My Little Coo-Coo Bird.

My daughter Cameron has a few phobias. They are as follows:  

Being late.
Being late.
Being late.

Living with Cameron is like living with a living, breathing, walking, talking, tick-tocking coo-coo clock.

 

A morning before school might go something like this....

“Mom - It’s 7:20!”

“Mom - It’s 7:21!”

"MOTHER - It is 7:22!”   

The coo-coo bird then emerges from its home and starts flying frantically around the house flapping its wings. We’ve all become accustomed to the chirps of the little coo-coo bird. It’s hard to even hear her anymore - poor bird. Poor pretty, pretty bird.

But next, her little head explodes. She hyperventilates all the way to school, as I yell at people to get out of my way and the anxiety in the car grows to such a level that I think it could power all the school buses in town.

School starts at 8:00 am. If Cameron is not there by 7:40, her tiny body releases so much cortisol that it comes out her eyeballs in giant, gushing tear drops.

I don’t know what happened to this child to produce so much anxiety. I think she was just born with her clock-set fast. We’ve had timing issues from day one. Her due date was January 12th. She arrived on December 24th. Coo-cooing and flapping her way into the world TWENTY-ONE days early.

I don’t understand this kid. I am not like this kid. I cannot believe I birthed this kid. If an event starts at 8, I will roll in at 7:59. I consider this on-time. Cameron would consider this behavior as offensive as a fart in an elevator. And that’s how she sees me - as one giant fart in an elevator.

This year, Cameron has been a member of the middle school dance team. This is a good sport for her as everything is on a perfectly timed 8-count.

On Saturdays, the team competes in small towns about 2-3 hours driving distance away from our hometown of Jasper. This requires a very early departure of 5am. So…basically they leave in the middle of the night.

The night before her first out-of-town competition, it was decided that Justin, my husband, would be the one to take her to the bus in the morning. This was excellent news for me, I could sleep in and then drive later to watch her compete.

Her bag was packed. Alarms were set.

Strike that. Alarms were not set.  

Cameron believed that Justin would wake her up. Justin believed that Cameron would wake him up. And I….. could not believe any of it.

At 5am, my phone rang loudly beside me on the nightstand. I looked over to see the name of the dance coach glowing at me in the dark. I didn’t have to answer the phone to know what had happened - somehow, those two, had overslept.

I jumped out of bed, answered the phone and assured the coach that we would be there in less that 5 minutes.

Strike that too. The coach later informed me that it went something like this:

Ring! Ring!

Me: OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! CAMERON!!! GET UP!! GET UP!! WHAT HAPPENED?

Coach: Hello?? Abbie?? Are you guys…

Me: OH MY GOD! GET UP! WHAT THE HELL? JUSTIN! I CAN’T EVEN BELIEVE THIS!

Coach: So do you think you can be here…

Me: I WILL BE THERE IN TWO MINUTES! CAMERON LET’S GO! JUSTIN! WHAT THE #%$*@*&?

Click.

Coach: Hello?

And then Cameron - poor poor Cameron. My little coo-coo bird looked like her wings had been clipped. I picked up her bag and we raced to the car, with me apologizing, comforting, and reassuring her all the while cussing at Justin.  When you can do this - both scream and comfort -  you have reached the top. This is a very advanced mother/wife maneuver.

But I still had one more maneuver to execute. To get out of our neighborhood and onto the highway, I needed to make a left out of the drive, another left and then a right. That was too many turns.

There was not a second to spare. If I cut through our backyard, I could hit the neighbor’s driveway and be emptied straight out onto the highway. There would be no lefts, no rights. It was a straight shot. Was there even a decision to be made?

I backed straight up and hit the gas to take us through the yard.

Why weren’t we moving?

Then it hit me. It hit me like the mud that was spinning up and hitting the windows. It had rained. A lot. I was in the yard spinning ruts into the ground. Cameron was raining tears inside the car.

I backed it up, gripped the steering wheel and yelled a perfect 8 count: 5,6,7,8 Let’s goooooo!
This time I made it. I gave a fist-pump into the air as I hit the highway and raced to the high-school.

We sped into the parking lot like we just had taken in a good old-fashioned southern Indiana muddin’ adventure.

Little dancer faces pressed against the bus glass windows as Cameron barreled out of the car.

“Bye! Cameron - good luck honey! See! We made it just fine!” I yelled after her as she ran out of the car glaring — not once glancing back.

She got on the bus. I watched it pull away. I exhaled.

She had made it. She was likely irreversibly psychologically damaged but she was on the bus.

Then it hit me. Not only had she not brushed her teeth, she also hadn’t gone to the bathroom and was facing a 2.5 hour bus ride. This was not an advanced mothering maneuver.

Later many attempts were made to understand why Justin had not set an alarm. I could only understand this: I had, indeed, married the dumbest man alive. But also the most forgiving, as not a word was ever spoken about the ruts in the yard.

Later that day, I watched Cameron dance with team. They danced with precision to an 8 count. They came in first place. She had been, and was, in perfect time. 

Fish Food.

My daughters are less than 2 years apart. The early years were challenging as days were spent wrangling a toddler and nursing a baby.  Through all of the challenges, I held on to the hope that one day their reliance on me for everything would ease and that they would grow to rely on each other as playmates and friends. I pictured myself reading a book while the girls played together in the yard.

Fast forward 13 years to last night.

I walked up the stairs and heard them laughing. These were not giggles. These were big belly-laughs that begged for air. Though it was late, and I wanted them to sleep, my heart melted at the sound. It was welcomed music. The day had been rough….assigned chores had gone undone or uncompleted. There was yelling. Phones were yanked. So many tears. Listening to their laughter gave me hope. We could start again tomorrow. 

I leaned in for a closer listen.

Hadley: I’m making a voodoo doll. And I’ll stick pins all over her.

I’m puzzled. Why is this funny?

Cameron: You’re a psycho….but what’s a voodoo doll?

Hadley: It’s a magic doll, and she’ll feel the pain.

Cameron: Does it really work?

Hadley: I hope so.

They cackle in unison.

Hadley: I wish we had a chimney.

Cameron: Why?

Hadley: We can shove her up it.

Cameron: Yes! It’s called ‘The Reverse Santa Claus.’

Me! Oh. My. God. They’re talking about me. They’re plotting to kill me.

Hadley: Wait! I’ve got it. We’re gonna ‘Carol Baskin’ her.

Carol Baskin is featured in the Netflix docuserius Tiger King. Carol is a big cat ‘rescue’ owner, who is accused of killing her husband and feeding him to the tigers.

I do not recommend it for teenage viewers.

Cameron saw just one problem with Hadley’s ‘Carol Baskin’ plan. “Wait!” she said. “Hadley, we don’t have a tiger!”

But Cameron also had a solution: “We’ll just have to chop her up. Didn’t they use a meat grinder in that show? Do we have a meat grinder? And then! We can feed her to Bubbles!”

Bubbles is our beta fish. They’ve plotted to turn me into fish food.

I was headed to bed. Now I can’t sleep.

Their laughter will surely fuel nightmares. My sweet little babies. Where did I go wrong?
Did I feed them too many food-dyes? Did I let them watch too much TV?

Well, I definitely shouldn’t have let them watch Tiger King.

My dreams of them relying on each other as friends and playmates has gone awry. They’re now co-conspirators in a murder plot.

I’ve got no where to hide. We’re quarantined and those little monsters are coming for me.

If I go missing, someone check the fish bowl.

My final resting place.

Ice Cream Trumps Running.

Hadley recently came home with a form to sign up for the middle-school cross country team. I swiftly threw it in the trash. 

Hadley will not walk across the hall to throw her dirty underwear in the clothes hamper, so I think cross country running might be a bit of a stretch. I've watched her attempt to throw something in the trashcan, miss, and then decide she doesn't want to bend down and pick it up so she keeps on walking. I've seen Hadley have her sister, Cameron, put socks on her, because Hadley didn't want to bend over.

Running is everything Hadley hates. It requires effort. It's outside. It will make her sweat. 

Before I knew better, I once signed Hadley up to run in a child's "just for fun" run. At the time, again, before I knew better, I was really into running and wanted to share the joy with my daughter. Clearly I was suffering from an endorphin over-dose because running is horrible. But I put the poor kid at the starting line, told her to run when the gun went off.  I was waiting on the sidelines, maybe just an 1/8th of a mile into the course, when I saw her run around the bend. She looked terrified. She looked like she was being chased by a serial killer. She made eye-contact with me, glared, ran swiftly under the rope and abandoned the race. 

"What are you doing?" I asked her. "You're in the middle of a race! Get back out there!"

"It's horrible mom!" she said. "It's hot. I can't breathe. I might be having a heat stroke."

"Hadley, you have literally been running for two minutes. You haven't had time for a heat stroke! Plus it's only 75 degrees. When you have a heat stroke, you can quit, but for now, get back out there!!" 

"Nope," she said. "Not doing it. You can't make me and I'm done."

Well, the girl is decisive. 

We left & went to Dairy Queen. She needed to cool down from her heat stroke. Ice cream trumps running. 

Yet I was not giving up on her. Last year Dubois County introduced Girls on the Run. Girls on the Run is a program that teaches girls about self-confidence, supporting each other, goal-setting and more through running.  Well, Girls on the Run, let me introduce you to Hadley Rumbach.

Hadley participated in the program and didn't hate it. That is a rave review from Hadley Rumbach. I love my tiny hater. She's all tightly-wound and guarded, but when she opens up, the love is mega-big. Her mega-big love would not be opened up for Girls on the Run. Perhaps Hadley could be the founder of Girls at the Diary Queen, where she promotes and encourages girls to give up and eat their feelings.

The culmination of the Girls on the Run program is a celebratory 5K. This is not competitive. This is about "girl-power." Hadley wanted nothing to do with girl power. The 5K intimidated her to her core. I get it. Staring down the barrel of 3 miles, can look pretty dangerous. Nothing dangerous about the Dairy Queen except the calories. However, she trained throughout the program for the 5k and she was prepared to run it.

The day of the race, I stood with her at the starting line. I had agreed to run along side her as her running buddy. I was happy to have the job. I figured, if I was beside her, she couldn't duck out of the race. 

When the gun went off, my tightly-wound Hadley exploded. She began sprinting as quick as her legs could carry her - in the opposite direction. 

She didn't even look back.

"Where are you going?!?!" I yelled after her. "We're supposed to be going the other way!!"

"I know," she yelled back over her shoulder while running at full speed. "I'm too scared to do it!"

"Buy you are doing it!!! You're doing it in the wrong direction!" I screamed. "Turn around."

She stopped running and I caught up with her. I'm not sure if I was out of breath or had no words, but we just stood there.

Then without speaking, we took off, together, in the right direction. We caught up with the group and finished the race.

There has been no running in the Rumbach household since that day. We had to press the pause button on the running theatrics. 

Hadley then decided to press play.

"Mom, where's my cross country sign up sheet?" she asked. "I need you to hand that in."

Oink. Oink. Did pigs just fly?

"What?!?!?" I asked. "You want to run? On purpose? I threw that paper in the trash"

"Mom!!" she said. "Why would you do that? Why would you think I wouldn't like running? You didn't even ask me! God!"

It must be really tough for Hadley to have such a stupid mother.

So, I dug through a weeks worth of garbage, dusted off the form. And signed Hadley up for the Jasper Middle School Cross Country Team. Perhaps out of a trash can on Gregory Lane will rise the greatest cross country runner the school has ever seen.

Whatever happens, however this season progresses, I do know for certain that she won't take the easy way, she will not make it easy on herself - or me.

She'll get side-tracked, side-lined and might even stop for a snack at the Dairy Queen, but she'll get there and the path she takes will be one that is all her own. 

The World's Largest Gummy Bear

My daughter Cameron turned 9 on Christmas Eve. 

A Christmas Eve birthday means that she is showered with presents for two straight days. She loves every gift she receives, but there is no gift that anyone could give Cameron that would thrill her more than cold hard cash. Skip the toy aisle, skip the craft kits - put some dollar bills in this kid's hands and she lights up like a Christmas tree.

I have no problem with my children receiving money as presents.  I welcome the opportunity to raise smart, thrifty consumers: I have my work cut out for me with Cameron.

I think she might be allergic to money. As soon as it's placed in her tiny hands she starts itching.  And this is no ordinary itch. This itch is relentless, unforgiving, painful - probably like herpes or crabs. My child receives money and starts behaving like she has an std or a drug addict.

"When can we go to store?"

"Will you take me to the store?"

"Are you leaving to go to the store?"

"I need to buy a new shirt."

"I need to buy a new bow."

"Nevermind, I need to buy candy."

"When can we go to the store?"

"I think I want to buy a swimming pool - and then I want to buy a narwal to put in it. It is the unicorn of the sea, you know."

These phases are stuck in her brain on repeat. She says nothing else. She talks of nothing else until every dime is spent. When she was given $30 by her Great Grandma for Christmas, I was happy for her, but then braced myself for the onslaught of requests from Cameron. I knew she'd come at me - so she could spend! spend! spend!

And she did. 

This time, she was after the World's Largest Gummy Bear. Where does one get the world's largest gummy bear? Where else? Amazon.com

According to Amazon, the World's Largest Gummy Bear weighs 5 lbs and is 10 inches tall. It is 1000 times the size of a typical gummy bear. It contains approximately 1 million grams of sugar and enough dyes to cause instant autism. However, it is gluten free.

The world's largest gummy bear does not come cheap. Price tag? $30.00. Yes, $30 for a gummy bear.

Cameron did not see this as a problem but as a sign.

"Mom, I have exactly $30 so I am supposed to buy it."

I tried to reason with her that a lot of other things also cost $30, but she would hear none of that nonsense.

I offered Cameron many reasons as to why the gummy bear would be a bad purchase: it was unhealthy, unnecessary, and over-priced. But she heard nothing I said - perhaps she had tiny gummy bears stuck in her ears.

I suggested reasonable alternatives:

"Why don't you buy a few bags of gummy bears and save the rest of your money?"

"Why don't you buy that small gummy bear on a stick we saw at Wal-Mart? That looked good."

"Why don't you buy the World's Largest Gummy Worm? It's cheaper."

"Why don't you just set your money on fire?"

No. No. No and No.

I then got sneaky. I took her to Wal-Mart and suggested she bring her money in case she saw anything she might like. Though we were "officially" looking for a birthday present for Cameron's friend, I was hoping that if I took her up and down the toy aisles, she might see something else she wanted and cave. Nope. 

I realized then that not only was fighting against the World's Largest Gummy Bear, I was also fighting with the World's Most Stubborn Child.

Cameron checking out the toys at Wal-Mart. She's not taking the bait. The bread in her hand? That's a day-old loaf of French Bread that she's buying for a dollar. She says she needs it in case she goes to France?

Finally, I just said no. No to the World's Largest Gummy Bear and no the the World's Most Stubborn Child. It was ridiculous, expensive, and just plain unhealthy. I told her I didn't want to hear about it anymore, so, really, what choice did she have but to write me a letter?

It read:

Dear Abbie,

I think I have the right to spend my money as I chose. I'm more than half way to adult hood. Just cause I'm a kid doesn't mean I don't know all the things that could go wrong. I try to be mostly positive on the gummy bear. I don't care if I spend all my money! I'm doing this for all the kids that have been put down by there parents. I'm doing this for america! Please please say yes for america!

Sincerely, 
Cameron

 
I realized then I couldn't infringe upon her right to gummy bears. So I said yes. I said yes to the World's Largest Gummy Bear. Yes to Cameron and yes to America.  

The World's Largest Gummy Bear arrived on our doorstep. Cameron ripped into the package and started in on its ear. The thing was so damn chewy she couldn't break through it - she started gnawing and shaking her head back and forth like a mad dog with a toy. Great - the gummy bear gave her rabies. I had suspected this might happen.

She took the gummy bear and hid it in her room. I have no idea where it is. This is for the gummy bear's own good.  

Though I hate the gummy bear, I've decided not to take him for granted. In a few years, she'll probably be hiding cigarettes and her boyfriend in her room and I'll wish for World's Largest Gummy Bear to be my World's Largest Problem. 

God bless Cameron. God bless the gummy bear and God bless America.
 

VICTORY!

 

Surgery or Bust.

My body, or more specifically, a part of my digestive system, has decided to give up. Thanks a lot gallbladder - you fucking wimp. 

It has been pushed to its limits and has just decided to quit on me. Perfect. Quitting body parts makes me feel about a hundred year old.

I understand, gallbladder, I do. The working conditions have not been great. I fed you - a lot, maybe too much. But honestly, have you just discounted every vegetable I’ve ever thrown your way? Do all those salads count for nothing??  The alcohol - yeah, you should probably just be thanking me for that party but no, you’ve decided to stab me instead. And now you’re quitting, shutting down operations. Which would be fine with me, as I hear you’re not that essential anyways, however, your exit strategy sucks. 

I do not want to be cut open, but I have been advised that I either have the surgery or explode. 

“Don’t worry!” they say. “It’s laparoscopic!”

Laparoscopic. I did not understood what this word meant. I thought it meant they would just bust it up with lasers or something. Um no. It just means smaller incisions, but there will still be incisions all the same. Can’t they just suck it out through my nose or something? 

Damn you gallbladder and all of your fits. I thought it was just gas pain. 

Every so often, a horrible pain would creep into my abdomen and spread around to my back. I handled it by writhing around on the floor while the children stomped over me asking me to make them food and Justin gave his only advice, “Abbie, you just need to fart!”

Great advice Justin, except you can’t fart out your gallbladder.

So the gallbladder must go. There is no more hustle in its bile making game. Surgery will soon be scheduled.

Laparoscopic or not, the surgery sounds horrible. Three incisions are made, then in order to reach the gallbladder, they will inflate my abdomen with air. Sounds like a party. Except I’ll be the balloon. And I’ll be passed out. 

The recovery worries me more than the surgery. Unlike my gallbladder, I am essential to operations. I don’t have time to be down. When you see (or smell) my family in dirty clothes you’ll know I’ve gone under. Don’t get me wrong, Justin’s great and he’s even recently learned how to do a ponytail, but he has no idea how to do a load of laundry. 

Note to self: Buy family extra undies before operation. 

Extra note to self: Wear clean undies for operation. 

It is my understanding that if the operation goes well, I could be sent home the same day and I can “recover” at home. That - is - funny. There could blood pouring out of my abdomen and the children would still expect me to find their shoes, help with homework and drive them around. 

Maybe I should just quit. My gallbladder did. Thirty-six years and it’s done. Retired to gallbladder beach or wherever old gallbladders go. Perhaps I’ll put it in a jar and take it home - like a favor from the big surgery party. Who knows, maybe my appendix will be next? I can then start collecting my internal organs like some crazed serial killer. 

I can set them out & threaten the kids.

“Kids, you are stressing me out! You see those internal organs over there? Do you want me to lose another one?”  

“Jack, you better stop that or I’ll sit you in time out next to the gall bladder.”  

Gallbladder, you may soon be gone. But I’ll keep you in a jar, use you to threaten my kids and make sure that you are never forgotten, even if you are a wimp. 

Finders Keepers?

I balance my checkbook and pay the bills weekly. Usually it is with sweat on my brow, that I crunch the numbers and hope that this isn’t the week where I’ve spent too much and finally taken us under.

With school registration fees, back-to-school shopping, gymnastics fees (this list could go on & on) my check book has been seeing a lot of action lately. So I’ve been looking for small ways to save a little money.

After cleaning up the summer scum that the children had left behind, I was out of cleaning supplies and because I’m being budget conscience, I headed to a discount shopping center where I found multi-purpose spray cleaner, bleach, toilet bowl cleaner, and furniture polish (because maybe I’ll do that??) all for $1 each. My budget was smiling.

I was in the checkout line when I saw it. There on the floor was an envelope. I picked it up. Inside? $350.

Instantly a little angel and a little devil popped up on my shoulder and went to battle.

Devil: Yay! This must be gift from God. This is his way of helping you out!

Angel: You know better than this. This is not your money. Someone worked hard for this money.

Devil: You don’t know that! Someone could have sold drugs to children for this money. Your luck? They probably sold it to your kids! Keep the money.

Angel: You can’t keep it!

Devil: Finders keepers!

Angel: Do unto others!

Ugh. My conscience was fighting worse than my kids. I was irritating myself. I had to shut it down.

I decided I should take the money to the police station. Then I panicked.

What if there were security cameras in the store? What if they saw me leaving with the money and instantly plastered my picture on social media? I could become a cyber-bullying victim: declared guilty in the court of public opinion before I had the opportunity to explain I had taken it to the police.

I handed over the money to an employee who said she would put it in the safe until it was claimed. I’m hopeful that this occurred, and I’m hopeful that the money is reunited with its owner. I’m sure whoever it is is probably on a budget and is missing it more than I could ever need it.

It’s such a shitty feeling to lose money. Once, I lost $100 at a mini-golf course/arcade. I was in middle school and decided to take my entire life savings with me to a putt putt place because I was an idiot. What the hell was I going to buy? $100 worth of slushies and nachos? I guess that was always a possibility….

I never found that money. I’m still pissed about it. I’m pissed at myself and whoever who found and kept it. And I'm super pissed I didn't get my slushie and nachos. I suffered through 9 holes of putt putt hell for nothing. I hate putt putt. I had gone for the concessions.

I left the store and headed home with my cleaning supplies and more importantly a clean conscience. All budgets were working and perfectly balanced.

Hold on for one more day....

The reviews are in and after one day, Hadley is calling 5th grade a bust. She’s not going back. Her friends are in different homeroom class and she's comparing her current room assignment to a prison sentence.

Upon returning from school, Hadley crossed her name out on my "Have a Great Day Chalkboard."   Sheesh. 

If this is any indication of how the school year is going to proceed, I might have to imprison myself.

She has requested to be home-schooled to which Cameron replied, “Hadley, don’t do that, you will be dumb!” 

Shit. I guess my review isn’t so hot either.

Did they learn anything? Well, kinda.

Hadley: I learned that these shoes give me blisters.

Cameron: Allergies. I learned about allergies. If I don’t wash my hands after eating peanut butter, I could kill a kid. Maybe even a kindergartner.

With my heart breaking a little for Hadley, I am hopeful that if can convince her to attend, that tomorrow might be a little bit better.

Maybe I’ll play her a little Wilson Philips on repeat tonight and teach her to “Hold on for one more day…..” Perhaps then she’ll be begging to go to school.

That’s what it’s come to, ten years into this parenting gig and I’m now relying on Wilson Philips. 

This is my only idea. This is all I've got. I'm going to smack the first day of school blues out of her with early 90s pop music. 

Good luck Hadley.  PS. Cameron wash your hands.

Jack's Wild Wild West Tee-Ball Show

Jack's coach taking him off the pitching mound and returning him to 2nd base.

It was recently brought to my attention that my 4-year-old son was old enough to play tee-ball with the Jasper Youth Softball League. Wait? What? Really? They’ve got to be kidding.

He’s spent only 48 months on this earth, and he’s old enough for an organized sport? I would later learn that “organized” in regards to 4-year old tee-ball is a generous word. However, yes, for organized tee-ball Jack was, indeed, eligible, if questionably capable.

I spent a few weeks deciding whether I should sign him up. It seemed too early. By starting now, surely, he’d be worn out and washed up by 12. He’d then turn to drugs and by 16, I’d be shopping rehab facilities. Tee-ball having served as the gateway drug.

However, I was also well-aware that Jack’s athletic gene-pool was probably pretty shallow, so if he wanted to play, I better give him any head start he could get. So I drank the Kool-Aid and hopped on the the ride to nowhere.

I soon learned that there would be a tee-ball draft. Yep. This is a real situation. Coaches, actually get together and haggle for players, half of whom can’t even wipe their own butts, my son among them.

Jack was drafted to the Devil Rays, and his first practice was scheduled.

That practice. The Devil Rays looked like castaways on the island of misfit toys. And the poor well-intended coach….he handed Jack a bat - on purpose - not knowing that Jack would rather swing the bat at his teammates like a sword than try and hit the ball.

Watching a group of 4-year old boys play their first game is like watching tiny aliens arrive on planet earth. As a majority, they have no clue what’s happening or why. And if you’re Jack, you really don’t care. Here’s what Jack does care about during his tee-ball game:

1. Making a perfect dirt angel while he mans 2nd base

2. Licking the inside of his hat

3. Picking his nose

4. Picking grass out of the outfield, running it into the infield and throwing it at this teammates. The ball? Oh that probably just whizzed on by him. He’d rather lick his hat.

Jack likes to hit the ball off the tee and then hurl the bat - usually the bat goes farther than the ball. He then likes to gallop, skip, or run backwards to 1st base. Even with his theatrics, he usually makes it on base courtesy of the the absurdity and hilarity of 4 year old tee-ball.

It’s like the wild wild west out on that field. Balls flying, bats swinging. Kids running in all directions. No rules apply. If Jack decides he’d rather play pitcher - he goes and shoves the pitcher off the mound. If a player is running to 3rd base, and Jack doesn’t like the look of him, he blocks him like a linebacker. 

There are no rules in Jack’s wild wild west tee-ball show, except one: You always slide home. Running home? Slide! Going up to the plate to bat? Slide!! And why throw the ball home and make the out when you can run it in and…..Slide!
 
We bring Jack home looking like he got bombed with dirt. But he’s really bombed on sugar. After the game comes Jack’s favorite part of playing tee-ball - a trip to the concession stand. God bless the Jasper Youth Softball Concession Stand for feeding my family dinner (and dessert!) 4 nights a week.

Not surprisingly, the Devil Rays are 0-10. Which is horrible, except if you’re Jack. Win? Lose? It doesn't matter to him. That’s the best part of 4 year old tee-ball.  The scoreboard, for these days, for these kids, doesn’t exist. This won’t always be true. Some day, in the near future, there will be winners, there will be losers but this summer, out on the field, all that matters is sliding home.

It's just a tampon.

Throughout the course of my eleven-year marriage, my husband and I have become quite comfortable. 

We don’t hold back a fart or a burp. After all, we are getting older and it is quite possible that if we hold it in we could explode.

We no longer bother to close the bathroom door to pee – there’s no point.  Going to the bathroom is a family affair; I haven’t peed without an audience in years.

Oh look! Mom is going to the bathroom, I need to find out what’s for dinner, have her sign my test, ask her to find my dance bag, spot my back handspring and read me a book.

We’re comfortable. Justin scratches his balls for days and I don’t shave my legs for weeks. This is marriage. This is the real deal. Pissing with the door open, free flowing gas and itchy balls. This is the dream. This is happily ever after. This is my fairy tale, but where in world did I put that glass slipper??

However, this week, I apparently crossed the line when I asked Justin to hand me a tampon. Yep, that’s it - getting me a tampon - that is where he draws the line.

Justin screamed, "Are you serious?!?!" 

It was like menstruation was an entirely new concept to him. He couldn't believe it was happening. He could not believe I had my period, and he had to be the tampon boy.

I yelled at him, "Are you serious?!?! Is this shocking information to you? It’s my period. Happens every month. Right on schedule. Just hand me one from under the sink."

He relented and proceeded to walk into the bathroom with his face buried in his shirt.

"What is wrong with you?" I asked him. "You’ve seen 3 children explode out of my vagina. This is NOT a big thing."

"Ok, calm down," he replied. "Ok, Ok, Ok, I’ve found the box – now what do you need?"

You’d think he was dismantling a bomb. Then he dropped a bomb.

"Whoa! Wait a second here!" he said. "It says jumbo on the box! Is it really like that?? Do you have a jumbo vagina??

Holy shit. He was like a 5th grade boy and vaginas were brand new to him. Apparently I had to explain. 

"I do not have a jumbo vagina you idiot." I said.  "It’s a jumbo size pack! Do you think the marketing department at tampax decided to appeal to women with the word “jumbo?”

Justin thought this was great.

“Jumbo!"  he said in a sing-song voice."Mrs. Jumbo! Mrs. Jumbo! Get it, like, from the movie Dumbo?”

“You’re a dumbo," I said, "Throw me the tampon and get out of here."

Yep. This is marriage. This is happily ever after. This is my fairy tale forever. I might have misplaced my glass slipper, but I'm pretty sure that Prince Charming wouldn't fetch Cinderella's tampons.

 

Strep throat. Ninja Style.

Jack turned four years old on a Tuesday and on a Saturday, we hosted a birthday party - ninja style. 

We all wore Ninja Turtle Masks, beat to death a Ninja Turtle piñata and then ate Ninja Turtle birthday cake. Jack was so excited about the birthday cake that before he blew out his candles, he licked all over it - like a rabid dog, he drooled all over the mutant green icing.

This is not surprising. Jack licks everything. He licks the grocery cart. He licks the carpet at church. He licks the van. He'll lick a stranger's pant leg. My family didn't mind the licked-over birthday cake. They'd all been licked by Jack, it's how he shows love and besides, a little four-year old slime would not keep my family off a birthday cake. Pretty sure the threat of AIDS wouldn't keep my family off a birthday cake. So we sliced into that turtle cake and ate it. It was extra gooey, just as a ninja turtle cake should be.

A few hours after the party, Jack passed out cold. I thought he had properly OD'ed and was slipping into a blood sugar coma, however his fever told me otherwise - 104 degrees hot. The next day would bring a diagnosis of strep throat. Awesome. Our family had brought Jack gifts, we gave them a bacterial infection.

A days worth of antibiotics, and Jack bounced back. You can't keep a good ninja turtle down, but a good ninja can take down his sisters. A few days later, Hadley and Cameron both spiked fevers and sore throats. Strep by birthday cake -  very clever evil ninja.

So I then had three children on antibiotics. That is 2 doses per day per child -  6 total doses a day over ten days. That's 60 tiny cups of the bubble-gum flavored elixir to administer to the world's worst medicine takers. Sorry, big drug companies but the reviews are in, and your bubble gum flavor tastes nothing of the sort. According to Cameron, it tastes like "butt."

Morning and night, I would line up the little doses on the counter for my little people and brace myself for at least 30 minutes of tough negations, bribes, bargains and threats.

You want a sucker? Sure thing.

A hamster? Not a shot in hell.

A dollar? Are you kidding me? I have no dollars left. We're going belly-up in co-pays and deductibles.

Your reward? YOUR REWARD???? Your reward is not getting strep so badly that it infects your hearts and brains. Your reward is life!!!! Is that not enough?!?! You get to live!!! Fuck no, they want a puppy. 

In the year 2014, how hard can it be to manufacture an antibiotic that doesn't taste like bubblegum that's been shoved up someone's ass? For god's sake, as a species we've managed to make decent tasting vegan meals. We can surely remove the butt flavor from antibiotics.

However, until then I'll have to convince my suicidal bunch, one dose at a time, that life is worth living for, even if it tastes like butt.

Shuffle Shuffle Jiggle It.

Selfie - after the run that almost
killed me. I didn't stop sweating for 3 days.

I've been running. Like, for exercise, and I absolutely hate it. I don't know why I do it. I guess I have some vain hope that it might make me skinny and give me long lean runner's legs. However, unless, running can somehow alter my DNA, I think I might be running in circles.

I've got short, very short, legs that look like they belong on a 70 year-old obese woman. They're dimply, veiny and thick. I hate them. I know I should be grateful that I have working limbs - I get that. But I'm vain. Who isn't? The Pope? Yeah, probably. The Pope is probably not vain and that's why he's not a runner. I can't recall any pictures of his holiness haulin' ass in his Nike sneakers. Vanity escapes only him. 

Just give me a good shrink (and a good plastic surgeon) and I'll work on that vanity. However, for now, I hate my legs and I'll hold onto the hope, or start praying to the Pope, that running might give me the legs of Cindy Crawford. 

Running is horrible, and I'm horrible at it. Though, I'm not sure you can call what I've been doing running, as I recently got passed up by an elderly couple who was walking their elderly dog. Seriously, this dog did not look good. They were dragging it down the street. Yet, they passed me right on by.

But, despite my speed, or lack thereof, it is my version of running. My style is not so much a run or a jog but more so a shuffle - a shuffle with a whole lot of jiggle. Kind of sounds like a new summer hip-hop rap hit: "Shuffle Shuffle Jiggle It." If my running career does not take off, it is quite possible I might have a hot career as a rapper. Word. Word to this mother. 

I've been drug into this dreadful exercise by two of the skinniest, fittest, fastest bitches alive. They're pretty good at sticking with me on our runs as they are patient and encouraging, yet I often feel as if  I'm the chubby girl who is holding them back. In our running pack, I am the weakest link and I often send them on their way as I lag behind. 

Have you seen us out there? It's a pretty sad sight. That is, if you're me. You might have seen two fit girls sprinting, laughing, barely breaking a sweat as they glide down the pavement. The chubby friend lagging about 50 feet behind leaving a trail of sweat and tears as she shuffles down the pavement near death - yeah, that'd be me. I'm like the caboose. Choo! Choo!

It doesn't help my efforts that I don't wear shorts. I haven't worn shorts in about 10 years. Shorts do not accentuate my best feature, which is any feature but my legs. This wardrobe handicap doesn't work well for a chubby girl running in soaring summer temperatures. Wearing black knit tight capri pants in 100 degree humid weather while trotting down the road might very well kill me. My last run felt like a death march. Dear fit skinny fast friends, please look behind you once and awhile to make sure I haven't dropped dead.

Running, however, did give birth to one of my greatest ideas ever. If I was going to to run, I was going to make it worth my while. Thus, the margarita run was born.  Recently, I gathered my friends, we ran about 3 miles to arrive at our local Mexican restaurant and then filled up with margaritas and table-side guacamole. Various husbands then picked most of us up, as we were too drunk to run it on home. Maybe I should have attempted that run, it might have been my best run ever as I know the tequila would have dulled the pain. I'm thinking of making this a monthly event and having t-shirts made. They will read "Running for Tequila."

My running hobby will eventually fizzle out. Yet, the margaritas & table-side guacamole - I'll order that up for life. I'll just get to the restaurant like a normal mom in my mini-van, which will be blaring all of my new hot hip raps. Shuffle Shuffle Jiggle It - Word.

Our Tooth Fairy.

I was out of commission. A migraine had hit me full force which meant I had to puke and then pass out for a few hours in order to recover, but no worries for me, I was a migraine pro.  I got my first migraine in Kindergarten. The demands of my early childhood education were clearly stressful - the painting, the counting, the alphabet. It's a damn good thing full day kindergarten didn't exist back in 1985 or it probably would've killed me. 

My 2014 migraine meant Justin was in charge of our evening, which included homework, dinner, baths, dance class and softball practice. All of this was enough for Justin to develop a migraine of his very own, but I had already claimed it so he was out of luck. Finders keepers! I learned that in Kindergarten.

After my migraine had subsided, I emerged from my black migraine hole of pain and death, to find all of the kids were in bed and Justin was relaxing with a book -  but I interrupted him to get the play by play of how the evening had gone. All had went well. Justin handled it all like a champ, and had even been thrown a curve ball when Hadley lost a tooth, and he had to play tooth fairy.

The Rumbach family tooth fairy is ridiculous. She went completely over the top when Hadley lost her first tooth. Hadley didn't just get a quarter as in days of old, but rather was given $5, a packet of Reese’s Pieces, a new Barbie DVD and a bottle of nail polish. The kid hit the jackpot and had the most generous and excited tooth fairy ever.

When more and more teeth started to fall out (which, by the way, is gross), and once our kids started knocking them out on purpose for reward, we realized that we needed to explain to the kids that the recession had effected everyone, including tooth fairy.

Our tooth fairy did not initially have the foresight to realize that Hadley had 19 more teeth to lose, and if you do the math to include three kids, we were looking at tooth fairy bills totaling near $1500 should the tooth fairy keep up her extravagant spending.

The tooth fairy scaled it back to $1 (monetary reward adjusted for inflation from days of old) and a piece of sugary candy (our tooth fairy is a little twisted). I thought we finally had this tooth fairy thing figured out. Nope.

Justin: Hadley's tooth fell out. I took care of the tooth fairy thing.

Me: Oh good. Did you already put it under her pillow? What did you get her?

Justin: I got her M&Ms, $1 and a cactus.

Me: YOU GOT HER WHAT?!?! A cactus? As in the pain-inducing plant cactus? A cactus from the tooth fairy? Is it under her pillow?

Justin: What's wrong with a cactus? It has a little yellow flower -  it's cute. I think she'll like it. She can put it on her desk.

Me: She has white carpet. The cactus has dirt. Dirt and white carpet are not going to work out, and did you touch it? I'm pretty sure it hurts.

Justin: Oh yeah, I touched it. It hurt really bad.

Me: What tooth fairy bring a kid a cactus? Jack steals things from Hadley's desk - you know this! He's going to grab that thing and really hurt himself.

Justin: He won't steal much after that.

Me: Put the cactus on your shelf in the garage. You can have it. Good effort, but you are the worst tooth fairy ever.

Hallelujah, this might have cured me of my migraines forever. I can not go down. I am essential to this operation. I have to be here or who knows, my kid might wake with a cactus stuck to her face.

Free to a Good Home: The Rumbach Family Cactus. 

Jeepin' and Poopin'

The weather was beautiful! Finally! After months of a winter that brought us freezing sub-zero temps, ice storms, and wicked snow, spring had finally arrived and the temperature had soared to 70 degrees. I could not wait to go outside with the kids. I raced home from work, eager to let the kids play with all of their playthings that had been gathering dust in the garage all winter.

The girls hopped right on their bikes and rode up and down the driveway. Jack took off in his motorized Jeep and made laps around the house. I sat my ass in a lawn chair with a snack and Pottery Barn catalog. Life was good - until it wasn’t.

Jack had been Jeepin’ it full speed around the house – making lap after lap. The kid loved it. He loved it so much that he just had to get naked, and so it was that at about his 5^th or 6^th lap around the house, he came around to greet us in the driveway without his clothes.

"Jack!" I yelled. "Where are your clothes?"

"Oh yeah," he answered. "I took them off." 

"Why did you take them off?!?!?!" I replied. 

"Because I pooped," he said.

And with that he took off full speed - ready to make another lap.

"Jack Rumbach!!!" I yelled. "Get back here!"

Yet off he went - Jeepin' it naked, covered in poop, leaving skid marks around the yard, with me running wildly behind him.

As I set off chasing the little pooper, I ran by his "business" and yes, he indeed pooped right there in the front yard for everyone to see.

Awesome. If you happened to drive by that day, I apologize. 

If you live in the neighborhood and were trying to enjoy the beautiful sounds of spring, I also apologize but I hope you enjoyed the show.

I get it. Kind of, I do. He was really excited to be outside - he'd been cooped up for months. He couldn't be bothered to go inside to poop. He was ready to rock and roll and enjoy the sunshine. Bodily functions be damned. 

After finally catching my little streaker and cleaning him up, I then had to go scoop poop out of our yard - like we have a dog, except, we don't have a dog - we just have a Jack, who apparently isn't house broken. 

This kid is going to kill it at preschool in a few months. Hadley was sent to preschool writing her name and knowing her letters. My greatest hope for Jack is that he keeps his pants on. 

Woof Woof.

WARNING: THIS JEEP MAY LEAVE SKID MARKS.