The Confession

I had decided last week that I was going to start participating in the Writer’s Workshop on Thursdays that Mama Kat hosts, but as I read over the writing prompts for this week, I drew a blank. I couldn’t’ think of a story to go along with any of her prompts. A time I stood up for a friend–nothing! A time I didn’t follow my intuition–nope. A time I put off something until the last minute–I’ll think about that one later. I know I have a story to go with each of these prompts, but I also have a bad memory. The bad memory was winning.

Then there was the prompt ‘my confessions’–umm, no. I mean, I’m already pretty transparent on my blog. Everyone knows more or less about my parenting failures, those days I’m a less than stellar wife, and areas of my faith in which I’d like to improve. Shouldn’t I have a little privacy? Besides, I really don’t have any deep dark secrets. The Jennifer V. Davis who blogs is essentially the same woman whether or not she’s typing on the computer.

And then I had a dream, a dream where I had to come face-to-face with the truth, a dream where I had to fess up.

In my dream, I was Jack Bauer’s wife. Not Kiefer Sutherland’s, but Jack Bauer, the character he played on 24. I was madly in love with him in my dream, but to complicate things, I was one of three wives. Even more awkward than being one of three was being one of three with a woman who attends the same church small group as I.

But I was his favorite, and he showed me his love by letting me share his bed. In my dream, ‘sharing a bed’ was not a euphemism for sex; I literally got to share the bed with Jack. The woman from small group slept on a mattress on the floor of the room, and the third nameless wife slept in the den.

I wasn’t comfortable in my status, however, and for a majority of the dream, I dealt with my insecurities, keeping my eye on Jack’s other two wives who were vying for my top position. But Jack assured me with his crooked smile that I was his Rachel, the other girls, Leah.*

When I woke up from this stupid dream, I immediately thought, “Why in the heck am I dreaming about Jack Bauer?” Part of the dream I can explain: The previous week at small group, the sister of the woman in my dream made some comment about the TV show Sister Wives of which I was not familiar and still have no intention of viewing, especially if the show will cause me to dream about being in a polygamous relationship.

But that fact doesn’t explain why I was married to Jack Bauer, and if I’m going to confess everything, why I have dreamed about him once (okay, twice) before. Or why each time I woke up with butterflies in my stomach. I didn’t even realize it at the time, but I have to face the facts. I have to confess: I have a huge crush on Jack Bauer.

I never realized my feelings. I’m not a fan of Kiefer Sutherland, and in all honesty, I was happy when 24 finally ended–I could have my Mondays back. But, obviously, Jack means more to me than even I knew.

Maybe the dreams aren’t about Jack. Maybe they represent the time that my husband and I spent together for the last seven seasons as we shared each ridiculously unbelievable episode together. They represent our weekly dates on the couch as we watched with bated breath to see how Jack would save the day again. They represent something we enjoyed as a couple, and I’m a little sad that the tradition has ended.

Or maybe I just have a huge crush on Jack Bauer.

Perhaps Matt could yell, “Jennifer, Get out of the car! GET OUT OF THE CAR!!” and take care of my longings.

*In Genesis 29 of the Bible, Jacob promises to work for seven years for Laban if he could marry Laban’s beautiful daughter Rachel. After seven years, Laban tricks Jacob and sneaks Leah, his firstborn, into Jacob’s tent on the wedding night. Jacob works another seven years in order to get Rachel, his true love.

The Hair Disaster

A few days ago I was faced with an ethical dilemma. A few days ago I sat down to write a letter of recommendation for my sister to enter a cosmetology school’s hair design program, and that still, small voice of my conscience asked this question: Is witholding information lying?

Typically, I am a patient person. Typically, I am under control. Until having three children in three years, typically, I never lost my temper. Well, almost never….

I had just graduated college and secured a job as a teacher at a local high school and was anxious to get started. The following day, the English department was hosting a cookout, and all of the new teachers were invited. I wanted to look responsible and professional since, at the ripe age of 22, I looked more like a student than the teachers. And even though we were only meeting for a cookout, this cookout would be the first time I had met most of the teachers who would be my colleagues, and I wanted to make a good first impression. Why I decided I needed to dye my hair for this occasion, I do not remember, and why I thought having my sister do it was a good idea, I will never know.

I should’ve pulled the plug on the operation when my sister whipped out a box that clearly said ‘black’ on it. I should’ve trusted my instincts, but for some strange reason, I put faith in the person who had a recent interest in cosmetology and not yet a license. I believed the claim that if we only let the dye sit on my head for five minutes, the color would look dark brown, not black. Even if I allowed the dye to sit on my head, I should’ve pulled the plug when I felt my sister massage my temples and my forehead and not my hair.

When the five minutes were up, I ran to my shower to rinse out the dye. As soon as the water hit my head, I noticed the black liquid running down my legs and down the drain, but I had faith. After all, if I couldn’t trust my sister, whom could I trust? I scrubbed and scrubbed shampoo throughout my hair until the water had begun to run clear, and then I got out of the shower.

As I wrapped the towel around my body, I noticed a problem–a big problem–in the mirror. I had a ring of black around my forehead, and my left cheek had at least a quarter-sized dye mark. On my cheek! I frantically grabbed the soap and started scrubbing my face but to no avail. She had dyed my freakin’ face! And while I was scrubbing my face, I couldn’t help but notice that my hair looked pretty darned dark.

I whipped out that hair dryer and prayed that the heat would reveal a different product. I prayed and prayed that as my hair dried it would turn into the dark brown that I wanted. Blue-black, everyone. That was the color of my hair. Have you ever seen a beautiful Asian woman with long, luscious locks flowing down her back, hair so dark that it looks like indigo ink? Yeah, that’s what color hair I had, except I’m not Asian, and my locks didn’t look quite so beautiful. I looked more like Wednesday Addams.

And now I know that out-of-body experiences are possible. I ran out of the bathroom in a state of absolute fury. Typically, I don’t yell. I yelled. Typically, I don’t curse. I cursed. Words left my mouth that I didn’t even know I knew. I couldn’t stop them; I wasn’t even thinking them, and they came out. They came out all over my sister and my grandmother and her friend who were visiting. The two older ladies decided to run to the staircase where the show was happening. The show where I cursed and I kicked and I punched. Not my proudest moment, but then again, I wasn’t in my body, so I couldn’t be held accountable.

After eight more hair washings and numerous applications of cold cream to my face, I went to meet the English department the next day with blue-black hair and a giant scab on my cheek from where I actually scrubbed off my skin.

I didn’t include any of this information in my sister’s letter of recommendation. I figure, she was probably just getting me back for all the times I tattled on her.

*This post published with my sister’s permission who, since this incident, has many times dyed my hair perfectly.

I’m linking this post for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. Click on over for other hair disasters and responses to her weekly writing prompts.

Ten Clues Halloween Was This Past Weekend

10. Your four-year-old decided his new bedtime was 9:45, yet he happily awoke for you at 6:30 a.m..

9. Your three-year-old has had a sugar-induced meltdown for a straight 24 hours.

8. You found your paranoid son sleeping with his bag of treats.

7. You’re pretty sure your toddler has never had candy, yet you noticed her walking around the house with a lollipop hanging out of her mouth and three packages of M&Ms.

6. There’s a carved pumpkin sitting outside of your door that very well could sit there until Thanksgiving.

5. You discovered your little girl on top of the refrigerator looking for the hidden Halloween candy.

4. You then located your daughter ‘hiding’ under the dining room table eating some of this candy. She has yet to understand that you can totally see her under that table.

3. You turned into a a crotchety old person over the weekend, grumbling about children who don’t say ‘thank you’ and teenagers who still dress up to ‘steal’ your candy.

2. You are normally an honest person, but you have taken to catching your children in the act of sneaking their treats so that you can eat whatever you confiscate.

1. You saw the cutest cowboy, cat, and butterfly in existence and have taken every opportunity to show everyone that you know (or don’t know).

I’ve linked up at Ohamanda’s Top Ten Tuesday. Click over with me for more fun!

Really Good Cookies

The morning was off to a bad start. I had gotten up at 6:00 with the hopes of having an hour of undisturbed time, so of course, Caleb decided to wake up ten minutes later. By 6:30 two out of the three were awake, and by 6:45, everyone had joined me. Any morning when the kids wake up before I get dressed is challenging because I can’t monitor their progress. Such was the case on this particular morning.

Caleb had actually cooperated and dressed and made his bed quickly. I got Chloe ready and then headed back to my room to focus on myself. While everyone else was getting ready, Hannah Grace proceeded to lie around on her floor naked, not doing anything productive to get ready for preschool. In between getting Chloe and myself dressed, I uttered quite a few warnings to Hannah Grace that she needed to put on some clothes but to no avail.

Finally, I was dressed and headed over to the uncooperative child’s room. She was still naked, her clothes lying on the floor, and my patience was worn thin, which was unfortunate since it was only 7:30, and I had a whole lot of the day left. At this point I decided that we were not going to wait for Hannah Grace; I would dress her myself.

As I started to put on her underwear, she began to kick and scream. We were all witnessing an early morning temper tantrum. Each time I would get her leg in a hole, she would kick off the clothing. My patience that was worn thin was now held together by one thread, and that thread was in danger of snapping.

As I was getting more forceful, she was fighting harder. We were having a battle of wills, and I was determined not to lose, not to a three-year-old, and not on this morning. I had gotten up at 6:00 so I could have time to pray for patience; if they were going to mess up that routine, they would have to deal with the consequences!

We both were struggling, and the screaming and crying continued. Hannah Grace pulled out the last weapon she had: “I don’t love you anymore, Mommy! And I don’t love Chloe, and I don’t love Caleb, and I don’t love, Daddy!”

Caleb, who had been witnessing this whole ordeal with his sister Chloe, didn’t miss a beat: “Well, I guess that means were going to have to give you away.”

I was not expecting that response.

“No, Caleb, we’re not going to have to give Hannah Grace away,” I chimed in, rather unemotionally.

“Well, if she doesn’t love anybody anymore, than we have to give her away!” he insisted.

I was struck at how silent the room had gotten; Caleb had scared Hannah Grace out of her tantrum!

Again, I assured them, “We are not going to give Hannah Grace away.”

There was a moment of silence, and Caleb pondered his next point. He looked directly at Hannah Grace and delivered his line with full passion:

“Mommy makes really good cookies!”

As if that fact should be the one to change her mind about not loving me!

But it worked. Caleb knew exactly what to say, if for nothing else, to keep my last thread of patience in tact. While I kept a straight face, I was laughing hysterically inside. What is going on in this four-year-old’s mind?!!

I proceeded to hug Hannah Grace, to tell her how much I loved her and our family. I explained how she hurt my feelings when she said she didn’t love me, but I would always love her. I knew that she was a really good girl, and I suggested that we get dressed so we could brush her hair and then go down for breakfast.

This little girl who had kicked and screamed two minutes earlier was now calm and obedient. She dressed, and I braided her hair without a fight. The morning had been salvaged, thanks to the comments of a precocious little boy.

That is, the morning had been salvaged until that little boy tackled his sister to the ground for an orange vitamin. And even though we were up three hours before preschool started, we were still late. Thankfully, I hadn’t used my last thread of patience upstairs.

God knows what we need, and I am so thankful for that moment to laugh, to gain a little perspective before blowing my top. For what are you thankful this week?

Not This (Wo)Man’s Best Friend

The other day I started cleaning out my e-mail inbox and found an e-mail dated back to 2007. I was caught off guard, as this particular e-mail showed the correspondence between the woman and me who helped us find a home for Baxter. I hadn’t thought about Baxter in a while, and even three years later, I had trouble reading the e-mails.

Looking over this lady’s note, a flood of sadness and remorse filled me, and I instantly remembered crying on the phone to this women whom I didn’t know. When I first called her, I could hear the judgment in her voice–to her I was just another mom who didn’t realize that taking care of a dog was work. But after a few minutes of listening to my story through my tears, her voice softened a little.

I had tried everything! Baxter had always been peculiar; when we were crate training him, he would run out of his crate and zig-zag his way past us, avoiding any contact within the realm of the door leading to the outside. We’d have to pull him out from under our bed and carry him outside so that he could pee. When he was a puppy, we thought his peculiar behavior was cute.

But then started the psychotic episodes. Baxter would sit and suddenly start shaking. I never knew the reason; he would just shake like a leaf. I asked the vet about it, and she said he probably had anxiety. Some dogs were just the nervous type. He had a roof over his head, food to eat every day, and he didn’t need a job to pay for these necessities–I couldn’t quite figure out over what he was anxious….

When he was no longer a puppy, he still wouldn’t go outside. In fact, as I would try to carry this dog out the door, he would spread his legs apart trying to keep from fitting through the doorway. I would literally have to throw him out the backdoor. This routine was especially fun when I was pregnant, trying to carry a squirming dog on my belly and then heaving him out the door.

But he just wouldn’t let me win. Oh, no. He had to start jumping. To this day, even though I repainted the it, one can still see the worn path Baxter made from his claws going up and down the door. In his defense, our other dog, Scout, learned that his behavior got results, so she, too, started jumping.

One might ask why I didn’t just leave him outside. I tell you the truth, I had no choice but to bring him in when he started jumping! When I tried not to, when I tried to stand firm that Baxter must stay outside until he peed, he showed me how foolish I was. That stupid dog jumped until his little paw pads were rubbed raw. I remembering opening the door to the outside one afternoon, and I saw my neurotic dog shaking, breathing hard, and standing on a blood-stained patio. I swept him up in my arms and called the animal hospital since it was after hours. At the time, I wasn’t even sure what had happened–I just saw blood and a shaking dog. The nurse on the phone assured me he’d be okay–he was probably just having a panic attack.

I was about to have my second baby in 17-months; there was no room in this family for a dog with psychological issues. If anyone was going to use Prozac, it would be me.

At the advice of the vet, we took him to obedience school. He won most-improved dog. That accomplishment wasn’t hard to achieve since he spent the majority of his classes sitting and shaking. Everyone felt sorry for him, that is everyone except for me. At this point, I was near my limit. It was now summer, and I was nine-months pregnant trying my best to imitate the methods my instructor showed us for the training collar.

Yes, the infamous training collar. In theory, the owner only needed to pull up on the leash once, and the dog would instantly obey, not enjoying the discomfort of the collar. In theory. The other dogs may have responded to that uncomfortable feeling, but not Baxter. Oh, no. The number of times I had to keep pulling up on that leash to get him to respond–why I probably looked like I was churning butter more than training a dog. Did I mention I was nine-months pregnant?

The instructor assured us we were not hurting our dogs. And when Baxter had a nice red streak on his neck from where the collar had been repeatedly tightened over and over, the instructor was adamant that he wasn’t in pain. I think that instructor was as stupid as our dog.

The baby arrived, and my ‘most improved’ dog quickly returned to the Baxter that I knew so well, even though I continued practicing with him. He would still refuse to go outside the back door, although he loved to run away out the front door. He gave me the pleasure of visiting the pound with an infant and a toddler, experiencing the fear of not knowing if he were alive and the guilt of hoping he found a nice family of psychiatrists. He, unfortunately, found a nice family in our neighborhood, and they didn’t want a dog.

I would communicate telepathically with Baxter: “If you want to run away so badly, then go–but find a good family–if you can do that, I won’t take you back, I promise!”

But he wouldn’t listen. He would continue his runaway attempts and refusal to go out in the backyard to pee. He would then wait until the exact moment I went to nurse the baby or change her diaper to pee on the floor. I couldn’t win.

My Bible doesn’t have a back cover. Baxter ate it. Matt doesn’t have an MP3 player, anymore. Baxter ate it. Matt used to have a few belts. Baxter ate them. I used to have nice base boards. Baxter ate them.

I made one final effort to salvage our relationship. I called some in-house-dog-whisperer-guru recommended by our vet. He charged $500. I really didn’t think Baxter was worth that kind of money, and apparently neither did this guru. After I explained our issues with Baxter, he informed me that he might not be able to help him, but he would give my information to his son. Maybe we could work out a plan. Neither he nor his son called me back.

I had tried everything, hadn’t I? I told myself this sentence over and over as I dialed the number for the canine rescue. That phone call led to the trail of e-mail correspondence that I had just recently rediscovered. The women on the other line agreed that Baxter needed a special home, and she placed him with a wonderful foster family who had already fostered and adopted three other Boston Terriers–they couldn’t let them go. Until they met Baxter.

They found a home for Baxter, a nice married couple who worked out of the house and didn’t have children. A nice couple whom Baxter wouldn’t have to share with other pets. A nice couple who wouldn’t have to fear destruction or urine because they could put Baxter on a leash and take him for a walk, not having to worry about bundling up a toddler and a baby in the winter to make the long trek to the backyard. Baxter, I sincerely hope you and your new family are happy.

As I scanned these e-mails and dealt with my emotions of a (very) little sadness and remorse, I had to reassure myself again that I had done that right thing, that Baxter was happier. I had done the best I could, but our family was not the right family for him. But then I had another thought that caused me panic: My children have pooped in our shoes, peed in the trashcans, in addition to numerous other places. They have made their own runaway attempts out the front door. What if the problem is ME?!!!

Darn you, Baxter. I have already dealt with guilt from you; you’re not going to convince me I was the problem. No, Baxter. You will not haunt me. YOU are the crazy one, not me!

Ten More Indications that Your Husband is Away on Business for the Week

10. The menu you plan for the week consists of nothing but hamburgers, macaroni and cheese, and pizza.

9. It is Tuesday night, and you are hauling the trashcan, recycle bin, and yard clippings to the curb.

8. Keeping up with the pace set by her brother and sister, your 17-month-old picks this week to attempt climbing out of her crib.

7. Your 17-month-old hints that this is also the week to begin potty training, as you find her several times standing in the toilet waiting for poo-poo to appear.

6. You have to attend your son’s parent-teacher conference, and the teacher requested no siblings. (Sorry Mrs. C–the conference is only 15 minutes, so the baby’s coming!)

5. Your plan to catch up on laundry is thwarted by two straight days of leaky Pull-Ups and a squished banana (yes, also on the sheets).

4. The rebel forces launch an impressive surprise attack and implement the tactical tag-team operation from ‘the witching hour’ until bedtime, rendering you close to waving the white flag.

3. The AT&T salesmen have impeccable timing, ringing the doorbell as soon as you have two out of the three children in bed.

2. You have an unusual argument with your son over your decision to flush down the toilet the ‘Silly Band’ that was entangled in his bowel movement.

1. You find that you love and miss your husband exponentially more than the previous week!

In case you missed it the first time, here are the first ten indications that your husband is away on business for the week.

If I Were to Write BabyLand General

A little over a week ago, my mother, sister, our four children, and I made the trip to BabyLand General Hospital in Cleveland, Georgia, home of the Cabbage Patch Kids. We had quite the experience. Below is the letter I would send to the staff of BabyLand General if I were to write them…but I probably won’t.

To the Doctors and Nurses of BabyLand General:

My family and I recently visited your hospital, and I want to thank you for the educational experience. It had been a long time since I saw a baby birthed from a cabbage, and the experience never disappoints.

After my trip, however, I did have a few concerns. Given the fact that your hospital is filled with precious Cabbage Patch children, all eagerly waiting to be adopted and easily victims of being snatched away, I do think you should have a warning on the entrance to your building: Parents, If you are outnumbered in ratio from children to adults, especially children four years of age and under, Do NOT come in these doors! Your children won’t be able to resist the number of Cabbage Patch Kids at their grasp, and you won’t be able to stop them! I realize that warning is a little lengthy and rather specific, but I would’ve appreciated it.

Taking my daughter to BabyLand General was like giving her a drug, spinning her in circles, and then releasing her in a room full of presents on Christmas morning; she did not know where to run, yes run, and I didn’t realize I should’ve worn my athletic shorts. Some of your Cabbage Patch Kids (which of course are all beautiful even though they came from a vegetable) were the exact same size as my toddler, yet my three-year-old had convinced herself that she could carry two at a time.

I apologize if any of your dolls, I mean children, are missing any hair. Sometimes, their hair was the easiest way for my daughter to grab them.

I also apologize if any of your children were missing shoes or other accessories or just missing all together. To be honest, I didn’t appreciate having to supervise your children along with my own. I mean, if I wanted to clean all morning or put on and take off shoes, I could’ve stayed home. And I don’t know if you realize this fact or not, but Cabbage Patch Kids’ feet are not the same size as human children’s feet–your kids’ feet don’t stay in shoes because, well, they’re more like big, round nubs than anything. Please excuse me if I offended you in any way.

And I’m sorry if the four-year-old boy running around, throwing the balls you had for sale, and tackling his cousin was distracting to the staff or the babies. As I mentioned before, I hadn’t realized I was going to be sprinting after my daughter all day long. I tried to get him interested in the dolls, I mean children, but he said they were for girls. I’ve never planted those ideas in his head, I promise. I know children need positive male role models in their life, and I will work on turning my son into one of those role models. He was, however, very pleased with the basketball game, flying helicopter, and stuffed panda bear that you had for sale.

And while I’m apologizing, I also apologize for any ice cream that you may have found on the floor of your clean hospital. However, if I do say so myself, why in the world do you think it is a good idea to have an easily opened ice cream chest right next to where parents and grandparents pay for these newly adopted babies? When my daughter pulled her ice cream bar out of the freezer, I saw a good opportunity to teach her a lesson about stealing by making her pay for the ice cream from her piggy bank and promptly throwing the dessert away. Grammy, on the other hand, saw an opportunity to treat four children to ice cream.

I would’ve made her eat her treat outside, but you see, we were in the middle of the very important adoption procedures. She had to take her oath, which she said with full enthusiasm, by the way, and she had all of the paperwork to fill out. I hope you realize that that paperwork is a tad intimidating for three-year-olds, but I guess so is raising a child.

And one more thing before I close–is there any way to slow down Mother Cabbage’s deliveries? I saw three Cabbage Patch Kids born that day, and my children helped name two. And while all of these births were magical and beautiful and such, they got a little excessive and gave a little too much information. Every time you announced that Mother Cabbage was eight leaves dilated, I hurt. And I’m so happy that she had an ‘easy-otomy’ because I’ll tell you what–there was nothing easy about my episiotomy.

Maybe we were just there forever waiting for a certain three-year-old to decide which child she really loved. Maybe that three-year-old took a really long time because she made her decision based on the shoes that your children were wearing, but I digress. In any event, please give Mother Cabbage my warmest regards for a speedy recovery. I thought having three children in three years was tough; I can’t imagine have three children in three hours. On a side note, if the ‘Imagicillin’ that you are giving her starts to wear off, tell her Percocet should do the trick.

In closing, thank you for opening your hospital to us, even though we definitely disturbed your serene environment. I promise that if we come back many, many years down the road I will have at least one adult, if not two, per child. And while the experience was anything but fun for me, I know it was about making four little children very happy. And one Grammy, too.

Sincerely,

Jennifer V. Davis

Ten Things I Don’t Understand About College Football

10. I’ll never understand why some girls show up in high heels and tight, little dresses, while sitting on hard bleachers, packed in like sardines to watch men knock the snot out of each other under the blazing hot sun. I’m pretty sure I sweated off the minimal amount of make-up I was wearing, so I can’t imagine actually taking the time to look beautiful. It’s a football game! Then again, I was never popular in school or know anything about fashion now.

9. I don’t understand why some insist on screaming at the referee after every bad call. If you’re sitting near where I’m sitting, I’m pretty sure he can’t hear you.

8. I just don’t understand why some get offended so easily and end up in fights with fans from the other team. I mean, did I miss something? Were you in the last play?

7. I do not understand tailgating, anymore. If you’re heading to the football game, why do you need to haul and set up a gigantic TV and dish before hand? It seems to me like an unnecessary amount of work and planning….

6. I do not understand how it is possible for someone to show minimal emotion during significant events in his life, yet be brought to absolute fury, elation, or tears during a football game. Read this short story for more on this topic.

5. I do not understand why grown adults will drink enough during the game to forget what happened tomorrow. Tickets are expensive–getting wasted doesn’t make economic sense.

4. I’ll never understand why everyone holds up four fingers at the start of the fourth quarter. Did you think I lost count? There is a giant scoreboard that can help me out if I did….

3. I know I’ll never understand how the BCS polls determine the top teams. I think I’d need a master’s degree first.

2. I’ve yet to understand why our fans always insist that the other teams’ fans are so obnoxious. At every game I can spot someone with a giant bulldog painted on his head, and our fans bark.

1. I’ll never understand how I can be surrounded by so many things that make me cringe yet look forward to going to Georgia football games so much!

I’ve linked this post over at ohamanda’s today. Click on the link below to read more fun top ten lists!

The Tea Party

As a mother, I’ve managed to heap a lot of guilt onto my shoulders. I don’t take the kids to the pool by myself, and I don’t venture out to many activities with the three of them unless I have help. While I have gotten braver this summer and attempted more, sometimes I wonder if we should’ve put more space between the kids so that they could do some of the things that others get to do with their mommies.

But sometimes I just can’t be blamed for everything….

As I listened to my two littles one finalize preparations for their tea party, my heart swelled with pride. For one of the few moments in their short time as brother and sister, they were playing together and nicely. I watched as they used their imaginations and my daughter’s Disney tea set to create the perfect event for their friends.

“Ella’s coming, and so is Gel,” Hannah Grace told her brother excitedly.

“I’ve invited Jeff,” Caleb added.

I had never heard of these kids before and was impressed at the names they were giving their guests. They allowed me to sample some tea and a cookie (which was delicious), and then they continued playing as I moved into the kitchen to clean up our real mess from that morning.

The nice sounds from the foyer continued on for a few more minutes, when all of a sudden, angry conversation ensued. I rolled my eyes thinking, “What now?” Why was it impossible for my children to complete one activity together without fighting?

Caleb and Hannah Grace both stormed into the kitchen yelling.

“What?! What?!” I asked, confused by the sudden change of events.

Caleb’s face shone with anger, and Hannah Grace’s brow was furrowed.

With arms flailing in exasperation, Caleb yelled, “Nobody showed up for our tea party!!!”

Hannah Grace folded her arms across her chest and let out a big pout.

I stared at them for a moment, shocked that one of them hadn’t hit the other or stolen a cup of tea, and then I had to look away and smile.

I knew that as a parent I would mend many broken hearts. I knew that kids can be cruel, and there would be times when they would hurt my own children’s feelings. I just hadn’t known that those kids would be imaginary.

And if my kids’ imaginary friends won’t play with them, well, there’s not a whole lot this mommy can do.

Freedom

I love my children more than I could express in words, but I have to admit, I had been looking forward to this day for a few months. I didn’t know exactly what to expect for today, but I so relished the chance of having a few hours to myself without the responsibility of any children.

Today was going to be different. I woke up early, put on a nice outfit, fixed my hair, and applied make-up. I whipped up some pancakes for everyone while the house was still quiet, and I got together everything I needed for my day. I packed my lunch, the laptop, and a novel, and I noticed a spring in my step as I moved throughout the kitchen prior to departing.

I read for a couple of hours today, a leisure activity in which I do not get to take part for that length very often. I chatted with some new acquaintances and caught up with an old friend. Nothing about the day was extraordinary, but I took pleasure in doing the ordinary that had somehow slipped through my fingertips these last few years.

I rested. Sitting in my chair I could do or not do while I waited. I didn’t clean, I didn’t discipline, and I didn’t teach numbers. When I had to go to the bathroom, I went–and I closed the door all the way–and I didn’t hold my breath as I left, afraid of what mess I’d find in the kitchen. And as an added benefit to the near-perfect day, I got paid for my freedom.

When I came home, I hugged my beautiful children and stepped right back into our normal routine. But I couldn’t help but glance back from whence I came….

For the beautiful day, all I can say is ‘thank you.’ God bless the United States of America and our wonderful judicial system. Thank you Gwinnett County Courts for calling me today for jury duty, and while I know you don’t need me tomorrow, please call me on Wednesday. Please.