Hannah V. Daddy. The Mango Mandarin debaucle.

(as told by the mr.)

I go into the girls room to put the girls to bed and I smell something fruity.
It smells like lotion.
Hannah has been warned about playing with lotion.
The prosecutor-in-chief decides to get to the bottom of this.
(Put on stern face)
"Were you playing with cream?"
"No", replies Hannah.
(She's lying, I think. I definitely smell something.)
(Put on sterner face)
"Did you play with cream?", I insist.
"No"
(Hmmm, change of tactic.)
"Well then what is it that I smell?" (Even sterner face)
(Aha, got her now, I think)
"Mango Mandarin" she replies quietly, quickly.
(OK, supress smile.)
Not quite believing what I hear, I reply "What?"
"Mango Mandarin."
(trying to put on as stern a face as I can)
"Mango Mandarin what?"
She proceeds to show me the bottle of Bath and Body Works Mango Mandarin Body Spray.
(Well, she wasn't lying)
And thats how Hannah survived the interogation.

Eeyore Swims!

Ruthie, sad to say, is a bit like her dad and me...couch potatoes. I don't have to allow her to watch t.v. for her to be a potato. She has a world stuffed inside of her head. And when she's not allowed to veg in front of some electronic device, she sits on the couch and dazes off...for hours. So, when I found a physical activity that she moderately likes...well, I threw her into it, literally kicking and screaming. Oh alright, it has been more like whining and moping and passive aggressively resisting.

Last summer I signed both the older kids onto the local pool's swim team and was shocked to find out Ruth was a bit of a natural. She was only six, a rather young age to be swimming on a team, at least I believe so, and holding her own. Her times were as good as her brother's times and she was two and a half years younger than him. In fairness to Joshua, he has a ton of muscle mass to haul around. He sinks like a rock.

Either way, Ruthie's talent came as a bit of a surprise. So, of course, like any mother, I want to put her into the thing that gets her the most recognition and accolades. It would be good for her self-esteem, I figured. So, when fall came around, and she had had enough of a break from swimming, I signed her up for lessons to help her improve and keep her exercising. Well, I would have thought that I signed her up for boot camp. This half-hour, once a week, torture was almost more than she could bear from the sound of her carrying on. I pitied her teacher. Sure, I teach swimming, but there is a truth about parents and kids. Kids, often, will not learn from their parents, and this is more than true for Ruth. I dragged her out of more than one lesson this past winter, threatening. She'd shape up, only to do it again the next week. Sigh.

So, when she agreed to swim on the team again this year, I was a bit taken aback. But mean mom that I am, I was going to make her do it anyway. I figure of all the ways to get a little exercise in your life, this was the one activity she did enjoy more than the others. (We're trying soccer this fall. Wheeeeeew boy...I hope she will like running!) We made an agreement, a no-whining, crying, moping agreement.

Tonight was their first meet. I was proud of my lil Ruthie. At one point her goggles filled with water and she couldn't see, ran into the lane line, but she didn't stop. Not once. She pushed on through to the end of her race. And the best part was, she was really really happy through the whole meet and very pleased with herself. She had fun, and that was all that mattered.

I hate junk mail

I don't understand how they work the mailing lists. I really don't. When I had my first born, I ended up on a gazillion lists for new baby stuff. But, after he reached a year of age, I stopped receiving all of those coupons and free diaper samples, until I had my second child. Same scenario. However, when I had child number three, the diaper coupons resumed their attack on my mail slot when she turned two years old. I should have been getting coupons for pull-ups, but no. I was receiving newborn diaper samples. My girls were thrilled, diapers for their baby dolls and just the right size!

So, I figured I would just wait it out, and eventually the freebies that I no longer needed would stop. I was wrong. They just keep recycling themselves, and with different names! No longer need I be called "Mel" for I am now Le B. Ooh, how about the MYSTERIOUS Le B. Jeremy enjoyed putting on his best french accent as he handed me my junk mail. "Here you go, Luh Beh."

Everyone has had this happen to them at one point. I remember when my mother ended up with mail addressed to Berbie. Berbie is no-where near the spelling of her real name. Not even remotely close. Oh, ok, her name does start with a B, but that's about it. So, it isn't the Le B. so much that bothers me. Or the fact that I can't get off of the new mommy list of doom.

See, I started receiving mail for retired persons: AARP, Medicare, free screenings, etc. Jeremy exclaimed one day,"What kind of lists are you on!? It's like they think you're some senior citizen that has just given birth!?" Tonight he added, "They must figure anyone who takes as much medication as you do must be old." Gee thanks.

Hey! I only LOOK like I'm in my thirties! I'm really seventy-three. That plastic surgery did me some good. But I'm not sure about these diapers. They're a bit too small for me to fit into. What ever happened to depends?

Hannah's "issue"

My youngest is really coming into her own. Every day she adds more and more words to her vocabulary. Sometimes, however I'm not always sure she knows exactly what they mean.

For example, the other day she "designed" a drawing of a boat that was sinking and a boat that was not sinking. Next she said with as much mystery as she could muster that she "designed" a picture "Of the Man NOBODY expected." Expected is a big word for a little girl who just turned four last Sunday. I liked her title so much, though, I might have to steal it for an upcoming piece.

So, today, Hannah asked for an apple. A simple request really, except no one had been eating the apples in the fruit bowl, so no one had noticed that it was full of rotting apples and their, gag, vinegary smelling juices. Halfway through cleaning the fruit bowl, she sighed.

Positioning her hands to the side of her head, palms opened upward, eyes reaaaaaal wide, Hannah lamented, “I have an issue.”

I replied, “Oh really? What kind of 'issue'?”

She answered all sad and forlorn, “A rotting apple issue. There are no apples to eat.”

I said “You think YOU have an issue? You’re not cleaning out the bowl.”

“Yeah,” She said, “That’s true.”

Suddenly she spotted an O.K. apple on the counter left over from yesterday's picnic lunch. I washed it and gave it to her. “Ahhhhhhhh,” she sighed, “All nice and shiny and clean apple.”

I'm so glad she got her ‘issue’ resolved.

Getting in shape

I have a new plan to collect Jeremy's life insurance. It's called exercise.

Since Jeremy left the army, he has put on a few pounds. But poundage aside, which really isnt that much, he's lost most of his muscle tone. One could say, he's a bit out of shape. I really can't talk. I'm out of shape too, and still trying to remove the rest of my freshman twenty. I managed to lose the baby weight from three pregnancies. But I'm still about seven pounds away from my pre-college days. Oh sure, it sounds like I'm dreaming big trying to get back to a weight that I was fifteen years ago, but I'm a short person and I can't afford to carry a lot of weight around. Not to mention, the heart disease in my family. Plus, it just doesn't hurt to be in shape.

Now that I'm done talking to myself about the virtues of being excruciatingly stiff and sore, I'll continue. So, Jeremy has this co-worker who says "Hey, we play tennis at six am on Wednesdays...come join us!" Wednesday arrived and much to my surprise, he popped out of bed ready to play. He also forgot to re-set the alarm, which is another story in and of itself. Invigorated, he came home, showered, and talked about how he thought he could manage doing this every week.

Last night I mentioned I'd like to get up early and start exercising again. I had been doing that, but then school kind of took over and well, I havent exercised since. If my dance class counts (which I think it does)...it had been since the fall semester, at the very least. I asked Jeremy if he'd like to join me. "Sure," he said.

Five A.M. rolled around and the alarm went off. BEEEEP!!! BEEEEP!! BEEEEP!! We have the worlds loudest alarm clock. It is possible to hear the clock outside on the sidewalk, and yet it is not loud enough to wake Jeremy It wakes the entire neighborhood, just not him. In his sleep he hit the snooze button.

Being a morning person, I cheerfully asked, "So, um, how long do we keep hitting the button until we get up? I mean, what time are you really aiming to wake up and get moving?"

"Grmmm ummmm hmmmmm," he mumbled.

I tapped him, called his name and repeated my question. I know he sets the alarm so far in advance so he can snooze it a gazillion times. The habit almost ended our marriage several times. In the past, I got up on the first beep and then I would be WIDE awake trying to regain my sleep since I didn't have to get up as early. Each BEEEEP!!! would roll around in my head clanging and banging until I would want to shove the clock down his throat. Eleven years later, I've gotten used to it, sort-of. It doesn't make me hostile anymore...well, not too hostile. So, I wanted to know how long I was going to have to hear the alarm clock. I certainly wasn't going to leave the bed. I have also learned from eleven years of marriage, that if I get out of bed and don't bring him along, he'll hit the snooze button for two hours and still be late.

"I asked when are we getting up?" I repeated myself for the umpteenth time.

"yeah, ok." He said with his eyes open. He was clearly still asleep.

So, I decided to wait until the next snooze and ask again. I actually repeated my question until about five forty-five when I said "Ok, if we don't get up soon, we wont exercise." (I think that was the idea he had in mind). I finally received a coherent response.

"Ok, Ok...I'll be down in a few minutes."

"Uh-huh, sure."

I knew I had to don my exercise garb and shoes, put up my hair, take my drugs, and anything else I could think of. So I left the room, turning on every light I could find. I finished my "routine" wandered back up to the attic where we sleep and saw him still in bed, with the covers completely over his head.

"Com'mon." I poked him. "Get up. Time to get up. You said you'd exercise with me."

"Ok, Ok...I'll be down in a few minutes."

"You said that already."

"I did?" He feigned innocence.

"Yes you did. I already got dressed, pulled back my hair, took my drugs, and you're not out of bed."

"Ok, ok..I'll be down in a few minutes."

"I'm not leaving until you get out of bed."

"See, I'm moving." He moved his arms back and forth and his legs to show he was indeed getting out of bed. After eleven years, I know all the tricks.

"I'm not leaving."

When I finally saw him begin to roll, and I do mean roll, out of bed with a groan, I knew he was truly on his way to being awake. So I went back downstairs and got out the free weights.Two minutes later I heard his thump thump thump down the stairs.

"So, what are we going to do?" he asked.

"Lets start with weights," I said.

We started to exercise, and he grumbled groaned and "oh my goodness"-ed through every exercise. I began to worry I was killing him. Then we did crunches. The man who would do, I don't know how many but it was a lot of, sit-ups in two minutes? Now he struggled with twenty.

"Augh! Ugh! Unnnnnngggh! Oh my goodness!" he said. The poor guy was miserable and I was worrying that he wasn't going to make it, or worse yet, he'd never work-out with me again. It's always better to have a buddy when self-inducing torture.

He survived, as did I, though I'm not too sure he went to work too happy about it. We'll see how it goes tomorrow.