Green Eggs and Scam.

We are not born with the ability to laugh at ourselves.

On the morning of April Fool's Day last year, I tried to come up with a good prank.

With really young children, it's hard to come up with a fairly innocuous prank. Three years ago I told Sierra that now that she was seven years old she was going to have to take only showers. I explained that it was a new law that had passed and that we had to follow the law or the sheriff would be by to check on us.

You can guess how well that went over. She still remembers that one and gives me a look that says "how could you!"

Oh well. Time to toss another twenty in the therapy savings account for her.

So I decided to do something less personal this time. I was scrambling some eggs and decided to toss in some food coloring and turn them green. Then I announced I would be serving ostrich eggs for breakfast.



"No way!" Sierra said.

"Way!" I said. "Look, see the color?"

"Cool!"

It would have been great if it had ended right there. But of course, it didn't. Mireya was horrified. She began crying that she didn't want ostrich eggs.

Sierra, who was happily munching away, assured her four-year-old sister that they tasted great.
Mireya was having none of it. I quickly fessed up to the food dye. If anything, that made things worse.

"You lied to me?" Mireya said, crestfallen.

We all tried to explain about April Fool's Day, but it was hopeless.

"I hate April Fool's Day!" she shouted.

After promising to not play any more tricks on her, we managed to get through the day. She even ate a little of the green eggs and Sierra managed to play an April Fool's Day joke on me. No one dared mentioned it and we focused instead on how many days until Easter.

But forgiving is not forgetting. Proving once again that four-year-olds have longer memories than anyone likes to think, she gave me a harsh look during bath time.

"You lied to me," she said, "You lied about the ostrich egg."

I sighed and mentally added another thirty bucks to the therapy fund. At this rate we won't have anything left for the college fund.

Tech Support - PLEASE?

If there's one role in my life that's working out, it's my job in tech support. Finally my lifelong nerdiness has paid off – for my parents, that is. While I was never enough of a geek to cash in, I am enough of one to be responsible for solving all computer problems in my immediate family.

When you're in tech support, you actually don many roles. When it's time to update some software, I'm called on as an instructor. When it's time to consider updating computer systems, I'm a serving in more of a financial advisor role. And, when files disappear mysteriously, I'm called on for divine intervention, and sometimes, grief counseling.

All of which reminded me of an observation made by a friend of mine, Lizette. Life, she noted, needs tech support. We really need someone we can call when life's hard drives crash, when the mental software locks up, when everything begins to mysteriously end up in the recycle bin.

While I'm fulfilling the role as tech support on the computer end of things, I am still looking for a bit of tech support in my own life role as mom.

There are many times as a parent when I could really use some significant tech support. Frankly you can call your family for advice only so often before they just grow silent on the phone, waiting for you to figure it out. Like you'd be calling if you had a clue.

That would never happen with Parental Tech Support.

I can see it now. You'd ring up the special number given to you as you exited the birthing room, the number you'd have since tattooed to your palm. You'd be on hold for an hour and forty minutes, listening to periodic assurances that you are important. Then you'd make your selection from a long menu of choices, many of which have changed to keep you from zipping through. You'd never hit 0 for customer service, because that would be cheating. Plus it wouldn't work anyway.

You'd almost be lulled to sleep with the soft rock music and repeated admonishments to not hang up or else you'd lose your place in line, when you break through. You'd suddenly be talking to a real, live person. They'd be reading from a script on their computer screen in New Dehli, or Florida, or San Marcos, or some other exotic call center locale, giving you hours and hours of advice. They'd send you up the chain of expertise until it seemed like you were talking to Dr. Spock himself, and you'd get more advice, all of which would, in the end, be completely useless.

Still, you'd feel so much better. You'd feel like you had help, like you weren't in this alone. You'd come away knowing you and your tech support person had tried absolutely everything to get your child to eat something other than frosting, or read something that didn't involve ball gowns. So hours later, when you ended up reading Sleeping Beauty for the 27th time or watching as all the tops were eaten off the donuts, you'd understand.

This is a hardware problem.

What's my line?

“I’m Door Holder,” Mireya said proudly. She was holding the door to the garage open for me, demonstrating just how well she’d got this job down.

“You’re doing great,” I noted, as I carried half a dozen things out to the car.

“No, in school. I’m Door Holder.”

“Oh. Sounds like fun.”

She nodded solemnly, the weight of her office heavy on her five-year-old shoulders.

Sierra bounded through the door and headed outside. “I’m Line Leader!”

“In school?” I asked. It takes me a while, but eventually I catch on.

“Yep.”

“Mommy, what are you?”

What am I not, I thought. This morning I started out as Dreaded Time Clock, getting everyone up out of warm bed. Then I was the Waitress, taking breakfast orders. I had a brief stint as Fashion Designer and Style Advisor to my eldest daughter who never knows what she wants to wear and Voice of Seasonal Reason to my youngest who wanted to hit the 40-degree weather in a skirt.

Apparently someone noted my skills with a toaster and microwave, because I moved up the ranks to Head Chef, my breakfast menu featuring the daily favorites: waffles and cereal.

Once the breakfast hit the plates I became the Crisis Manager. Homework not done? Let’s get that crossword done and read that picture book. Issues with lost dice or library books? The hunt is on.

Then after a brief stint as Head Bottle Washer, I was magically transformed into a Dental Assistant and Hair Stylist.

Then I took on my most illustrious job, Transportation Manager. Or, if we were running behind, Jet Pilot.

As I shut the garage door and we pulled out of the driveway, Mireya piped up from the back seat.
“Mommy! I know what you are!” she shouted.

“What sweetie?””

“You’re the caboose!”

That sounds about right.

The Saga of Sticky.

It’s incredible what comes to life for kids. Stuffed animals have long and complex stories, dolls have personalities on par with stars of daytime soap operas, and favorite blankets can get their feelings hurt by the mere mention of the words “washing machine.”

Still, even with all that, I wasn’t prepared for Sticky.

It started with what had been the rejected tube of toothpaste, the “too spicy!” toothpaste that I had tossed back in the drawer months ago. But that night we were completely out of the preferred toothpaste. My number one rule: desperate times call for creative re-marketing.

As I pulled off the cap on the new “cool” big girl toothpaste, I peeled off something somewhat pliable and sticky at the same time – the little bit of blue toddler toothpaste that had dried in the cap of the tube. About the size of a playground pebble, it had the consistency somewhere between dried chewing gum and fresh playdoh.

Mireya, four at the time, began playing with it idly, and as we finished up getting ready for bed she carried it off.

Then she named it. Sticky was born.

Then she needed a house for it. Sticky got a plastic Ziploc bag, since we determined it didn’t breathe and therefore could be placed in a sealed bag.

Before we knew it, Sticky was a small, yet active member of the family. Sticky came to breakfast. Sticky hung out at story time. Sticky watched movies, no doubt dreading the moments when large waves of water were featured. Sticky even rode to school a few times.

Then, like all precious things of childhood, Sticky got lost.

“STICKY!” Mireya cried out. “I can’t find Sticky!”

Sticky was indeed gone. We searched everywhere, even tried to recreate a sort of “Son of Sticky” by leaving out some beads of toothpaste to dry for a few hours.

“It smears,” said Mireya with disgust, blue streaks appearing on the bathroom counter. “It’s not Sticky.”

Then, in a miracle only partially explained by the rarely performed act of “cleaning our room,” Sticky reappeared from under the bed.

Sticky was resting, I was told.

Someday Sticky will be really lost, lost to a world where stuffed animals turn into inanimate objects and dried toothpaste is just trash.

But for now, I love that little bit of blue.

Long live Sticky.

Climbing Toy Mountain

Our daughter's birthdays are within weeks of each other and right before the big birthday extravaganza starts I like to cull through the Mt. Everest of toys and try to bring it back down to K2 size.

I am rarely successful in this because no matter how careful I plan, or how quickly I remove the stash, the kids somehow bring them back from the brink of recycling. It's absolutely uncanny. They go from not noticing a pile of laundry that has built up to avalanche proportions to detecting the tiniest erosion in their six-story toy mounds.

This is part of their father's American Indian heritage, no doubt. If only I could send them out to track a few jack rabbits, then I might be able to sneak out a couple headless dolls or odd fast food toys.

How does this happen? How did our house become home to the greatest deposit of plastic and acrylic fur on the block?

Before I run off with a nice long story of how cheap toys have destroyed our national appreciation for well-made, hand crafted toys and how if it weren't for global competition I wouldn't be able to add a seemingly infinite number of toys to the bin for a mere two or five bucks, let me confess.

It's me. The packaging, the little cute outfits, the interesting things you could build, the snappy television and movie tie ins—they sucker me right in. I have no resistance. None.

This is part of why it takes so long to cull the toys, why I can't swoop in there with a plastic bag while the kids are outside for 30 minutes. It's me. Well, not me exactly. It's because there's a little girl in me that just can't part with the circus train that has the cages and open car for the giraffe and the snazzy snow boots and cape that go with the doll and sleigh set.

That's right. I'm a toy marketers target market. They probably have a picture up on the wall of me with the caption "There's one born every minute! Go Get Her!"

Still, it's getting dangerous in the family room and with the recent addition of the princess bed (which is another story altogether) and upcoming birthday celebrations, we've got to get rid of a few bags full of toys. So I have a plan.

Next week I may be able to get both daughters out of the house for a few hours in the morning, and I'll try to dig my way through the mountain. If I'm not back by noon, just come on over. You can help me build a miniature circus town complete with snow park. But I get to drive the train, 'k?

Optimist Rules

There is nothing more perfect than the first few days of school. Every pencil is sharp. Every item is neatly in place. Notebooks are blank, ready to be filled with brilliance, or at least some pretty cool doodling.

We arrived at school early and already everyone was vowing to get to school early every day.

This is what happens when you’re a family of optimists. A family of realists probably accepts that early arrival is strictly a first week thing. They blast right through the first week completely delusion free, mentally prepared for a year peppered with tardy slips, lost homework, and mismatched socks.

But with optimists it’s all possible. We can get there at 7:05 am! We can ignore the fact that it’s completely dark outside. True, my theory has always been that if God wanted us up that early, he’d have the lights on. But who cares! It’s a new age! We’ve got alarms, enthusiasm, a passion for learning, and plenty of sugary cereal. We can do it!

The first week of school there’s no homework, but already there are promises to get it done the minute we arrive home, thrilled with the very idea of spelling, math, and science. It’ll be a breeze, we’ll get through all of it so fast it won’t even feel like homework. It’ll be a joy, pure joy!
The first week of school backpacks are neatly hung up, lunch is made in plenty of time and in the refrigerator, outfits are selected and set aside.

It’s like some sort of Disney movie complete with soundtrack and happy meal tie in. I can just imagine it. Kid run into the fast food place to see what the toy is and oh look! It’s the Organized Prosapios! Let’s get the whole set! Look this one comes with a clean car! And the little one – look she’s got the cutest matching shoes! And the big girl, her hair is brushed beautifully!”

Of course in a month we’ll be back in reality TV land with last minute scrambles for hairbrushes, signed permission slips, and homework finished off on the car ride. If there was a fast food tie in to that reality, it would probably feature duct tape, some crushed crackers, an inside out t-shirt, and four dozen socks that don’t match.

But that’s October. For now, everything is still possible.

The Tooth Fairy's Third Cousin

Recently I heard that a fellow mom and writer's son had a pomegranate seed removed from his ear.

The mystery for his mom was that he had never, to her knowledge been near a pomegranate, let alone figured out how to peel it and stick a seed in his ear.

Of course I knew what was going on. This was the work of the pomegranate fairy.

If you haven't heard of the pomegranate fairy, you're not alone. She's often overlooked in the news because no one really eats pomegranates anymore and the tooth fairy has more extensive marketing.

The tooth fairy's fame is in large part thanks to major contributions from dentists in an ongoing effort to bring some positive publicity to the loss of a tooth. But that's another story.

Anyway, the legend of the pomegranate fairy goes way back to medieval times when mother, in a fit of exasperation, pleaded for divine intervention while eating a pomegranate. Her children had, for the 384th time forgotten to pick up their plates from the table, and, quite frankly she had HAD it. She hurled the pomegranate through the window, beaning a passing fairy.

This fairy, rather than fluttering on to a quieter neighborhood decided this was a sign that things were getting out of control and somebody better start listening or else!

Thus the first pomegranate was planted. Pomegranate fairies planted pomegranate seeds in children's ears so they would develop the ability to listen to their parents. Like so many things of singular importance, modern science has not determined exactly how this works, although the theory around our dinner table is that it probably has to do with the sticky, red juice.

Whatever the mechanism, the great news was that for generations children were listening to their parents, eventually leading to the birth of the greatest generation of all.

Unfortunately, with changes in fairy legislation in the 1980s requiring adherence with 13 international treaties and 94 new FDA guidelines referencing pomegranates and their use in the outer ear, fewer than seven PFs (as they are known in fairy circles) are working in the US today.
Those valiant seven are overworked, underappreciated and just plain tired (sound familiar?) and, as with most people with way too much to do, they blow it routinely.

As a result, some of the seeds, instead of being properly planted, are slipping into the ear canals causing distress to the recipients, freaking out parents, and sending children to ENT doctors for pomegranate seed extraction.

Of course, they don't teach about the pomegranate fairy in medical schools these days, so when a seed shows up, everyone is astonished. Mothers search their gardens and children don't listen to a word that is being said until they hit their 20s.

Which explains a lot, don't you think?