Deep in the heart of Texas, y'all

So, now it's time to talk about the wonder that is Texas.

Our trip started out with a bang (unfortunately, not a bang from the gun of a traveling cowboy). 3 hours into our vacation, we were at the neighbor's pool when my husband dove into the pool with gusto and... dislocated his shoulder. So, we were lucky enough to visit the inside of a Dallas emergency room. For 4 hours. We had some very nice people taking care of us, Jojo and Beau. (Not kidding.)

Our second day, the plan was to take the boys to Dave and Buster's for some lunch and games and then to the aquarium. While at Dave and Buster's, my sister's cell phone was stolen. 0 for 2.

Third day, the neighbor girls took Miss Macie Mae for a walk. And promptly lost her. 0 for 3. Luckily Miss Macie Mae is a smart dog and was able to walk herself home.

The fourth day, we planned to go to the circus. I told my sister that if we were stampeded by a herd of elephants, if a trapeze artist fell and landed on one of us, if a clown car ran us over, we were on the next plane out of town. Luckily for her us, that didn't happen. The only memorably bad thing that happened the rest of the trip was, while at the aquarium, a bird pooped on the husband's head. Even though it's supposedly good luck, he didn't think so. The trip was not kind to that man. He may never vacation again.

I think the best way to sum up the trip is in song:

The stars at night, are big and bright,
deep in the heart of Texas,
The prairie sky is wide and high,
deep in the heart of Texas.

(My sister had explained to me there is no elevation in Texas. When we flew in, I saw what she meant. Dallas is as flat as the bugs we stepped on. Not that Ohio is the Swiss Alps or anything, but we have some rolling hills. It never rained while we were there, so we were able to see the stars every night. They, surprisingly, looked like the stars in Ohio. Go figure.

But it's true that everything is bigger in Texas. The churches, the strip malls. The hair. Their love of the lone star (it's imprinted on every overpass), honey mustard, Dr. Pepper and frozen yogurt.)

The sage in bloom is like perfume,deep in the heart of Texas,
Reminds me of, the one I love,
deep in the heart of Texas.

(Hmm. No comment here. The houses are so close together in Dallas, there is no room for vegetation.)

The coyotes wail, along the trail,
deep in the heart of Texas,
The rabbits rush, around the brush,
deep in the heart of Texas.

(Didn't see any wildlife either. The houses are too close together. And it's so hot, all the wildlife is probably dead.)

The cowboys cry, "Ki-yip-pee-yi,"
deep in the heart of Texas.

(This is what I was looking forward to the most. And I have to say I was a bit disappointed. Don't all people in Texas wear cowboy hats and boots, snap shirts and belts with big buckles? Isn't there tumbleweed rolling along the dirt roads? Aren't there duals at high noon every day for us to observe? What a letdown.

We did, however, go to Fort Worth one afternoon to watch the cattle run. By "cattle run", I mean 8 cows ambling down the street in the insufferable heat. The boys really enjoyed it when one of the cows pooped right in front of us. But I bought myself an adorable cowboy hat that day, so not all was lost. I may never wear it outside the state of Texas, but it's a nice souvenir.)

The doggies bawl, and bawl and bawl,
deep in the heart of Texas.

(The only dog I heard was my sister's dog. And she just sort of yipped. And only when I stepped on her. The boys fell in love with her. At any given time of day, you could find the 6-year-old or 3-year-old carrying her around. And she was so tolerant of them. She would look at you, sort of resigned, thinking "I'll get you for this", but never fought the kids. The 6-year-old asked if we could get a dog. I told him that Zoe (our cat) probably wouldn't like that. His response? "When she DIES?" Nice. And? Sorry, Zoe.)

Thanks sister and brother-in-law for a great trip! Y'all are great hosts! And, um, sorry if we broke any of your stuff. Like the dog.

There are only two emotions in a plane: boredom and terror. ~Orson Welles

So, my cousin got married last week in Tyler, Texas. My sister lives about 2 hours from there, in Dallas, and told me I was going to this damwedding (no offense, Jonas) or she'd kill me. See, I hadn't visited my sister since she moved there. 5 years ago. My other siblings had been there, my parents, some cousins. Even my husband had been there. But me? Notsomuch. And why, do you ask?

My insane, totally illogical, and, at times, uncontrollable fear of flying.

I'm well aware that flying is the safest form of travel. I still don't get how that's possible (a 10,000+ pound tin can in the sky), but I am aware of the statistics.

I have never had an easy time flying. As I've mentioned, my first flight was when I was 9 years old. To Greece. A 9-hour flight. It went about as well as you'd expect for a girl petrified of everything (at that time, anyway. I have now limited my fear to flying. And ghosts.  And tiny ants.). The trip involved a lot of screaming. And crying. And dragging. And (my mother denies this) a little white pill.

So, needless to say, I never flew much. I think it was 10 years before I flew again (again, to Greece). And, after that, random trips to DC, NYC, Denver, Salt Lake City, LA. When my brother got married in Florida, we flew. We had a layover in Chicago, so, while we waited for our connecting flight, my sister called my brother, already in Naples, and told him that I didn't get on the plane.

Ha ha. Isn't that funny? Lea didn't get on the plane. Again! Ha ha ha! Grr. How was I the only one in the family with this fear? It's irritating.

I found I flew better by myself. I wasn't able to project my fears onto anyone. On another trip to Florida to visit my college roommate, I ended up helping the woman next to me who sounded the way I felt. Since my brother was a pilot, I knew how airplanes worked, what all the sounds were and I explained it all to her. I was damproud of myself.

Since this flight to Texas was the boys' first, I didn't want to project my fears onto them. We had been talking up the trip for weeks and the boys were really excited. They love to point out planes in the sky, so I figured being in one would be equally exciting. But, 2 days before our flight, my 6-year-old admitted to me he was afraid. Crap. Instead of blowing him off with a "You'll be fine" like everyone does with me, I tried to explain the logistics of air travel. I suggested he talk to my brother if he wanted more explanation than that, but he seemed satisfied.

The day of the trip, I was a nervous wreck. I was up at 4:30am, which is never a good thing for anyone. We got to the airport, I did my normal nervous routine. Pacing pacing pacing, bathroom, pacing pacing pacing. The kids were quiet, but I could tell they just wanted to get on the plane already. They were a bundle of excitement and nerves. Excited nerves. Nervous excitement.

The husband and I divided and conquered. He took the 6-year-old, I took the 3-year-old. As we were gaining speed for liftoff, the 3-year-old started to cry. Crap. But once we took flight, he was laughing. Whew! And... they were great through the entire trip. Better than me, that's for sure. My random thoughts included:

• thank goodness for movies
• flight attendants HATE their jobs
• I think I smell smoke - is that smoke?!
• I cannot wait for the Bachelor Pad 2
• I still don't understand bumps in AIR
• unclench
• now I smell onions
• is this over yet?

And yet, we survived.

Okay, here's a picture

Isn't she precious?

Incidentally, I inadvertently named my friend's cat when I called her precious they day they got her. They liked it so much they named her Precious. That was before the movie Precious came out and totally ruined the adjective for me.

Mar, you asked for it

My sister asked me to write about her “adventures” with her new dog. I warned her not to ask me to do this since I’d probably mock her, but… here goes.

So, my sister recently acquired a puppy. A little Yorkie running loose in her neighborhood. My sister and brother-in-law agreed to foster the puppy until its owners came looking for her.

Yeah, like my sister was going to give her up.

My sister glanced scoured their neighborhood website, to see if there were any messages from the puppy’s owners. She had even gone so far as to publish a message herself, saying she had found this puppy. She panicked when she saw someone had posted about a missing dog and decided immediately that she wasn’t giving the puppy back. Luckily for her, that particular poster had found her dog a day later.

Whew, my sister was not a thief. This time. Well, puppy-snatcher anyway. She does tend to steal candles from those silly candle parties, but that doesn’t really count, right?

Anyway, my sister’s history with pets hasn’t been all that great. In college, she had found herself a kitten. A year later, that kitten was knocked up and living with my parents.

Her excuse? “That poor girl cried all day...I couldn't in good conscience keep her in that apartment alone. Besides, the girl downstairs might have poisoned her.”

Callie did give birth to the sweetest, most lovable cat ever, so I’m glad my sister was a heedless parent, allowing her baby out all night to gallivant with the local bad boys on our street.

Next, my sister found another cat in the street on her way home one night. She had decided to name him Lincoln, after the car that had almost hit him. He must’ve been weaned early because he had a tendency to suck on people’s earlobes. While said person was visiting her sister. And trying to sleep. And again, this cat ended up at my parents’. My mother was quickly becoming the Old Woman in the Shoe (with cats instead of children). It’s a wonder my father didn’t move out.

My sister then moved onto dogs. One day, she and I had taken our annual day trip to Amish Country to buy our fall decorations. And, apparently, this particular year, pick up free puppies. To be fair, these puppies were damcute. I almost took one myself, but, luckily, dogs were not allowed in my apartment complex. Crisis averted.

So, my sister brought home sweet little Henry. In our defense, we had tried to get my brother-in-law on the phone before bringing the dog home, but he didn’t answer (which, in my opinion, was his fault, so, really, he shouldn’t have been mad about this). But anyway, when he got home? He. Flipped. Out.

Not that I blame him. I mean, he came home from a hard day's work to find a puppy peeing on his Wall Street Journal in his kitchen. Where they eat. Not exactly a “Hi honey, I’m home!” moment. In the end (read: the very next day), they gave the puppy to a nice family with a little boy who had desperately wanted a puppy of his own. I picture little Henry (or whatever they named him) scampering happily with this boy and feel a little better for taking Henry away from his little Amish brothers and sisters.

But, apparently, now is the time for them to have a dog. And like I said, she is a cutie. It took my sister 4 days to name her. 4 days and 214 options. In alphabetical order.

Allie? No.

Beatrice? No.

Coco? No.

My favorite was Kiki, but my mother didn’t like it (she really should’ve limited the number of opinions she required to help make the decision).

It’s been about 2 (3?) months and my sister has gone a little off her rocker. I assume this is what I was like when I had my boys, but I continue to find this all very amusing.

In the past couple months, my sister has:

• Named her Miss Macie (Macy? Macey?) Mae (no really).


• Skyped with us so we could see how cute she is (she really is cute).


• Sent me pictures of no less than 3 little outfits for her to wear for Easter (which were, of course, kee-yute).


• Taken her to the dog park (actually, my BIL did that – picture a 200-pound man walking around with a dog small enough to fit inside his shirt pocket).


• Built a bed for her. In their bed.


• Almost kicked her husband out of their bed to make room for the baby.


• Taken said bed into the bathroom while she got ready for work so “she (the dog, not my sister (I think)) wouldn’t be lonely”.


• Taken Miss Macie Mae to puppy training school. And when she graduated, she took a picture of Macie in her graduation cap.


• While in puppy school, my sister sent me this email:
  Last night we went to puppy school. She knows her name and knows how to "Watch Me". No sitting yet, but we're working on it. Poor thing...we're in there with about 6 big barking dogs and a barking chihuahua. And my sweet little quiet puddin sitting on my lap. Know what else is great about her? She's not a shaker or nervous. I like that.

Sigh. Can't wait to meet my new niece.

Who Guess Who

So, today is my day off from work. It's always nice to have an extra weekend day to get the housework done, do the laundry, and play a rousing game of "Guess Who" (or, as my boys like to call it, "Who Guess Who") with my 3-year-old.

Typically, the object of the game is to guess your opponent's mystery person before your opponent guesses yours. So, you're supposed to pick a mystery person from the pile of 24 mystery cards before the game even starts. And then ask your opponent questions like, "Is your person a boy or a girl?" or "Is your person wearing a hat?" in order to guess their mystery person. The winner is the first to accurately guess his opponent's mystery person.

Yes, under normal circumstances, that is how the game is played. But that is not how my 3-year-old plays. When we first begin playing, he gets the red board and I get the blue. We set up our players, pick our mystery person and he begins the questions.

3-year-old: Mommy, does youw puwson have a mustache?
Me: No.
3-year-old knocks down half of his board.
Me: Is your person a boy or a girl?
3-year-old (while not even looking at his mystery person): Ahhh... a goiyal.
I knock down all the men.
3-year-old: Mommy, does your pewson have a beawd?
Me: No.
3-year-old knocks down remaining board, leaving one person standing.
Me: Did you pick my person?
3-year old nods.
I check.
He didn't.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

After about 4 rounds of this, we switch boards. I get red, he gets blue. By this point, we have given up picking our mystery people and the game goes like this:

3-year-old: Mommy, does youw puwson have a mustache?
Me: No.
3-year-old knocks down half of his board.
Me: Does your person have a mustache?
3-year-old: Yes (or no, depending on his mood).
I knock down half my board.
3-year-old: Mommy, does your pewson have a beawd?
Me: No.
3-year-old knocks down remaining board, leaving two people standing.
Me: Does your person wear glasses?
3-year-old: No (or yes, depending on his mood).
I knock down the rest of my board, leaving two people standing.
3-year-old: Does your pewson have a mustache? (Yes, he asks again.)
Me: Yes. (Why not?)
3-year-old knocks down one of the remaining pieces.
Me: Did you pick my guy?
3-year-old nods.
I check.

You bet he did.

And that's how I spent an hour this morning.

Me! Pick me! Me me me mememememeeeeeeeeee!

Spring cleaning. I love it and I hate it. Over the weekend, the husband and I, like the big bad wolf, tore our house apart and, unlike all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, we were able to put it back together again. Cleaner and more organized. Yay us!

When you do something like that, you tend to a) like your house a little more while, at the same time, b) notice what improvements are needed to make it better. So, I made a list of about 10 improvements I want to make to our house. I figure it’ll take us about 2 5 10 years and $2,000 $5,000 $10,000 $100,000 to complete. No problem! Where do I sign?!

It’s no secret I’m not a home improvement expert. Y’all know about my mad painting skillz. So, I’d love for HGTV to come to my house and complete at least one of my 10 items. For them, it’s probably a walk in the park and will take about 20 minutes. I’m not asking for too much. C’mon HGTV, humor me.

I went to their website to see what it would take to be one of those lucky people who get their houses redesigned. Lo and behold, there’s actually a section on their website called Be On TV! Hooray!

To be honest, I don’t really want to be on TV. I just want Candace Olson (and Chico) to come over, redo my kitchen and family room, and then leave. Without me embarrassing myself on national TV. The nice thing about Candace’s show, she doesn’t expect the homeowners to participate. We say hello in the beginning and wait until the big reveal to start crying about how beautiful it is. I can totally do that.

Unfortunately, most of the available TV options don’t apply to us. Apparently, HGTV never goes to the Midwest to decorate homes. It’s either because they think you can’t change perfection or you can’t change crazy. Either way, they’re not coming out here anytime soon.

But I did find one. Apparently, HGTV is going across country in an RV with random design stars to transform people’s homes. Will they ever reach the Midwest? Who knows. But, if my application is funny enough, they might.

I read they’re looking for amazing spaces to get HGTVd and incredible, enthusiastic homeowners with a love of HGTV. Well, our space isn’t so amazing, but I love HGTV and I can be incredible and enthusiastic if I’m picked. Woo! See?

They ask that you create a video, which, I think, is dumb. Unless it’s a video of my children. Now that’s funny. I have a video of my then 18-month-old terrorizing our cat and laaaaauughing hysterically. Funniest thing I’ve ever seen.

Oh, I wonder if I can do that? Not terrorize the poor cat, but have the boys pretend to own the home and want the makeover? I found my gimmick! They’ll totally pick us!

I can see it now…

6-year-old: Please come to our house and fix it. My mom said if I made this video, she’d let me play the Wii.

3-year-old: Pwease come or I weel punch you!

Yes, the 3-year-old is a brute. Where's that video camera?

A tale of two teeth

So, for the last few months, my 6-year-old’s two top front teeth have been loose. Last fall, his two front bottom teeth fell out. No pomp and circumstance. No drama. They came out when they were ready and, already, his adult teeth have taken their place.

These two top teeth have been a pain (literally). My son has not brushed those two teeth in what seems like ages and hasn’t bitten down on anything since Christmas for fear they will come out. It’s amusing to watch him bite out of the side of his mouth, but at the same time, I just want to pull the damthings out already.

This week, our 3-year-old had had enough. For weeks, he’s been listening to my husband and I tell the 6-year-old what to do in order to get the teeth to fall out. “Wiggle your tooth” “Eat this apple” and “Let me see your tooth” have been passed around the dinner table more than hot buttered rolls.

And we like our rolls.

On Monday morning, the 6-year-old came downstairs, crying. Naturally, when a mother sees her child crying, the first questions are, “What’s wrong? Do we need to go to the hospital?  Or beat someone up for hurting you?”

Me: What’s wrong? Do we need to go to the hospital? (see?)
6-year-old: My tooth came out.

(I can hear the distinct sounds of “the Hallelujah Chorus” in the background)

Me: Yay! Are you okay? How did it happen?
6-year-old: I’m bleeding! (3-year-old) kicked me in the face and my tooth came out!
Me: Oh. Well, um. That wasn’t nice of (3-year-old). Let me see.

Okay, I probably should’ve been madder at the 3-year-old, but… well, he helped us. Until that morning, that loose tooth had been hidden behind the second loose tooth. My 6-year-old looked like an 80-year-old homeless man. If the 3-year-old hadn’t kicked him, I might’ve had to do it myself and it looks worse coming from a parent.

Anyway, on Monday, we celebrated. I put the tooth away for safekeeping and then, of course, lost said tooth by the end of the day. Somehow, the amazing Tooth Fairy knew he had lost the tooth and he received whatever dollar bills she had stuffed in her sock drawer.

Way to go, Tooth Fairy!

Over the week, I have been begging the 6-year-old to wiggle his second tooth and take a bite of something and play kickball with his brother. Finally, the 3-year-old took matters into his own hands (again).

I was at work today when I got a text from our babysitter that the tooth finally fell out.

(Again, I hear trumpets.)

Me: How did it happen?
Her (me paraphrasing): (3-year-old) pushed on the tooth and it fell out.
Me: He what?!
Her: (3-year-old) wanted to feel (6-year-old’s) loose tooth, so when (6-year-old) let him, he pushed it out.

My 3-year-old, God bless him. I can picture him concocting this grand scheme to get the teeth out. He was tired of listening to us go on and on about the teeth and decided if his big brother was going to be such a wimp about it, he’d take care of it himself. He had been hoping the first kick to the teeth would’ve knocked them both out. Since they didn’t, he had to devise another plan. But not kick him again, of course. That would’ve been too obvious. So, what did he do?

3-year-old: “C’mere, kid. Let me see your tooth.”

Baaah! How did that work for him? I tried that weeks ago and my 6-year-old wouldn’t budge. I guess you have to look cute and innocent for it to work.

I can see it now. When my 3-year-old is a father, he’s going to be one of those dads who ties his kid’s tooth to a doorknob. “C’mere, kid. Lemme see that tooth.” Yank.

Thanks, (3-year-old). Problem solved.