Not as easy as it looks

Last week, I received word that my Nana was being moved into the hospice unit of the nursing home she was in. I wasn't worried, but I was sad that the end was approaching and when you're anticipating something like that, well, it's easy to lose focus.

I was at the elementary school picking up the kids when Nolan appeared out of nowhere. He'd forgotten his keys, and knew where to find me.

He very graciously occupied his sister on the swings while I finished up some stuff in the office. As we walked to our car, my thoughts were on calling my Mom for news, when I had a little brainstorm.

I decided I needed a normal, regular thing to keep my mind at bay for a few more minutes.

I cocked my head and looked at my tall, gangly boy and smiled. "Mijo," I began, not believing the next words that were going to come out of my mouth, "Do you want to drive us home?" (He'll be fifteen in about 12 days. The permit window is quickly approaching. He's gotta start sometime....)

"Really? You're not kidding??" he asked, incredulous. "Not kidding," I said, taking a deep breath as I handed him the keys. "Get in."

I made sure Audrey was buckled in, and I gave him some instruction on where the gas and brake pedals were, as well as how to get it into drive. "Let your foot off the brake, and it will roll forward. Get a feel for it and then you can put your foot gently on the gas," I said.

He listened. And concentrated.

I held my breath but was calm when I addressed him. "You're going to have to slow down up here to turn," I said, then I reached over and helped him make the turn. "Look in front of you, not at the cars parked in the street. Your hands will follow your eyes, and we will hit whatever you're looking at," I added.

Audrey started giggling like mad in her seat.

"Um, you need to step on the gas." Pa-whump! The van jumped a few feet forward, and I became reacquainted with the head rest. "Easy, dude. A little lighter with that foot..." "Sorry, Mom." "What are you doing, trying to kill us, Noey?" asked our little backseat driver.

We approached an intersection, and as people in our neighborhood don't always remember to slow down, I made him slow as we got closer. A car approached us, and we had a little standoff. You go. No, you go. No, really, you go. Finally, I semi got out of the van, standing up in the doorway, shouting over the top of it, "He's learning. Go ahead and go."

The other driver smiled widely, light bulb going off in his head, and I could almost see him remembering his first drive.

We made it up the street in fits and starts, and finally, we were at our house. "You're Dad's not home, so we have the whole driveway. I'm gonna let you pull in and park it." I helped him with the turn again, but as we hit the incline of the curb, we paused a little, so he goosed it enough to make it...but kept going.

"Brake, son. Brake. Brake NOW!"

He'd mistakenly hit the gas. Luckily, he recovered in time such that my garage door is remains intact.

Surprisingly enough, so do my nerves.

I should read before I sign

I get pieces of paper shoved at me all the time, usually rumpled from being in the bottom of the backpack, and always of the highest urgency.

The rule of the house is no shoving paper under Mom's nose while we are pulling out of the driveway on the way to school. It took a while, but they are all on board with this, and it's gotten 100% better.

Now if I could get them to stop shoving paper under my nose at bedtime, when Mom's patience is short and all she wants is the breathy silence that accompanies 4 little bodies hitting the hay simultaneously.

Not that 'simultaneous' ever happens. Nope. There's one last trip to the bathroom, two drinks of water, and a "did you brush your teeth? get in there!" before I can even be assured that everyone is in their own bedroom.

All of which leads me to the papers...the papers I have to sign for field trips. Ryan had a zoo field trip a few weeks ago. Audrey has a field trip today.

I'm a sucker for "Mom, will you come with us?" because at the end of the day, I'll pretty much say "Okay" to anything if it means I can watch tv by myself, for the ten minutes I'll get in before I'm knocked out too, face down in the latest issue of "Real Simple." (You are what you read. ;p)

As a result, I went on a zoo field trip a few weeks ago with the fourth graders, the highlight of which were the giant poops in the rhino pen and the babboon's red asses. Try explaining babboon red asses without the real reason why and you will begin to understand why it is more fun to be at the zoo with kindergartners, whom you can easily distract with "Hey! Did I just hear the lions roaring??"

And today, I'm going on a field trip with Audrey to the local bowling alley. Six classes of 1st and 2nd graders. Just the thought of all those shoes needing to be changed is making me reach for the Excedrin right now.

Hopefully, she will be as sweet as her brother, and pat the seat next to her for me to sit down when we get on the bus.

I guess I should count my blessings, were it not for the kids going to all these local exotic places, the only time I'd do anything fun like this is.........

Order something else

On the way to work this morning, I decided to drop in to Starbucks.

I usually try to avoid it, because I know it will make me late; but it was one of those mornings where I was trying to maintain that I wasn't really cranky yet knew, deep down, that I'd be better caffeinated.

It was unusually busy at my usual drive-thru, and I'm a patient kinda girl, even if I am cranky, so I parked my car and walked in. I tried not to feel a little smug as I watched all the 'gotta-go, gotta-go' types jockeying for the next available spot in the line of cars approaching the drive-thru entrance, knowing it didn't matter what spot they got, they'd still be waiting when I was heading back to my car.

Once inside, I had to wait in line, but it's fun for me to people watch in Starbucks, if only to hear what people order. I think the next time they ask for my name, though, I'm going to start amusing myself and try using different ones. Something easy to fit on the side of a cup, like "Tallulah." "Janet. Miss Jackson-if-you're-nasty." "George."

I was waiting for them to call my name, and listening to the barista as she called out what the order was/customer's name. I always feel a little weird when they call out my drink, as though the mere mention of what I'm having is some indication to the world of my psyche. As if "tall breve gingersnap latte" would reveal to the world that, heee-eeeyy, this chick, she's got a precious drink, but the breve, well, that's quite decadent, even on a Friday, you can bet she's rockin' some hot underwear, maybe a black bra underneath that tshirt, and whoa! matching panties, too; as a spotlight appears from nowhere and follows me out the door. (For those who don't know, 'breve' means that they make your latte with half-and-half, for heaven's sake, and yes, it is creamy goodness but really, if you're going to drink that, you may as well be drinking full-fat chocolate milk and having someone gently wipe off your chin when you're done.)

Anyway, I'm standing there, eyeing the crowd, hoping not one of the soy-milk-nonfat-sugar-free crowd judges my choice of butterfat with an indiscreet eyebrow raise when it happens.

"Venti caramel mocha frappuccino for Ryan," the barista calls out and I turn my head to see a dude in his mid twenties approach, and yeah, I'm thinking, surely, that's not his drink, but then I see the girl with him has a cup already and then I'm a little catty, a little judgmental, as I see him get his straw ready and take a drink.

He wasn't fruffy, but he wasn't dressed like he was doing any manual labor, either. And I couldn't help but thinking he looked a little ridiculous holding a giant, clear, domed lid cup, the upper half filled with whipped cream, the visible criss-cross of caramel up the inside of the cup making it look more like a confection than a real cup of joe. Again, I have no excuse, I mean, my drink is not anywhere near the truly hard coffee served in some places around here, but I just find it very emasculating for a man to be seen holding a cup like that, drinking something that amounts to a coffee-flavored milkshake. Clearly, his momma didn't raise him right. (I won't get started on the metro-hair.)

It made me wish I'd stopped at the convenience store just up the street, where the men are men, taking their coffee in giant doses and should they reach for cream and sugar, they might say "Excuse me, ma'am" in a voice that sounds like it's seen some real life, even though they know you heard them coming up behind you, because work boots always make that scuffy thud-step across the floor. Everyone just wants their caffeine hit so they can be on their way, not a frappuccino half-caf soy anything in sight.

Guess I know where I'm stopping next time.

Nice to be missed

I got in from work the other day, and no sooner than I put my keys down, I had my circle of friends around me. Audrey hugging, Ryan behind her, and the little dog jumping up and down behind both of them.

"Mommy, why do you smell so good?" "Mommy, you're pretty." "Mommy, I missed you."

It was enough to stop the "Can't-you-people-let-me-set-down-my-purse-and-breathe?" snark about to come out of my mouth. Wooowww. Kinda hard to not like being loved like that.

I considered changing my schedule and working full time.

But then the real work started: "Mom, I'm hungry." "Mom, I need a book for school, can you take me to Barnes and Noble?" "Mom, can you help me with my homework?" "Mom." "Mom." "Mommm...."

"How was your day?" Mr W asked, as I walked into our room and made my Mr Rogers change-of-clothes switch.

"It appears it's just getting started," I answered, grinning at him as I finished putting my things away.

He strikes again

I was hanging up clothes in my closet the other night when the little guy entered my room. He was on his way to bed and wanted his goodnight kiss.

I bent a little at the waist, he's much shorter than I am, and he gently placed his hand on both sides of my face, drew me in, planted one on me just as he slid one hand around to the back of my head to make sure I was in the right spot. "Goodnight, Mom," he said, as he left the room.

I doubled over giggling at the foot of our bed, shaking my head and asking Mr W, "Did you see that?" I straightened up, and raising an eyebrow, I could not resist this comment: "You don't even kiss me like that."

I hope this doesn't foreshadow a liking for chubby older women with curly hair who like their lip gloss.

Somewhere, I think Freud is chuckling in his grave.

Either way, someday, some girl will be very happy.