I Inherited My Grandma's Butt

Every year while growing up, my grandma would come up from Florida to spend a week with us during the Christmas holiday. Along with her giant green suitcase on roller-skate wheels (an innovation long before its time), she'd bring bourbon balls and boxes of home-made cookies. It was heaven. Mostly.

She also packed up plans—lots and lots of plans. The shoe-shopping plan was fantastic. My brothers and I loved the day-after-Christmas excursion to the mall for our annual footwear spree. Sneakers for the brothers, something girly for me--unless it was the '80s when Sebago campsides or docksiders were big. (Well, we all had to experiment.)

But the other plans ... suuuuuuuucked. Day two after Christmas was cleaning out the garage. Day three was the basement. Day four, the refrigerator. Day five, we may as well have been beating wool rugs with wooden spoons—or so it felt at the time. Our next-door neighbor even labeled her “the Drill Sargent.”

Let me clarify that we ADORED Grandma L, but to say she was a little Type A was like saying a shark was a little bit fish. She didn't sit still, and she bit those who did--with about 3,000 teeth.

One year, back when today's video was yesterday's cassette tape, we recorded some post-holiday activity. You heard laughter, silly banter about the latest Charlie's Angels' episode, and Grandma counting silverware.

“One, two ... J.J.! I mean Stephen! Shawn? Shawn! I'm trying to count, please. Please, honey, please … sigh … One, two, three, four … sigh ... J.J.! Steve! Stephen! Quiet! Shut that thing off for a minute. I'll give you a quarter, honey, please … One, two, three … sigh ...”

We were as hysterical in listening to that scratchy contraption as she was hellbent on ensuring no forks were accidentally chucked in the trash. She had her mission (Get work done!); we had ours (Have silly fun!).

It may have been the same Christmas that I recall seeing her round butt in the air as she bent over the orange family room rug that matched her curly hair. “I've been so busy I haven't had time to go to the bathroom!” she huffed, before bending back down to pick more fuzz off the carpet.

“What?!” I wanted to yell, but didn't dare speak out against the Sargent. “Who was telling her not to pee?! No one had a gun to her head making her pluck cat fur off the floor. Didn't she see she was her own worst enemy?!”

The answer was no. In her eyes, the perpetrator was the dirty floor, the messy garage, the pile of mending, the never-ending list of stuff that would continuously assault her sensibilities. But somehow, she stayed on top of it all, reminding everyone in the process: “Everything HAS a place, everything IN its place!”

And, 25 or so years later, my place, I've found, was in grandma's shadow. Yes, I had become my mother's mother. And I loved her little adage. I mean, I hated it. Loved it. Hated it. Loved it. Hated it. Who knows where I really stood on the issue, but I've been trying to live it ever since, butt in the air and all. In fact, I think of her every time I go up the steps and see fuzzies dotting the cream-colored carpet that was supposed to be beige to CAMOUFLAGE THE DIRT, PEOPLE!

So, yes, my confession, in case I haven't mentioned it before, is that I'm a little Type A trying to get my B on. But the trouble is that A is in my blood. Be it Nurture or Nature (probably both), I'm compelled to put things away until they're all in the right place. And with Stinker and Boss, things are never in their right place for more than 2 seconds.

Sometimes when they're napping together, a 50-50 shot, I lie to myself and bargain: “Fifteen minutes of cleaning, no more!” I chug some coffee, wind myself up and GO! I put toys in baskets, take the trash out, pick up leaves in the garage on the way out, scoop the cat litter on the way back in, decide to do laundry, head to the basement, forget why I was going to the basement, get annoyed, go back upstairs, realize I'm hungry, wonder what I can shovel in my cakehole in the next 2 minutes, pay bills while I'm shoveling, hear Stinker wake up, and marvel at why I'm tired all the time—and how Grandma managed to do it all before they even had TiVo!

And then it becomes clear when I think of her and her never-ending scurry mode: It must have been those bourbon balls!

Or, perhaps it was a little sweeter than that. Maybe it was all those boxes of home-made cookies.

Got Booger and Other Misfit Milestones

Most parents are familiar with the usual childhood landmarks: Baby rolls over by 4 months, sits by 6 months and walks by 12 to 14 months. Most breeders also know not to sweat it if their kid is a few months off—Boss, for instance, took his sweet time putting one foot in front of the other, finally toddling at 16-and-a-half months. We were almost ready to start sucking our thumbs, but knew he was close. Now he zooms around like a carpenter bee, bumping into into walls on his search for anything sweet or dirty to get his hands into.

But what about the OTHER accomplishments—you know, the ones that are best sequestered on their own Island of Misfit Milestones? Here are a few to beware of:

• Tossing objects from perches on high. Actually, this milestone is pretty cute—until it happens for the 7th time in a row. At 10 months, Stinker discovered the joy of jettisoning items over various edges—high chairs, couches, the like. It first happened at the grocery store in his basket seat when I gave him a box of macaroni to shake so he'd stop screeching. (I hadn't showered in three days; I didn't want the extra stares.) Oh, the glee when he heard the noodles hit the floor and saw me squat. The third time I crouched, it all came back to me—the drop-stop-and-grab-it games had begun. I smiled, chucked the box in the cart, and wondered if he was too young for lollipops.
• Diaper inspecting. Boss began examining doodie around 2-and-a-half. “Want see dirty diaper, Mommy,” he'd suggest. I'd oblige, figuring it was a sign he was nearing the joys of potty training, and that somehow seeing poop would help. Trying to avoid my walnut face, I'd unwrap the diaper as if it were a deli package (liverwurst anyone?), hoping the soiled wipes, or worse, turd mush, wouldn't fall on the rug. “See, there's your poop!” I'd say, forcing enthusiasm. “Everyone poops, and someday you'll poop in the potty!” Let's just say, it can't happen soon enough!
• Nostril fondling. Better known as nose picking. Eventually, around the 2-and-a-half mark, as toddlers continue exploring their bodies, the index finger will find the sniffer. In, out, examine booger, insert in mouth. I know, ew! But to kids, it's like scratching an itch. They have no idea how nasty it is; it's just a way to remove an irritant. Or so I keep telling myself. Boss recently went on his first dig when he had a cold and thought he could unplug his honker with some pipe-cleaning action. I'm not sure how many times a parent must plead, “Use a tissue, please!” before it works. My guess is 1,278.

Scads of other notorious events will pop up and pass—much like a fleet of pimples in adolescence, and even into our 20s, 30s and 40s to make us feel young again. If we're lucky, they'll arrive and part with nary a scar. You may even get a pained chuckle out of the madness; think third-eye zit square above the nose. It's not a milestone, but who can't laugh and cry at that?

Germs for Breakfast

A crawling baby is cuter than a puppy kissing a kitten. When Stinker crawls, I love the way his tiny hands slap the ground as he scoots his knees across the tile. Every few seconds, he sits up, scans the sights, then ventures off for five more feet. It makes me smile even before my morning coffee … as long as I don't think about the floor. Each time his hand smacks the ground, it's a high five to millions of microscopic monsters.

If adults crawled on the floor, we'd be a bunch of whiners, complaining about sore knees and the indignity of it all. But the first thing we'd do after getting up and cracking our backs? Sprint to the sink and scrub our hands like a surgeon.

Babies, however, love germs. Their hands enter their mouths the first chance they get, whether to gnaw on piggies and suck off grime, or insert dead carpenter ants using their exciting new pincer grasp. Babies hands are on the floor constantly—just like our dirty shoes. We may as well give them Clarks to chew on.

It's all pretty nasty, and that's from someone who's far from a germaphobe. Proof: Once as a teenager, I bought ice cream at the boardwalk. As I headed back toward the beach, my perfect round scoop flew off the cone and toppled to the ground. Splat! I swung down for the ice cream quicker than Serena Williams swats a tennis ball, placing it back on its throne. Then I licked furiously, eyes down (afraid of gasps and evil stares), until it was gone.

More proof: I was once told I treated Boss like a second child for violating the new-mom germ code. I forget my crime, but it probably involved a fallen binky, swipe on the pants and plugging the paci back in his pie hole.

More recently, we were grocery shopping, humming along in the race car cart that steers like a Zamboni, when out flew Boss's lollipop. That lollipop is my ticket to 15 minutes of peaceful shopping; no one messes with the lollipop. I picked it up, checked for witnesses, then passed it back to Boss, feeling only a twinge of guilt. Some goddess invented the five-second rule, and whoever you are, I love you for it. (And before you judge me too harshly, I did wipe the race car and basket seat with a germ-zapping towelette before we started shopping. So, five points for me there.)

I realize I'm hypocritical about germs. Yes, I open doors with my shirt sleeve, but share spoons and sometimes a toothbrush. I have antibacterial lotion in my car, in the diaper bag and next to the sink, but I let Boss play with street gravel. I'm plagued by dreams about dirty toilet stalls, but I don't rinse home-grown herbs before using them.

Whatever the case, it's probably a matter of split-second prioritizing with me and germs. Sometimes “Eh!” wins; sometimes “Whoa!” does. I do know one thing, though: My immune system rocks. I could suck on pocket change and not get sick. I'm sure genetics plays a part, as does luck. But the secret ingredient? A few immunity-building germs for breakfast.

I hear the floor serves up some tasty bites.

Cat's in the Cradle (Stroller, Too)

Not long after Boss was born, I told a friend I was taking the baby to the vet. “Pediatrician” wasn't a regular part of my vocabulary yet; I was used to cats--which had been a part of my life for nearly 40 years--not kids.

But babies and pets have lots in common. They roam on all fours, need us for food, and sleep a lot. Sure, they may chew on furniture behind our backs, pee on the floor, barf on the bed and make a lot of noise, but they're also great to cuddle with and we love them to death. They bring us chuck wagons full of joy.

Lately, I haven't had much luck with disciplinary action for Boss, and I've had a strong urge to try a pet owner's approach to better behavior. No, no, no, not shmooshing the nose in pooh or a waving a rolled-up-newspaper around; nothing like that. The squirt bottle! It's great for cats--why not kids?

I could have used the bottle several times today, actually: when Boss was picking Cheerios out of his bowl with his tongue (Squirt!), redecorating the lawn with river rocks (Squirt!), pushing Stinker over for the fifth time (Squirt! Squirt! Squirt! Squirt! Squirt!), throwing toys down the cat door into the basement (Squirt!), screaming at the cat (Squirt!), chasing the neighbor's cat under the deck (Squirt!), refusing a diaper change (Squirt!), and clearing the coffee table with his notorious arm swipe (Squirrrrrrrt!). The water bill may spike, but I bet it would work. I could even hang the container around my neck like a hostess wearing a wine glass on a black band. You're right, it IS ridiculous, but I've witnessed such a contraption.

Another absurd item that appealed to me once: a cat stroller. During my infertility woes when baby carriages made me weep, I vowed I'd get a pussum pram, complete with a zipped-in screen to prevent untimely escapes into traffic. I'd put my hair in a ponytail, get some elastic-wasted jeans, darken the circles under my eyes and strut around the neighborhood with … yeah, my cat. Maybe I could even get a bonnet on him, if I didn't mind getting my eyes scratched out in the process.

I guess if I have a point with all this, it's that people love their pets like children, and some love their children like pets (I mean this in a good way). That's not to say pets and peeps are equal--I wouldn't give my kids a litter box, now c'mon!--but the love comes from the same place.

It's also worth noting that Stinker's name started out as Stinker Dog; that I refer to his hands as paws; that our Alpha Cat, Harriett, stalked and bit me when she thought I was an incompetent mom with a crying babe in my arms; and that Boss's first word was--I kid you not--“meow.”

Love Me Do List

The first thing on my “do list” after I was laid off was to get rid of my do list. And for four months I did just that. I kept Post-its and any paper the size of index cards away from my twitching hands. Pens and notepads were separated as well, lest they taunt me with their seductive antics. Instead, I kept a mental journal of anything I needed to do, and it worked pretty well … for a while.

I needed the break. Do lists--at home and work--were ruling my life, and there was no escape. The bulleted items started off nice and neat, below a well-centered, underlined and appropriately commanding “DO.” But soon arrows and marginalia would appear, junking up the page—a reflection of my cluttered mind. Not! Enough! Room! For! It! All!

Sometimes the same demand even showed up twice, a few rows apart, in slightly different language--my list was getting passive-aggressive on me. Oh, she drove me crazy, but I needed her. And I admit, I played games, too. Occasionally, I'd accomplish a list-worthy task only to find it MIA on my thin little paper boss.

“What?!!” I'd gasp, toes curling, jaw clenched. “'Oil changed isn't ON here! Well it IS now!”

(Insert dilated pupils and maniacal chuckle.)

I wasn't about to skip the satisfaction of crossing off an overlooked item, so yeah, youbetcherass I scribbled it on there so I could relish in the glory of scratching it off two seconds later. Ahhhh, those sweet horizontal strokes of joy. I'm not alone in my mania, either; I've heard others admit to this, and, fellow freaks, I got your back.

Day in and day out, I reported to my list, checking in dutifully, a slave to my own orders. “Do this, do that, do more, do it with less, do it faster, do it now, do it yesterday, do it again, do it all!” My list was whacking my skull with Nike sneakers fit for Bozo: JUST (Thump.)! DO (Thump.)! It (Thump.)! Or was it me doing the smacking? I don't know. My head just hurt.

On lay-off day, I made one more do list for those tying up my loose ends, and then I stopped. I was done with the Post-it Dictator. I was FREE. And it was liberating! Visions of rolling around naked in a field of crumpled paper balls was almost appealing--but not really. The risk of paper cuts was too daunting. (A field of marshmallows, though? Now we're talking.)

Over time, I have to admit, I started to miss my list. Beneath her smooth Draconian exterior, she had a good side. She watched out for me (“Mammogram!” she'd holler). She kept me on top at work (“Conference call!” she'd bark). She reminded me about birthdays (“Gift/card for Gabriella!” she'd order). She didn't want to drive me crazy; she wanted to keep me … satisfied. Happy even.

Now she's back and we're getting along well. We've loosened our hold on each other, checking in a few times a week, not several times an hour. She's not as bossy, I'm not as crazed. I don't constantly toss her out and write her up all over again. She lets there be a higher crossed-out to not-accomplished-yet ratio.

On occasion, she still plays tricks, but it's all good. Recently, when I wasn't looking, she penned in, “Buy Stay-Pufts.”

Guess I must. It's on the list.

She's Let Herself Go … to a Better Place

“Letting (it) go” can be good or bad, depending on the “it.” Said about a grudge, that's a good thing, of course. About a woman—not so good; she's flushed her primping tools down the hopper and wears stained sweats that are two sizes too small. (Yes, it can happen to men, too.) Hanging from a bridge? The worst possible case; sorry to get dark. Releasing a rescued hawk into the wild—we're back to wonderful.

I've been letting go of various things, for better or worse. I used to have a motto—my house should be neat enough that an old chum could drop by and I'd be content with how things looked—no scurrying around and throwing stuff in a grocery bag to toss out in the garage. The bag-stashing came with a price anyway—it would stay out with the cars and shovels for a week and inevitably some bill would be late. So my new (ideal) motto? Pick up toys once a day after Boss and Stinker are down. Otherwise, I spend five minutes raking miniature trains off the rug only to have the bucket toppled two seconds later. Say it with me: “Arrrrgghhh!” 

Actually, the house should consider itself lucky if it gets weekly straightening, much less daily. Selfish ingrate! And it can forget about that roaming herd of dust buffalo! Let the cats get 'em.

I've tried not to let myself go, but I haven't exactly been curling my eyelashes. My former exercise class was at 7 p.m. three times a week—not great timing with dinner, bed times, and a tired Hubbo with a long commute. I may be close to my prepregnancy weight, but I don't know since I can't work the scale. My clothes fit, although my belly is mushier (good for belly dancing, though, eh?). As for my hair, I haven't seen my stylist since November (she probably thinks I'm cheating on her), but I received a beautiful clip for Christmas so I can at least venture beyond the ponytail; I need simple, especially on days when the boys wake up before I do.

What I'd really like to let go of more is worry, but with motherhood comes nail-biting. It's like cookies and milk; they're a package deal. I worried when Boss was pulling out his hair for six months and looked like a mangy cocker spaniel. I worried when he stuttered—normal for his age, but what if it lasted? I worried when he face-planted in gravel and looked like he was slapped with sand paper—would his feelings be hurt if other kids pointed and wondered what happened? I worry that he'll fall in the pool, get hit by a car or be abducted at the mall. With Stinker, the worry began before he was born thanks to polyhydramnios (too much amniotic fluid), soared during his NICU stay and has been yo-yoing ever since. Yes, welcome to motherhood!

I could also stand to let go of caring what people think. I'm getting there. A tree guy was over to assess some mangled branches and came in to the pigsty (house) to crunch numbers. The floor was splattered with toys. The couches were hidden by makeshift stain protectors (blankets). The counters were cluttered with piles of crap. And I didn't care ... all that much. He knew the drill; he had kids. Plus, it's rule No. 1 in the parenting manual: Floor time with kids is much more rewarding than floor time with a vacuum cleaner.

Stroller Wars, Old Yeller and Horse Turds

I was so proud of myself the other week when I finally learned to open and collapse our double stroller. It was the Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card I needed--I could whisk the boys to the mall, park, anywhere!

And then there was today.

It was a “lovely” rainy day. We'd been cooped up for a while and in need of an outing. Boss pleaded for the 17^th time in two days: “I wanna go on venture!” I agreed; I could use one, too. We'd hit the mall playground and water fountain for a little splashing.

I pack the boys up, make sure they're fed and sporting fresh Pampers, review the diaper bag, grab my purse, put on earrings and stuff everything in the car--except for the double stroller. That was next and it shouldn't be a problem given my new-found skills. Just one caveat: The lower canopy was on this time.

So I try to remove the canopy, promptly fail, shrug and fold the stroller anyway. In the trunk it ... won't fit. The battle begins. I shove it a bit, trying to wiggle it in, sigh in defeat and yank it out. “Godblastedfarginthing!,” I mutter.

“OK, I will try again to remove the canopy,” I vow to myself. “It can't be that hard.”

It is.

Meanwhile, the kids, trapped in their car seats, are getting antsy. Stinker begins screaming. I run in the house, head for the phone to call Hubbo at work, then decide, “No. I can do this. Self-sufficiency, remember goofus?!”

I grab the stroller instructions, run back to the car, study the diagram, get annoyed because I can't find the part they are describing, and begin randomly pushing knobs. No luck. Stinker is bawling louder and I'm getting really flustered.

I remove Stinker from the car and put him in the house, return to my nemesis, yank it to the driveway (and into the drizzle), flip the jerk on its side like an amateur wrestler, and look under the armrests for the right doohickey to push. I push everything there every which way. Nothing. This self-sufficiency idea? It's crap!

I dial Hubbo and he patiently tells me what to do. With renewed hope, I put the phone down and attack.

FAIL!

I yell a bit and threaten to go to the mall with the trunk open, stroller hanging out, like toilet paper from pants. It happened to me twice, and I survived. What's the big deal? Hubbo politely suggests a different plan, like not going at all.

Ha! I put on earrings! I AM going! I thank Hubbo anyway, hang up, try some more.

More fail!

FAIL! FAIL! FAIL!

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Deep breath.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

It was the kind of yell that leaves you exhausted and zaps your pride. The kind where your uvula vibrates. The kind where people think you're crazy--because you are. And there it is: I was a loser, many ways over.

After a failed attempt to go lid open (I couldn't even fold the stroller now, I was so spent), I wrangle the metal beast back into the garage and grab the single stroller, which folds and fits ever so sweetly, like a cotton napkin into a drawer. “My trusty old buddy,” I whimper, wanting to stroke it. “If only you had two seats, I'd love you even more.”

Off we go, finally. We arrive and it's tough. Boss wants in the stroller—impossible with Stinker in it, of course. I carry him football-style through the parking lot, shifting positions every few minutes. “This sucks,” I mutter under my breath.

“It would be a big help if you could walk,” I tell Boss, who's perfectly capable, just not interested.

Eventually, though, he walks. A lollipop may have had something to do with it. We have fun at the playground and fountain, and he even enjoys darting around the mall, thankfully not into any of the ill-placed china as we zigzag through Macy's.

I had failures today, yes. But victories, too. I guess I'm learning (slowly) that no day is all Snow White and her cadre of magical birds; at times I'll also trip over the dwarfs and faceplant into a pile of horse doodie. Yes, each day is a blend of birds and turds, and that's OK. It's life, not a fairy tale.

Well, it's part fairly tale. My evil step-mom is the double stroller. We WILL have a rematch. And I WILL triumph--even if my own Prince Charming must show me how.

Old Wives' Tails, Heads and Lumps in Between

I didn't plan on being “elderly gravida” (pregnant at 35 or older) when the stork finally flew my way. We began trying when I was 32, and finally hatched Boss when I was in spitting distance of 40. Two years later Stinker came along as I neared fortybleepingtwo, walker in tow.

Not that the 40s are THAT old, she sighed indignantly, scoffing at an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. She flicked the page. Why are those hoodie things STILL around? Didn't the Unabomber send them right down the style drain? Oh wait, today's youngsters probably don't know that reference...

In truth, I don't really feel old (much). I've always needed more sleep than the average bear, so that's no different. I may go to bed in the 10s, but that's because I get up earlier; the boys crow at the crack of dawn after all. I can still hold my booze and boogie 'til 3 in heels--I just don't want to. But that's not being old, it's just a priority change.

Yes it is.

No, YOU'RE wrong.

I know you are but what am I?

I'm rubber, you're glue ... Oh, never mind! Call it what you will.

OK, so I don't feel old physically (Although, what IS that weird pain shooting down my jaw that happens every so often? It's freaky! And why are my toes numb and tingly in the morning?).

I don't think I look all that old, either, but I guess I look my age.

No, it's true.

Oh, you're a darling. But I do.

Anywho, story for you: A few months ago, I clicked a video link my brother posted on Facebook. A bunch of middle-aged folks were flapping their elbows and staggering around a dance floor. “Who ARE these people?” I wondered; it looked like a PTA after party in full swing. Where were their mock turtlenecks and docksiders to match that hair?

Oops, gulp. It was bro's 25^th high school reunion. “Damn, they look OLD!” I thought. Oops, again. They're just one year older than ME.

[Rude knock on my head]

Do I look like that? (Worse, do I DANCE like that?)

Sigh, probably and probably.

But you know what? As many wise brethren will attest, what you add on in years, you take off in giving a shhh. Perhaps the brain needs space for more memories, so out goes the worry of how you look, what you say, who you are.

It's liberating, really. And it's better than all the happy hours, smooth skin, taut buns and hoodie fashions you'd ever want.

Just one thing. … I wouldn't mind trading in this gray hair. … OK, two: I am NOT getting those bifocals.

Am not.

Am not.

That's cuz you are.

[Wet raspberry here]

Well, OK. Maybe next year. 

If I must.

Dr. Sparkle and Mr. Hide-My-Nasty-Self

I know the Terrible Twos are so-named for a reason, but sometimes I wonder if Boss's behavior pushes the boundaries into the farmost depths of, say, Ffarquhar Quarry. Is he a normal rambunctious boy simply testing his limits, or did we end up with a Macaulay Culkin from "The Good Son"?

As I write this, Boss is protesting his nap, banging his feet against the back of his crib and growling rather loudly in his devil voice. I can't make out what he's saying because earlier today he chucked the monitor over the balcony, and it no longer appears to be working. This morning, he also had two time-outs before 8:30 for the usual--smash 'n bash sessions with the brother. We were not off to a good start.

A few hours of survival later we headed off to see gramma, paw-paw and Aunt K. When we arrived, I brought him inside the house, went back to the car to get Stinker, and held my breath. There was a good chance he'd greet the family with tears, while zooming around yelling, "Wheeeeeerrrre's Mommmmmy?"

But instead, he slipped into Dr. Sparkle mode. He issued hugs, entertained everyone with stiff-legged dancing, and said "please/dank you/'scuse me." He flaunted his knowledge of scarecrows and seeds (Thanks "Caillou"!), kept vehicles out of his food, even ate some food, and showed off the world's greatest dimples with a semi-constant smile. He stayed off of his brother (for the most part), AND he actually coughed into his ELBOW--a milestone I've only preached but never, until this day, witnessed! I adore this sweet, kissable cherub!

Plus, bonus: I'm looking kinda good as a mom. It's a wonderful day! The world is fabulous! Maybe I'll even go to church sometime!

We pack up before the spell breaks and head home. I drive grinning, not speeding for a change, and relive a few of the day's scenes in my head. As we meander along, I point out a variety of trucks to Boss. He stares out the window and drops his juice cup. I reach behind the passenger seat, pick it up and two seconds later it flies out of his hand; I give him a cup from the front seat instead. "NAAAAAAOOOOOHHHHH!," he screams.

Dr. Sparkle has left the premises.

Then within a few minutes, Boss is looking at his brother, shrieking mischievously and laughing. Shriek, laugh, shriek, laugh, shriek, laugh. Stinker cries. Shriek, laugh, Stinker cries, mom yells; shriek, laugh, Stinker cries, mom yells. Sigh, mumble-curse, sigh.

The good news, though? Along with having a great afternoon, I'm (more) convinced that Boss is normal. He can behave outside of the house! Hell, he can even exude some charm (especially if he's competing with his brother for attention). Granted, it's Human Behavior 101--but he passed the test.