Lunch Lady Land

It was a family bonding moment. After enjoying a late Sunday lunch of chicken enchiladas, pico de gallo, guacamole, and the like, we had us a mess on our hands to clean up. The whole family pitched in, and we were getting pretty goofy and having fun. I suggested to Dear Husband that we needed some music while we cleaned up. Suddenly a few lines from an old song that I haven't heard in nearly two decades crawled through my head. "We need 'Lunch Lady Land'!" I exclaimed. "'Lunch Lady Land'?" Dear Husband replied with a what-in-the-world-are-you-talking-about tone in his voice. "Yeah! That old Adam Sandler song. Don't you know it?" He didn't, which I still find odd, but he quickly pulled it up on YouTube on the kitchen desktop computer and we listened while we worked. The kids found it hysterical, and while I couldn't remember the words when I first suggested the song, my memory came back after a line or two, and pretty soon I was singing "Sloppy Joe...Slop-Sloppy Joe..." into a big soup spoon. Dear Husband wasn't impressed. Amused perhaps, but not impressed. In fact, he refused to play it a second time, much to my chagrin. In addition to having the stoopid song stuck in my head all day, I've also been innundated with all kinds of odd college memories.

Apparently I'm not the only one who hasn't been able to get the song out of my head. Just before bed, Dear Son was wandering around humming the Sloppy Joe line, too. I seem to think this is a lot funnier than Dear Husband does.

Frumpy

It's true that I used to be really thin (emphasis on USED TO BE). I once wore a size 3 nicely on my 5'9" frame and turned the men's heads when I walked by. A decade and half and two children later...well...let's just say I don't wear a size 3 anymore. Yeah, I still pine for my size 3 body many days, but it could be a lot worse. While I am pretty "average" now, I'm also far from morbidly obese.

All of this justifying meant nothing, however, when Dear Daughter ran to the kitchen the other day while I was preparing lunch and excitedly said, "Mommy! I just saw a commercial about something that might help you! It was something that will help you control your weight..." and that's when I tuned out. I looked at my husband, who knew enough to mind his own business and so did not say a word until I asked him to. And then he only shrugged as if to say he hasn't a clue where his daughter gets this stuff.

If I truly believed in Jenny Craig, my fat frumpy ass might have called her today for some advice about my "weight problem."

It's a good thing that daughter of mine is only five years old.

It's Gonna Haunt Me!

For those who do not already know this, Dear Daughter is precocious. I hear she comes by it honestly, but I don't like to share that part often. She doesn't miss anything and asks those sorts of questions that stop you in your tracks because you hadn't really ever thought of them yourself until the moment that she asks them.

We indulged Daughter this weekend with her first visit to the community swimming pool. She's been begging for weeks. I personally am not a big fan of swimming in the first place, and certainly not in public pools. To me they seem a cesspool of public piss and spit with some chemicals thrown in. Like I really want to float around in that. Bleh. The whole family went, and as I was getting on my crocs and heading out the door, I spotted Dear Husband's chosen footwear lying in wait. It made me pause, as I had not seen these particular sandals for a couple years--not since we moved to casa de country. I snickered and snorted to myself at these really bad Addidas soccer slide knock-offs, compliments of Walmart. And then I immediately broke out in a version of "I'm Too Sexy"--adding in, "for my shoes" as I did an exaggerated hip hop dance around my husband in the kitchen.

Minutes later, as we pulled out of the driveway in the family-mobile, Dear Daughter asked from the middle row, "Mommy, what does 'sexy' mean?" I just about spit my Coke Zero all over the dash. I didn't think to screen my words amidst the mockery of my husband's fugly shoes and I wasn't quite ready to explain "sexy" to my not-quite-six-year-old daughter. Dear Husband twitched in his fugly sandals and smirked as he said, "Yeah, Dear. Tell your daughter what 'sexy' means." I stammered for the words before settling on the quick explanation that it means "looks nice." Then I changed the subject FAST, and silently prayed she wouldn't tell the pastor's wife at church the next morning that she looks sexy, which would be about as embarrassing as the time she randomly told the pastor's wife that there really is a bird called a "Booby."

********************************************************************************************

Tonight Dear Daughter and I were saying bedtime prayers, which included prayers for a friend's boy who went through a major life-saving surgery recently to remove considerable length of small intestine. He is now well and demonstrating a miraculous recovery, and as I talked with my daughter about how they had removed a length of intestine twice the length of my body, she asked me, "Mommy, where did they put that intestine that they removed?" I had to clarify what she meant to be sure I understood the question. It also allowed me some stall time to think about what the answer might be. Then I had to admit to her that I am not sure, but that I think hospitals have special containers for human tissue and body parts that are removed, which are called "bio hazards," and that they are probably disposed of in an incinerator. She digested this information for a few minutes (no pun intended!) before asking, "...but what if someone had to have their brain operated on?" She was kind of giggling when she asked it until I explained to her that sometimes people really DO have to have their brain operated on and brain tissue may end up in the same place. She was really serious as she studied my face in the dark. I was concerned she would have some wild nightmares, so I changed the subject again and tried to end on a lighter note before kissing her goodnight. When I walked across the hall a few minutes later, I heard her talking to herself in her room.

Somehow I have a feeling that both of these topics are going to come up again.

"I Put Trash in My Nose!"

Dear Son doesn't like to miss anything. I reason that this is why he refuses to nap and why he wants to jump out of bed in the morning at the first notice of the sun peeking through the blinds. When Dear Daughter was this age, she would sleep happily away in her bed until 9:00 or even 9:30 each morning. She had not even figured out that she could get out bed by herself until she was nearly four years old. She would lounge in bed when she woke up and call out, "Mommy! I'm awake!" and I would have to come in and move the pillows and larger than life stuffed duck from the open side of her bed before she would climb out.

It doesn't matter to Dear Son that it is Saturday morning; if the sun is up, he wants to be up as well. True to form, this morning he jumped out of bed with the sun and wandered into the living room to turn on the television until the rest of the household decided to get up as well. Dear Husband was up next, and even though it was only 8:00 when I wandered into the living room to see if I was missing out on anything good (I wasn't), Dear Husband was just pulling out of the driveway with the 1967 Chevy pickup to go get some mulch for the yard. Dear Son was chomping on something and watching Sponge Bob, and he informed me rather nonchalantly at this point that there had been some "trash" on the ottoman, and that he had stuck it in his nose. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I wondered if it had anything to do with the screaming and crying I heard just a bit earlier, and which had awakened me from my slumber. I inquired a bit further for more explanation from Dear Son, but I didn't get anything new out of him. I decided that whatever the issue was, it must be over now, and I went about my usual morning business.

Dear Son followed me around still chomping on something, and I finally asked him what he was chewing on. "Gum!" he said with a grin, and then asked for a tissue. I noticed his nose seemed a bit red and drippy and I wondered if he was getting a cold or if he had some allergies the way his big sister does. I handed him a tissue and heard him sneeze a couple times and didn't think anything more about it.

I wandered to the kitchen, with Son following me close like a shadow, and cooked us a couple eggs while Dear Daughter continued to snooze in full ignorance to the rest of the household beginning their day. I sat by Son at the kitchen table, and we munched our toast together in silence until Son asked for a "wipe" for his nose. I handed him a napkin, and he snorted and sneezed and blew. I was focused on my egg and thinking about the chickens Dear Husband has promised me but that we haven't gotten yet. He says he needs to build a coop first and he doesn't seem to be too eager to get on that task.

Dear Son made another reference to the "trash" that was on the ottoman that he said he shoved up his nose and he giggled as he said that now he could "feel" it! That got my attention, and I'm pretty sure I asked with no small intensity in my voice what in the world he was talking about. He grinned and pointed to his nose and showed me how he could touch his nostril and feel it. I bent my head down to look into his nostril, and sure enough I saw something poking out of it. The pieces of the past 30 minutes began falling into place. "WHAT is in your nose?!!!!" I exclaimed with considerable concern and urgency in my voice. "Daddy said that it wasn't in there. He said he couldn't see it." I wasn't satisfied with this response as there most certainly WAS something in there! I was able to grasp just enough of the corner of whatever it was and yank it out of his right nostril. An entire Trident gum wrapper emerged, coated in snot.

"How in the world did a gum wrapper get up your nose?" I asked incredulously. "I put it up there," Dear Son casually replied, "and Daddy said it wasn't there anymore!"

What followed was the requisite speech about not putting objects up his nose--not even the "trash" on the ottoman. And then I quizzed Dear Husband good when he got home with his truck full of mulch. "I looked up in both sides of his nose, and I didn't see anything!" Dear Husband said in defense. "How could an entire Trident gum wrapper disappear up our son's nose?" I insisted.

Between Dear Son and Dear Husband, I never did get a satisfactory answer.