”

*face palm*

This had to be the most violent apology in the history of greeting card expression.

I decided to give up on the tree abuse (it was nearly 9:00 and no actual trees were harmed), but I couldn’t let the gun thing go. I don’t think I managed to fully communicate to my little boy why guns just don’t say “I’m sorry,” but finally I convinced him to replace the gun with a snake. Less violent. Still troubling. Especially considering Stick Boy dropped the snake in the next picture.

I thought bedtime was in sight, but Chunky started adding words to the giant SORRY in the middle of the page. I leaned closer and almost groaned aloud as he spelled out, “you misunderstood.”

I can only hope his little girl friend doesn’t yet have the emotional maturity to realize that Chunky didn’t actually apologize. In fact, as most women know, in the heat of an argument the words “I’m sorry you misunderstood” can sound a lot like “You’re stupid.”

But he didn’t mean it that way just like it never occurred to him that fight scenes don’t convey repentance and hope for a happy future.

Next time, I’m going to recommend he skip all personal communication and go straight for flowers and chocolate. I owe it to his future relationships.

Heights, Trains, and Water Goblets

I’ve decided that you really get to know a person when you’re on vacation. Since we don’t go on vacation in our family, we’re all practically strangers. A couple weeks ago we had a mini holiday. Kory took a record TWO days off from work, and on Thursday we drove to the Royal Gorge with the kids.

I admit to being afraid of heights but my cowardice blossomed when it was time to cross the bridge. We'd already ridden over it once on the trolley, which wasn't so bad. The trouble came when it was time to go back and the trolley didn’t arrive at the designated waiting area.

And didn’t arrive. And didn’t arrive.

We decided to walk, stepping out onto the boards and heading for the other side. I walked along confidently for a bit, and then my eyes darted to the side as the boys ran up to the railing to look over the edge. I figured out quickly that looking over the edge was not an option for me. I glanced behind me, debated going back to wait for the trolley. I decided against it and started walking faster. Then I made the mistake of looking down at the boards beneath my feet. There are gaps. They aren’t huge gaps, but a sliver of space is all you need to see the deathly drop below. Indiana Jones clips played in my head. I walked faster.

I’d established that I couldn’t look to the side, I couldn’t look down, and looking back didn't help, so I kept my focus in front. Oh my gosh, is that bridge long! I walked faster. In fact, I was now doing that ridiculous wiggle walk you often see paired with unwise spandex use. I wanted to run but held on to a smidgeon of my remaining dignity.

Meanwhile, Kory and the boys were falling farther and farther behind. Not that I looked back. But I occasionally heard a faint “Mom?” coming from behind. I got to the other side, dizzy and out-of-breath, and as I recovered I realized something about myself. When it comes to heights, I will leave my husband and children to the rickety boards and inevitable crocodiles and save myself. I’m not proud, but at least this is useful information to know should we ever find ourselves on another ludicrously high bridge.

The next highlight of our little trip was a train ride on the scenic Rio Grande railway. We spent Thursday night in the town of Alamosa in the San Luis Valley. I’m a little familiar with the valley because I lived in the area from around age 11 to 13 when I threatened to start my own business fermenting potato alcohol if we didn’t move someplace with a mall.

Anyway, we were all excited to ride the train. We stood in the open-air observation car as the train clickety-clacked over the valley toward the mountains. There’s not a whole lot to see on that first stretch of the trip, but Kory and the boys pointed out small, skittering animals, cars broken down in the middle of nowhere and strange dwellings that seemed part trailer, part barn, mostly dust.

But my husband caught me completely off-guard when he sighed and said, “Why can’t I have a junk yard?”

Astounded, I blathered the first thing that came to my mind. “Because you have a wife!”

“I know, I know,” he said, “And I like our nice house. But I want a junk yard, too. A place where I could build cool stuff.”

I had no idea my husband was so keen on scrap metal. The weird thing is, he’s anti lawn art. I mean REALLY anti lawn art. Not that junk is lawn art. But sometimes—a lot of the time—lawn art is junk. I digress.

Perhaps the most startling realization came in the dining car on the train. We hadn’t intended to eat on board, but our original plans fell through and we found ourselves on a restored New York dining car. Monkey, being 10 and male, has never been to a fancy restaurant. I bit my lip as he made his way down the narrow aisle between elegant but cramped tables. Monkey, being 10 and male, has had so many growth spurts in the last year that he literally can’t keep track of his own appendages. We settled in at a vacant table. Kory and I cringed at the overpriced, underwhelming menu, and Chunky complained of a stomach ache. But Monkey grinned and pointed to the intricately folded napkins and elaborate place settings. When the waitress filled our water goblets he picked his up, stuck his pinky out and said, “You’re supposed to drink it like this, right Mom?”

I muttered an incoherent response. Have I mentioned that Monkey is 10 and male? I’m not sure what possessed him to behave like such a gentleman at the table. I can assure you it’s not a regular occurrence despite my constant nagging. Maybe we need to eat gourmet dinners in moving vehicles more often.

So there you have it. I am a gutless coward. My husband is a closet redneck. And my ten-year-old is capable of table manners! Who knew?

So what did you discover this summer?

A Solution for Back to School Shopping

A week or so ago I was asked to blog about a Facebook post I made about crashing a block party. I want you to know I tried really hard to think of a way to talk about our annual visit to The Cool Street that sounded funny not sad. But any which way you look at it, the truth is just pathetic. Every summer, our friends invite us to their block party because on our street nobody talks to us. I don’t think this has anything to do with my husband building coffins in the garage, but I can’t be sure.

So we head a few streets over with a dish to share and kinda lay low, easing into conversations and pretending we belong. But inevitably someone wrinkles their forehead and says, “Now which house do you live in again?” Yes, it’s a bit awkward, but not so awkward that we’d consider not attending.

And there you have it. See, not very funny.

But while we were there, the topic of the kids returning to school surfaced. Collective groans sounded over back to school shopping. You all know I hate buying school supplies. I’ve blogged about this before. While I think teachers truly are saints most of the time, they must experience brief moments of demon-possession when making their school supplies lists. In fact, if one approached a teacher, list in hand, and demanded to know how it was possible to buy a ten pack of washable markers when washable markers only come eight packs, I’m sure the teacher would be genuinely shocked and confused by his or her own unreasonable request.

Nevertheless, school supply shopping usually brings me to tears. So this year, my friend Andrea and I came up with a solution. We plan to have our husbands drive us to Wal-Mart late one night. We’ll sit in the car and drink a margarita and then go in to shop for school supplies. No more stress. No more tears. Just relaxed, mellow, late-night shopping in less-crowded aisles. And when we come out of the store with one eight pack of washable markers and one ten pack of regular markers, and college-ruled notebooks instead of wide-ruled notebooks, and two red folders and three green folders and one blue folder instead of three blue folders, two green folders, and one red folder, our sober husbands will be waiting to drive their carefree wives home. And the teachers won't even notice that our children don't have everything on the list because after all it was Memnoc the Horrible who made the list. Not them.

Everybody wins, right? And best of all Crayola won’t sue me for slander because I started a hate campaign about their marker packaging and quantities.

But, seriously, is back to school shopping as stressful for you as it is for me? Do you have any coping mechanisms? Do you reward yourself with chocolate or a frappucino when it’s done? Have you ever been tempted to shop drunk?

Me versus Sangria

I thought I’d let you all know that I’ve won the Mother of the Year award again. Sorry to all you hopeful, worthy ladies out there, but the deed is done.

Tuesday night was Girls’ Night at my friend Kari’s house. I volunteered to bring Sangria even though I’d never made it before and only had a vague idea of what it was.

Tuesday morning I found a recipe online that said Sangria--or fruity wine punch--is supposed to sit overnight so the fruit has time to infuse. I didn’t have all night, obviously, but I figured if I made it early enough in the day, the fruit would at least have some time to do its job.

For some reason, it took me several hours to reach this conclusion. The morning was gone and my Sangria wasn’t made.

So I headed to the liquor store and grabbed a bottle of white wine and some blackberry brandy. Then I dashed over to King Soopers and loaded up on citrus fruits, strawberries and pineapple.

At home, I set to work uncorking the bottle—usually Kory’s job. I casually twisted the corkscrew in and nothing happened, so I started paying attention to what I was doing. The screw just wasn’t going any deeper. I did what any independent woman would do in such a situation. I texted my husband at work.

If you read my blog at all, you know Kory is used to getting texts from me that display my incompetence in no uncertain terms.

2:54 PM
Me: I can’t get the wine bottle open. I NEED to make the Sangria NOW so it has time to sit. I keep turning and turning the opener and the screw won’t go any deeper in the cork. What am I doing wrong?!

Kory: Sounds like you stripped the cork. Take a pic and send.

Kory: Push down hard while turning. Don’t hold down the handles while turning.

Oooh!

Me: How much further? (I’m sweating at this point.)

Monkey (stole my phone): Yawn. Cookies from Monkey. (Perhaps this make sense if you have ADHD. I don’t know.)

Me (got my phone back): I can’t get it out!!!

Kory: Rock it back and forth.

At this point I realized that it was 3:00 in the afternoon and I was sweating and panicking over opening a wine bottle while both my 8-year-old and my 10-year-old tried to help.

It dawned on me that this was not a personal high point. I thought about going to our neighbors' house to see if Big Strong Matt was home and could open my bottle for me. Then I thought about how that would look and decided against it.

I gave up on that bottle and headed back to the liquor store, fully comprehending that I’d been there only 15 minutes ago and would now walk in, looking desperate and ruffled, to grab another bottle of wine. So I did the only thing I could think to do. I pushed the door open and announced that I’d stripped the cork in the first bottle, and I had to make my Sangria NOW. It was a Sangria emergency.

I grabbed another bottle of white wine and headed to the register where Friendly Neighborhood Liquor Store Owner wrinkled his nose and said, “You use for Sangria? Too sweet.”

I gave him a look that said, “And that’s a problem how?”

Back at home I set to work on the second bottle. Kory got the following text at 3:23 PM.

Me: 2nd bottle already giving me trouble. Gonna cry. Does the screw have to go all the way in?

Kory: You have a better chance if it does.

Me: Was I supposed to take the green paper off first? Should I take the screw out and peel off the paper then try again?

Kory: Do anything that might help.

Me: But will unscrewing it strip it again?

Kory: Not if you’re careful.

Me (hysterical): Is it too late already?

But it wasn’t. I put the screw in the cork and cranked down a few more times and Viola! I got it.

Kory got this picture.

Me: Success

Kory: LMAO. Success has its benefits.

Me: I’ve won the Mother of the Year award again, haven’t I?

Kory: *diplomatic silence*

Girls’ Night was a blast and the Sangria was delicious. I am a little worried about future biographies of my life written by my children and possibly Friendly Neighborhood Liquor Store Owner. He’d probably title it Crazy Lady Use White Wine in Sangria or Suburban Mom Don’t Know Crap.

Love and Mess

The other day my friend Beth Vogt tagged me in her Facebook status which linked to a blog post by Jessica R. Patch. Naturally I checked out Jessica’s post titled “Nothing Says I Love You like Dog Poo.”

Her husband’s brave sacrifice in the face…er...rump of poo made me think of some particularly gross tasks my husband took on for me. I remembered the time Monkey threw up all over our bed after Kory’d gone to work. I tried to clean it up, but being pregnant, my efforts took the situation from bad to worse. I tried to make it to the toilet before I threw up, but I ended up splattering the master bathroom. When Kory came home that evening he had two puke messes to clean up. I’ll never forget him standing on our bed, running the carpet cleaner over our mattress.

But that’s certainly not the only time my husband got stuck with a nasty job. Several years ago we had a family reunion that overlapped with the wedding of two good friends. The day of the wedding, we hosted our extended family for breakfast. My dog thought she was a guest too and snagged some sausage patties, wolfing them down before anyone could stop her. My family headed out to their activities for the day and we left for the wedding. We stopped by the house during a break between the ceremony and reception and discovered that the sausage had violently exited my dog. So Kory, still in his groomsman tux, got down on his hands and knees and scrubbed the floor. He said cleaning up dog diarrhea in a tux was a surreal experience he never wanted to repeat.

Kory came to the rescue again the very evening after I’d read Jessica’s post. As we were getting ready for bed, my sink filled up with water which meant the clog in the drain, which I call Sink Thing, had grown to full-pipe capacity. Now, I’ve made an effort to dislodge Sink Thing in the past, if you can call donning full protective gear and poking at it with a rubber gloved-finger an effort. I’ve also poured Clorox on Sink Thing and shouted at it a time or two.

But Sink Thing remains a fixture in our bathroom. Then one day as I threw my work-out pants over the side of our rarely used bathtub, I discovered that Sink Thing had a friend. A strange little dried-up brown object sat near the tub drain. Naturally I recoiled from the mysterious pellet. Instead of removing it, like a normal person would do, I took to calling it Tub Turd.

We might as well go ahead and pause for everyone to say, “Eww!” Yes, I am a terrible housekeeper.

We continued with Sink Thing and Tub Turd until one day I needed to use my bathtub to launder my pile of handwash only clothes. I braved Tub Turd’s lair and discovered that Tub Turd was really a harmless fuzz ball. I still wore gloves to remove it.

But Sink Thing is another story. I know what Sink Thing is—a gross, sludgy combination of my hair and soap. Why does clean, sudsy soap turn to black goo in the drain? Or stain your grout that slimy pink color? Isn’t that the opposite of what soap should do?

Anyway, back to our evening routine. I pointed out the flooding caused by Sink Thing, and Kory presented me with a long, thin, bendable wire with what looked like a tiny dog brush attached to the end.

I took it from him and frowned. He pointed to my sink, but I already knew what I was supposed to do. Gingerly I plunged my hand into the full sink and inserted the dogbrush end of the tool into the drain.

“You’re going to have to go deeper than that,” Kory told me.

I shot him my best sad puppy dog expression and shoved it another inch or so in and wiggled it around. I nearly gagged when bits of Sink Thing started oozing up into the standing water. About this time, Kory got impatient and came over and crammed the snakey tool all the way down the drain and started hauling up sludge from the u-bend. I stepped aside, suppressing a triumphant grin, and grabbed some paper towels to hand to Kory as he dismembered Sink Thing.

With Sink Thing vanquished and my water draining properly, I gave my husband my best you’re-my-hero smile. I wonder if all those girls who think love is a vampire watching you sleep would be shocked to learn that love is really a thirty-something guy snaking a drain for his wife. Or cleaning up vomit, while she watches from the doorway, one hand on her preggo belly and one covering her mouth. Or cleaning up her dog’s poo wearing a tux because she mysteriously disappeared.

Yep. The grosser the mess the truer the love!

Accordion Awesomeness

I don’t know how you spend your Saturday nights, but Kory and I like to stay hip by hitting the town, eating at trendy spots, and hanging out at the cool clubs. We’re just awesome like that.

Yeah, ok. That’s about as far as I can go with that absurdity. Truth is, we spend most Saturday nights at home doing ultra-exciting stuff like watching TV and begging our children to go to bed.

But this last Saturday night was different. Kory’s parents invited us to the picnic for their senior townhome community.

I know. Try to hold back that raging jealousy monster.

We weren’t just there for the brownies. The scheduled entertainment for the picnic was a husband and wife accordion duo, the same couple who gave my husband accordion lessons when he was a kid.

*cough* Nerd!

Kory’s parents brought pictures from his accordion band days and shared them with the other seniors and the musicians. In an amazing display of wifely solidarity, I kept my snickering to a level undetectable by hearing aids. Actually, as a former bell choir member, I don’t have a stool to sit on in the cool department.

But the accordion players were truly fantastic. They’d had a show in Branson, medaled in international competitions, and were professional entertainers. Our boys really got into their “music from around the world” bit. Chunky kept whispering, “When will they play Scotland?” When they heard his request they played a version of “Scotland the Brave” that would’ve earned a nod from my Scottish aunt.

You couldn’t help but smile as the husband and wife players flirted over their bulky instruments in a practiced routine that was, nonetheless, charming. When the concert was over, Chunky leaned over to Kory and said, “Daddy, you need to get an accordion.” I suggested that Kory could make some real money playing the accordion in bars, particularly if he wore lederhosen. Oddly enough, my introverted husband didn’t jump at this opportunity for extra cash.

As we drove home I told Kory that I felt cheated. Here I am the wife of an engineer when I could’ve been the other half of a dynamic accordion duo. We could’ve been up there, in matching clothes, grinning and winking and one-upping each other as we each played what has got to be the weirdest instrument ever created. Well, second to the bagpipes, of course. And those gourd thingies.

Our whole family was on a fast course to geekdom. Thankfully, when we arrived home our very cool neighbors were hosting a very cool backyard party, playing very cool classic rock and drinking very cool sangria. We crashed the party, regained our slightly cool status, and were saved from a possible future as the Denmark Family Accordion Band.

So, time to share. Did you play an instrument as a kid? Do you still play? Are you a closet pan flutist?

Have you ever seen Boba Fett and Princess Leia in an accordion duel?

The Summer I Lived with a Mime and a Grizzly Bear

Raise your hand if you’ve cleaned slushy out of your car seats in the past two weeks.

Yeah. It’s definitely summer now.

My house is a wreck. I’m out of band-aids. My pantry is empty. I find myself near tears at least once every day.

And, yes, my blog has been neglected.

So here’s what we’ve been up to in the past few weeks.

We had a garage sale and got new-to-us couches. Somehow these two events have resulted in the complete rearrangement of my house. There are toys all over my normally off-limits front room and couches and nightstands in my garage. We plan to move Monkey into his own room this summer so the upstairs of our house is in flux. I’ve decided as long as my bed is where it belongs when I finally fall into it, the rest can just take care of itself.

Chunky, who was wearing all black and obsessed with vampires two weeks ago, has now moved on to mimes. Yes, mimes. He is always demanding that I watch him “stuck in a box” or “walking down stairs.” Unfortunately, he seems inspired to perform while we’re in the car, so every red light has me twisted around in my seat applauding “running while stuck in a booster seat.”

Mimes? Really? Is this better or worse than vampires? You tell me.

Monkey has spent the last few weeks being ten-going-on-thirteen. He is really, really cranky. He sleeps till 10:00 AM then spends the rest of the day trying to meet a caloric quota that would have me wearing a tent by the end of the week. I think he’s also grown an inch since school got out. I tiptoe around the office where he's holed-up and frantically wave food offerings whenever he pokes his head out. It’s a lot like living with a grizzly bear.

So there you have it. If I wrote a book about this summer it would be called The Summer I Lived with a Mime and a Grizzly Bear. I just hope the final chapter doesn’t involve the grizzly bear eating the mime. Maybe the mime will turn out to be a vampire mime and thus an even match for the grizzly bear.

Speaking of writing books, I finally finished this round of edits on The Immortal Heathcliff. I would feel good about this if I wasn’t nauseated by the mere mention of The Book that Tried to Kill Me. I’m excited to get back to work on my dystopian/steampunk novel, provided I’m not devoured by a grizzly bear.

For the writers out there, what does your writing life look like in the summer time?

For the older moms out there, are there any foods that keep a growing boy full longer than five minutes?

For the psychologists out there: 8-year-old vampire mime. Should I be concerned?

Tooth Fairy Drop-Out

Our Tooth Fairy is second rate. I wonder if I could explain to my kids that their fairy dropped out of high school, flunked her entrance exam to Tooth Compensation School twice, and is holding on to her job by a thread of dental floss?

Some of you might remember last year’s Epic Tooth Fairy Fail and the resulting tears from my youngest. Well, I had a chance to redeem myself this weekend.

On Saturday Chunky lost a tooth while getting a haircut. The girls at Great Clips thought this was adorable and made a fuss over him. Being Chunky, he enjoyed the attention tremendously.

We wrapped the tooth in a tissue and stuck it in my purse to take home. Where it stayed. Sunday morning he told me he didn’t get anything from the Tooth Fairy because he’d forgotten to put the tooth in the special little pillow with a pocket. I breathed a sigh of relief, thankful he’d come to this conclusion all by himself.

All day yesterday I reminded myself we had Tooth Fairy duty that night. You’d think I would’ve picked up some cash while I ran errands, but no. Bedtime came and Chunky asked for a piece of paper to write the Tooth Fairy a note.

He composed his letter and tucked it into the pillow pocket with his tooth and a pen for the Tooth Fairy to use to write him back.

We got the boys in bed and headed down to watch Doctor Who, because that is what I’m doing with my life these days. Naturally, I forgot about Tooth Fairy duty until Kory appeared in the bathroom door while I brushed my teeth sometime around 11:30 PM. He held up Chunky’s note and said, “I think this is your department.”

Sure enough, Chunky had written a sweet little letter all about losing his tooth while getting a haircut. He asked the Tooth Fairy to write him a note on the back of the paper.

After a moment of panic, I had an idea. A family friend had given each boy a two dollar bill when they were little. Because the boys didn’t really understand the concept of money at the time, I stowed the bills in my jewelry armoire. Perfect!

I dug out one of the two dollar bills, found a sparkly pink pen, and set to work writing a letter in swirly handwriting that in no way resembles my own. The Tooth Fairy told Chunky how special and rare it was to lose a tooth while getting a haircut and that such an event warranted a special and rare two dollar bill. I tucked the note and the money in his pillow and went to bed.

Tooth Fairy Win!

Right?

This morning when I woke up I put off getting into the shower because I wanted to be there when Chunky found his stash. When he slept a little later than usual, I went in, scratched his back, and let Willie the Heeler “snuggle” him awake.

Finally, he came out of his room and trotted over to the pillow hanging on the banister. (We convinced him to hang the pillow there so it’d be easy for the Tooth Fairy to do her job, hopefully resulting in fewer flub-ups.)

My heart squeezed as he read the Tooth Fairy’s letter and broke into a gappy grin.

Yes! Tooth Fairy Win!

I left him admiring his two dollar bill and headed for the shower.

A few minutes later, I stepped out of the shower to hear a knock on the bathroom door.

“Yes?”

“Mommy?” Chunky said. “Why does my two dollar bill have my brother’s name on it?”

%&$#@&!

"Well, you see, honey, your Tooth Fairy is ‘special’ . . . "

Of Moths and Wild Boys

Moths have invaded Colorado Springs. Most people find them annoying and a little creepy, but here in the Denmark household, they’re something special.

The moths remind me of the summer after Kory and I met. We must’ve had a dry winter in 1997 because the moths took over that spring. I have memory flashes of insect aerial displays at intersections, warm evenings with moth-dotted walls, and fluttery things swarming porch lights. So, as weird as it is, I find our current moth infestation nostalgic and even a little romantic.

Two little Nerf warriors in my house view the invasion with frenzied joy. Most evenings our bedtime routine is hijacked by Moth Wars. The boys pause somewhere in between changing for bed to take up arms and hunt the pests.

Despite the fact that it is extremely hard to hit a moth with a Nerf dart, if I were a tiny, winged creature, I’d be terrified of the shirtless giants and their loud, yellow weapons. But nobody ever said moths were intelligent, and so the battles rage.

My house is strewn with darts. I trip over a Nerf gun every night when I go to turn off their lava lamp. Then I’m startled by the flight of the silent enemy as I return to our bedroom.

But I don’t mind.

The next time the Miller moths invade they’ll bring with them memories of new love and wild little boys who refuse to go to bed. But who will they find? An overworked dad? Likely. A tired mom? Most definitely. Two teenage boys with plans, frustrations, too much homework, and too little sleep? Probably. I just hope that somewhere in those messy rooms, there’s still a Nerf gun or two ready for some action.

Random Utterances from the Bathroom

My youngest, Chunky, is chatty. He wakes up every morning stuffed-to-overflowing with words. He requires the entire day, and countless pairs of listening ears, to empty his language load.

It starts the moment he crawls into our bed in the morning, continues through breakfast, car rides, school, errands, homework, dinner, bedtime routine, reading time, prayers, and goodnight kisses.

And he doesn’t see any reason to stop talking just because he happens to be on the toilet.

This behavior is normal and even cute for toddlers. But--trust me on this--it gets more and more disconcerting the older they get.


If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard “MOM!” from behind the bathroom door. . . And it’s always in that urgent tone of voice that lets you know you’re either going to be running to grab more TP or explaining (again) why blue frosting yesterday equals green poop today.

But more than half the time when I arrive at the door and say, “Yes?” Chunky responds with, “I love you, Mommy.”

Kory and I call this phenomenon “Random Utterances from the Bathroom.” We try not to think too much about why it always occurs to Chunky that he loves his parents while he’s on the toilet. We just tell him we love him too and go on about our business while he finishes his.

So the other day I wasn’t surprised at all to be called to the boys’ bathroom while Chunky took his bath.

I peeked in, ready to hear the adventures of underwater soldiers or washcloth alien creatures. “Yes?”

Chunky looked at me, dripping and wide-eyed, his barely-there eyebrows raised high.

“Mom, I just farted, and I could smell it underwater. I didn’t even know that was possible! I bet it’s some kind of record!”

I was speechless for a moment, but taking my que from Chunky’s animated expression, I stumbled into the appropriate congratulations. I agreed that it probably was some kind of record. But who do you contact to get a momentous event like this recorded for posterity?

In the end, we were forced to quietly celebrate the earth-shattering event with only immediate family present. Then, like so many profound historic moments, it slipped away under the murky waters of time.

photo by Flikr contributor tawest64

The First Step to Recovery

Cooking. It’s complicated. I’m not a foodie. I wouldn’t mind being married to one. But Kory isn’t a foodie. We call our youngest Mini Foodie because he loves to try new foods, but he’s only 7, and black olives are not a meal.

I kind of like to cook, but I think I need to go on a journey of cooking self-discovery. This is a nice way of saying I wish all the opinionated members of our household would find alternate methods of nourishment.

As far as my cooking heritage, I was raised by a recipe-follower, my grandmother, and the queen of improvisation, my mother. This has made me a schizophrenic cook. I tend to follow recipes when we’re having guests over for dinner. Unfortunately, they’re always NEW recipes so dinner, although planned, is still a gamble.

When I’m cooking for the family, I improvise. Take last night.

I’d inadvertently bought chorizo.

“How do you inadvertently buy chorizo, Evangeline?”

“You go to Costco and leave your brain at home stuck in a book.”

I decided to make stuffed mushrooms since Mom and I are doing the low-carb thing. But I had lots of chorizo left over.

What goes with chorizo? Beans, obviously.

What else? Maybe canned pumpkin? I added that.

The contents of my skillet looked, well, brown. I added Rotel tomatoes. Brown and red is a good color combo, right?

That’s about the time I realized that nobody was going to eat my . . . stuff. What does Evangeline do when she’s created something weird for dinner? Try to fix it with something even weirder. I made guacamole with Greek yogurt.

And since I needed something close to normal, I also made breakfast sausage, rice, and cornbread.

By the end of the evening I'd cooked three separate meals, my kitchen was a disaster, and I had heaps of chorizo “stuff” left over. I ended up eating my guacamole with apple slices.

I think I need help. Are there any culinary therapists out there? What am I going to do with the second package of chorizo in my freezer? Should I stop adding canned pumpkin to everything? Is it normal for a thirty-something woman to not really be interested in eating anything but avocados?

Please advise. My family has started coming to the table wearing fight-or-flight expressions.

Turtle Snacking

Moms know it’s difficult to spend a weekend away from home being someone other than MOM. As much fun as conferences and conventions are, there’s always that voice in the back of your mind saying, “Your kids are home eating glue right now.”

It’s not that you really believe your husband will run an errand and forget to take the kids with him. Or let them play with power tools in the garage. It’s just that when you call home to check on your kids it goes something like this:

“Hi, buddy, how are you doing?”

“Fine, Mommy.”

“What are you doing?”

“Watching Mythbusters with Dad.”

“Did you take your bath?”

“No.”

“Did you get dressed?”

“No.”

“Did you have breakfast?”

“YES!”

“What did you eat?”

“Gummy Bears and pudding.”

“Put you dad on the phone please.”

Really, I understand that staying home with Dad is, by definition, an entirely different experience than the every day routine with Mom. And that’s okay. The occasional bowl of Gummy Bears and pudding won’t do too much harm.

But the other day I came home from a long day working at a convention to discover a strange sight. I walked by the turtle enclosure and did a double take. There were corn chips in the turtle’s food dish.

“Who gave the turtles corn chips?!”

To my surprise, my husband answered. “I did.”

I looked from him to our turtle, Roger. (Molly, our girl turtle, is in hibernation, but Roger is too sociable for his own good.)

“Why?” I asked.

“He wanted them.”

I arched a brow at Kory. “Did he ask for salsa, too?”

He gave me a look only an engineer possessed of a quiet but devious sense of humor can. “No.”

We had a brief discussion on turtle nutrition, but I was too tired to hop online and see if corn chips were deadly for box turtles. Apparently, they aren’t.

I dumped the corn chips out of the dish, and the next time Roger surfaced, I fixed him a lovely salad. (Kory teases me mercilessly about my dedication to turtle dinner presentation.)

Roger trundled over, investigated his salad then walked right over the top of it. (He does this all the time and it upsets me, which I tell him, but he doesn’t care.) I figured he wasn’t hungry, but a few minutes later I walked by the enclosure to find Roger digging in his substrate. I leaned closer to investigate and discovered he was eating a piece of chip I’d missed. I texted Kory this picture of Roger and his chip crumb and told him, “Our turtle is addicted to junk food. I blame you!”


I guess next time I call to check I’ll have to ask Roger what he had for breakfast too.

The Boys' Table

On Tuesday Monkey had four baby teeth pulled. I’m not sure why I didn’t realize this would have a significant impact on his diet. Maybe because at the beginning of this week I could only spare brain cells for my novel, WHICH IS DONE!

Anyway, back to Monkey. Except for the back molar on each side, he has no grinding teeth in his upper mouth. The following is a list of foods he will eat, in these, the most trying days of his existence so far:

1. mashed potatoes
2. pudding
3. applesauce
4. jello
5. ice cream

He was inconsolable Tuesday night, knowing he’d have to go to school the next day, until I promised to meet him for lunch and bring the required five food groups.

That is how I ended up sitting at "the boys’ table” in the school cafeteria. On bean burrito day.

There are things women should not have to endure. Bean burrito day with fourth grade boys tops the list. Right up there with being allergic to chocolate and being weighed in front of a panel that includes Angelina Jolie, your high school boyfriend, and your mother-in-law.

As the boys crashed into their seats, lunch trays wobbling in their hands, I noticed bigger than usual grins on their faces. Whispers, punctuated by highly descriptive words, spread from one end of the table to the other. Then delighted laughter erupted as one buzz-cut boy took his seat. But soon after his arrival the other boys pulled their shirts up over their noses. The fact that they continued eating in this position is a tribute to male ingenuity. And Tide with Bleach.

I must’ve looked worried. Or horrified. One boy surfaced from his shirt and told me matter-of-factly, “He has a tendency to let really stinky ones.”

I immediately felt for Buzz Kid's mom. I mean, when your son can intimidate a table full of accomplished farters?—that’s serious.

Needless to say, I gave up trying to eat the salad I’d brought and all but spoon-fed Monkey in my haste to get the pinto outta there.

That night I related my experience at the boys’ table. Monkey informed me that the kid who gave me the skinny on the stinky was the General of the Boys, having been elected to this enviable position by his peers.

Apparently his duties can be summed up in two words: Torture Girls.

Naturally this led to a discussion of peer pressure and whether or not it's right to torture girls just because your friends do. (If you are unclear on this subject, you are probably reading the wrong blog.) Finally, Grandma asked Monkey, “If the general jumped off a cliff, what would you do?”

Monkey looked at her and said, “Get a new general.”

I’m hoping the positions of General of the Boys and Chief Officer of Flatulence never become available. In Monkey’s case, neither campaign has home support.

Ultimate Blog Party Post

Hello All.

I’m participating in the 5 Minutes for Moms Ultimate Blog Party so this will be a party post designed to introduce you to me. Or me to you. Or us to each other. Make sense?

Ok, here we go.

I’m Evangeline Denmark.

I write books (not the one in the middle),


love cheese,


and sometimes have pink hair.


I’m wife to this guy.


Mom to these two.


And ineffective owner of this.


I blog about motherhood, wifehood, womanhood, and writerhood, but never about the hood because that would be rather inauthentic of me.

Although the children’s books I co-wrote with my mom, author Donita K. Paul, have been published (The Dragon and the Turtle, The Dragon and the Turtle Go on Safari), my passion is to write supernatural romance with an eye toward the light.

I hope you’ll get a chuckle and some encouragement from my blog. I believe in lifting up women in any way I can. If you’re visiting, don't be a stranger. If you’ve been here for awhile, then chances are you're a bit strange just like me. If you’re just passing through, there may be hope for you yet.

Birds, Bees, and Baby Squirrels

On our last trip to the orthodontist, Chunky accompanied his brother and me back to the large, open exam room where patients wait in snazzy recliners for their monthly combo of metal and rubber bands.

While Monkey fidgeted in his chair, Chunky looked out the wall of windows. He pointed toward a couple of pine trees near a fence. “Mommy, look. I see two squirrels playing.”

I smiled and said, “I bet it’s a mommy and a daddy squirrel.”

Chunky’s eyes got big and he nodded. “I think it is a mommy and daddy squirrel because I saw them kissing on the lips.”

Without thinking, I said, “Oh, it’s spring time. Soon there’ll be baby squirrels.”

Later that afternoon, I performed my own little spring ritual of lying on the couch with watery eyes closed, desperately trying to escape the misery of my allergy-afflicted sinuses for a few minutes. Chunky arrived on the scene with a whump to my stomach. I knew my attempt at a nap was over but resolutely kept my eyes squeezed shut. Chunky declared, “I love you, Mommy!” and deployed Operation Attack Kiss.

I know families deal with kissing differently, but in ours, the rule is, only Daddy gets to kiss Mommy’s lips. That’s why I jumped when Chunky planted a smacker on my mouth. I gave him the sort of half-hearted reprimand one gives cheeky little boys.

His Adorable Innocence responded, “But Mommy, I had to kiss your mouth so you’ll have another baby.”

Crud.

“Sweetie, that only works with Mommies and Daddies.”

“Oh, well, when Daddy comes home I want you to kiss him on the mouth so you can have another baby.”

Deploy Evasive Maneuver #312: “But why would I want another baby when I have you?”

“I’m not a baby anymore.”

Evasive Maneuver #457: “That’s right, you’re a super fun six-year-old.”

“But I want a brother.”

“You already have a brother.”

Chunky wasn’t having any of it. He kept arguing the merits of lip-kissing and baby brothers until I was out of tricks. Finally, genius struck. I looked him in the eye.

“You know it might not be a baby brother. It might be a baby sister.”

Disgusted silence. Then, “Well, she’d have to sleep in the guest room because our room is full.”

Contest Winner and Some Blog Changes

Just a quick post today to let you all know that Renee won the Saint Patrick’s Day drawing for a copy of The Dragon and the Turtle Go on Safari. Renee, if you didn’t see my comment on your blog, please email your address to evangelinedenmark at msn dot com. By the way, Renee has mad cake decorating skills. Check out this gorgeous cake she made for a baby shower. If I’d been invited, I would’ve brandished a pair of deadly plastic forks and prevented hungry and misguided guests from destroying/eating her art. Perhaps this is why no one invites me to parties anymore.

I also wanted to let you all know that I hope to bring some changes to Breathe In Breathe Out. In an effort to post more often, I plan to incorporate stream of consciousness writing and random selections from the phone book.

Or, if it turns out that Abe Aarnt and Adele Abercrombie don’t want me to post their phone numbers on my blog, I may dig a little deeper for quality content. I’ll still be posting mom humor because, frankly, I need to in order to stay sane. But I’d also like to explore my passion for supernatural stories.

My friend, Sarah Sawyer, does an awesome job of exploring fantasy elements on her blog. I admire her for her scholarship, elegant writing, and treatment of spiritual themes within the fantasy genre. While I know I don’t have Sarah’s style or skill, I’d like to follow her example and be part of the discussion in my own superficial, romance-junkie way.

I’d also like to bring more book reviews to the blog. One of the first questions I ask my girlfriends when we get together is, “What are you reading?” I don’t expect a book report, I just want a quick recommendation on where I should spend my limited reading time and even more limited brain power.

So far, I have no official plan for implementing my proposed changes. I know some folks would take a Monday/Wednesday/Friday approach, assigning a specific topic to each day. But that’s not how I roll. We’ll just do this Forrest Gump style and chew on whatever we happen to pull from the box.

I hope you'll enjoy the selection.