In Which I Become A More Than Middle Aged Mom

So the school year is wrapping up, and I find myself a middle aged woman. Well, OLDER than middle aged, according to the Pea during a recent car ride, “Mom, you’re not middle aged. Middle aged is 30, you’re way older than that.” Fortunately for the child, I was behind the wheel of an automobile at the time. As such, I was forced to remain responsible and keep driving forward with my eyes on the road and not, say, boring a hole into her head with “THE LOOK.” But I digress.
When the children relay their activities, I find myself saying, “Really? Well, in MY day…” (I’m serious, I truly catch myself saying that, and feeling as if I’m a grumpy old man complaining about having to walk uphill both ways, to school.) This week, my 9 year old dissected a frog. “Really? Well, in MY day we were sophomores in high school before we ever dissected a frog!” The Bug rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s not like we weren’t prepared Mom. I mean, we did a virtual frog dissection last Monday on our IPad. “Really? Well, in MY day we didn’t even imagine there would be such a thing as a personal computer!”
Anyhooo, in the interest of parental involvement, I volunteered to help supervise the whole “Frog Dissection” event. For anyone who knows me, this is a BIG deal. I don’t do blood. (See any of my previous blog posts, preferably August 2009’s “I Vant Yore Blood.”) However, I remembered from my sophomore year, oh so long ago, there isn’t any blood in a frog dissection. Lots of stinky formaldehyde, but no oozing blood. I felt sure I’d be a fine example for my child, who worried she’d feel too queasy to participate. “Oh, you’ll love it!” I gushed, “It’s so fascinating!” (In the interest of full disclosure, dear reader, you should be aware I uttered this encouragement in the dark while kissing the Bug goodnight, and she could not actually see my expression of terror).
I strolled into the classroom full of confidence. I put on protective gloves, I assisted the kids with their protective goggles, I even donned a lab coat. (Oh yeah, just how I roll.) I was fine handing out trays, I was fine handing out scalpels, and scissors. I was fine viewing the bag o’ frogs. (Literally, a ginormous zip-lock-ish bag full of dead frogs in a pool of chemical preservatives.) I developed a series of strategies, back up plans, as it were, should nausea enter the scene. First, I would look directly into my daughter’s eyes, and only into her eyes, when encouraging. Second, I would record the event with snapshots. Snapshots taken by holding the camera above my kid’s head and pointing only the lens down toward the frog. If all else failed, I would look across the room and pretend to be receiving further instructions from the teacher.
The little Bug sliced the frog’s skin down the middle of the torso, and pulled apart the sections. “LOOK MOM! There’s the heart! And the intestines!”
I look my daughter in the eyes, “Excellent! What’s next?”
“Mom, come closer, you’re standing too far away. Touch the frog!”
I excuse myself to the hallway and “help” some children get a drink of water. I chat with the passing teachers, parents, students, maintenance workers, basically any and all unlucky souls wandering by me on the third floor.
My gloved, goggled Bug peeks out the doorway, “MOM! You’re missing EVERYTHING!”
I slunk back inside the room, “How about some photographs of my little surgeon in training?”
“Take pictures of this heart,” tweezers with said heart shoved toward camera lens, “and the liver, and the stomach, and the intestines!” It would have been a miracle if anything was captured on film as my eyes were fixed on the ceiling. I figured it was about time to wrap things up. I went ahead and removed my gloves, my lab coat, tried to find my car keys.
“MOM! I did it! I got the brain out!” shouts my enraptured daughter. Tweezers in air, grasping tight to the frog’s membrane. Oh joy. I excused myself once again to the hall to “help” children get a drink of water.
Sure, the teachers saw right through me, as did the other parents present. But that’s OK. My little Bug knew I was there to support new endeavors. Baby steps in an honest effort to help my baby. To cheer as she explores where she will fit in when she grows up. Her role, contributing to human kind. Perhaps in a profession so very distant from what I would have ever attempted to accomplish. My little one, who is rapidly becoming more of a brain surgeon than a baby girl.
And maybe one afternoon, when my grown daughter instructs a class regarding the genetic intricacies of chromosomes, she’ll catch herself saying, “Really? Well, in my day, we performed lab work on frogs! And look how far we’ve come….”

Charter Members of The NONO Club

A week ago today, a group of Kentucky friends descended upon the great city of New Orleans. For the following four days, the eleven of us were Total Tourists. (Particularly my children, who could not be persuaded to remove their Minnie Mouse hats, tie-dyed T-shirts, tube socks and tennis shoes.) I’m talking cameras, backpacks, the works. We rode in a wagon behind Sugar Daddy the Horse touring the French Quarter. (“Mama, what’s a Sugar Daddy?”) We swallowed chargrilled oysters at Acme, muffelatas at Central Grocery, crab cheesecake at Palace Cafe. We climbed Oaks at City Park, fed alligators on a Swamp Tour, danced on Royal to Smoking Time Jazz Club. We strolled Audobon Park, rode the Street Car, ate King Cake at Mardi Gras World. We devoured in excess of 40 powdered sugar covered beignets at Café DuMonde. We even let the kids buy balloon animals from Checkers the Clown on Jackson Square. (A treat we’d previously refused the Bug and the Pea so many times, they dared not ask with company in town.)
“Where are you from?” asked Checkers.
“KENTUCKY!” the audience answered, in unison.
“Well, she’s from here,” added my friend, M.H.R., pointing toward me. Checkers raised an eyebrow.
“But I just moved here! I’m practically a tourist too.” I spoke in my defense. (Checkers answered, “Geez, well I’m from Nancy, that’s my Mom.”)
In retrospect, my reply must have appeared I was denying ties with New Orleans. Quite the opposite! I merely desired to be respectful. Being “from” New Orleans is nothing short of a badge of honor. A badge proudly worn by natives. Although I’ve established residency here, I cannot accurately claim I am “from” here. This local/native conundrum is a fascinating thought to ponder.
Before the move, I conferred with another NOLA transplant, L.G. on the phone. A sweet gal who grew up within an hour’s drive of where I lived in Kentucky. She told me how she’d been living in New Orleans over half her life, and how she hoped she would never leave. Her genuine love for the city was, and is, contagious. In fact, I’m quite sure the story of her son upon the shoulders of her husband during a Mardi Gras parade “sealed the deal” as far as my vote to go ahead with our family’s move. Yet, she wasn’t pulling any punches, she vividly described two hurricane evacuations. The first, during Katrina, with her infant daughter in tow. The second, during Gustav, nine months pregnant with her son, scheduled to deliver any moment. She made it safely to Baton Rouge, where her son was born.
“So,” she concluded, “Our daughter is the only one of us who is a native New Orleanean.”
“But, your son has lived here all his life, and you guys have lived here most of your life,” I said.
“True, but he was born in Baton Rouge.”
“But then you came right back to New Orleans,” I stated. (I mean SERIOUSLY, we’re just talking a matter of days or weeks, right?)
“True, but he was born in Baton Rouge.” Sweet, sweet L.G. persisted.
I had to smile, and still do when I remember our seemingly nonsensical circular debate. I smile now, because I UNDERSTAND. I see exactly what she means. Around here, if you were born in New Orleans… specifically the Orleans Parish… only then may you claim “native” status. Otherwise, you are welcome to love and adore the city, but you ain’t native, that’s for darn sure. (“Who’s your Mom? Where did you go to school? No, not college, high school?”)
This afternoon I strolled along the Mississippi, listening to live jazz musicians and enjoying my first Spinach & Crawfish Boat. I was speaking with a new friend, whom I had just been introduced to. He pointed out all of the “must see” events within The French Quarter Festival. (Or perhaps I should say, the “must eat” stations, as he was quite the Sensei when it came to selecting culinary extravaganzas, but I digress.) He had been to the festival each year since it’s conception, and multitudes of different festivals before that, dating back to when he was a child.
“Oh, you must be a native!” I exclaimed.
“No, no, I was born about 45 minutes away from New Orleans. But I always wanted to live here. So after college, I went to graduate school here, and then moved. But, I’m not from here,” he corrected.
I mentioned I found the conundrum fascinating. He replied we ought to start a support group. For folks like us, transplanted to the Crescent City at some point after birth (and often after high school…gasp). For folks who fell head over heels in love with everything that is New Orleans…the food, the music, the people, the spirit…and desire to claim the city as their own. A kind of club, for those Not Of New Orleans.
The NONO Club. And we could be the charter members.
So the next time I find myself in the French Quarter, (dusting off excess powdered sugar from the Mardi Gras beads dangling around my neck as I stow away my camera in a fanny-pack so I can flag down Sugar Daddy for a tour) I’ll look up ol’ Checkers the Clown.
And when he asks where I’m from, I will proudly reply: “I’m from Cindy, she’s my Mom.”

Duct Tape, Name Tags & Restroom Stalls...

There is no doubt in my mind a mere fraction of this story is credible, however it made for interesting conversation during this morning’s drive to elementary school:

Me: Where’s your ID badge?
Pea: In the basket at school.
Me: That’s a good idea, then the badges can stay fresh for the next day.
Pea: But they DON'T! Because there’s this boy who takes scissors and cuts them all in half.
Bug: (a.k.a. my innocent and gullible child) No! How does he do that?
Pea: In the restroom. In the second stall, the one without the lock.
Bug: The stall with all the…bad words... written in pencil?
Pea: Yes, he writes the bad words on the wall everyday and then cuts up name tags!
Bug: Do you have to glue your badge back together?
Pea: (And my little Kentucky girl shines through…) We just use duck tape.
Bug: What color duck tape, the black color or the gray color.
Pea: Gray. Everyone’s ID badge is taped together with gray duck tape and put in a basket.
Bug: I saw D word and the S word in the bathroom!
Me: (Slight panic, but remaining silent to encourage conversation, as the two have forgotten I am in the car at all, let alone driving.)
Pea: Did you see the F word? (shrinks to a whisper) F-U-N-K-Y.
Bug: Funky? Why is that a bad word?
Pea: BECAUSE.
Bug: Well, it’s not as bad as the D word (shrinks to a whisper) You know, D-U-M-B. Or the S word (whisper) S-T-U…I’m not even going to say the rest!
Pea: At least the kid who wrote it gets detention every single day. He has to sit in the classroom. But the bad thing is, he sits near the BASKET.
Bug: The basket of name badges!
Pea: Yes. And it will only be a matter of time before he finds more scissors and starts cutting them in half again!
Bug: (gasp) Maybe this time you can use a different color of duck tape to fix them.

The Writing On The Wall

“If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to save us from it, and he will RESCUE us from your hand, O King. But EVEN IF HE DOES NOT, we want you to know, O King, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up.”
Daniel 3:17From what I’ve been told, one cannot possibly be rescued until one completely gives up. Not give up hope, but rather give up self-effort to save one’s self. My brother spent several summers as a youth camp counselor. He was trained as a lifeguard, among other supervisor and survival skills. I was fascinated to learn a struggling swimmer cannot be rescued. If a lifeguard approaches a drowning victim, and that victim is thrashing her arms and legs about in an attempt to save herself, she cannot be rescued. Only at the point when the sinking swimmer stops her own efforts can she be saved. Once she completely surrenders control of herself to the lifeguard, she can be saved from herself, rescued from the abyss.
Parts of Isaiah overlap chronologically with the book of Daniel. As you know, I’ve been into the books of prophecy lately. And Daniel is a particularly mesmerizing character. He interprets dreams, and supernatural writing on the wall of the palace. So I was reading Daniel the other night, it’s a short book, only a few chapters. I was trying to absorb the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, three Jewish men who were chosen to enter King Nebuchadnezzar’s service after the king captured Jerusalem. When the three refused to worship an idol of gold, they were thrown into a fiery furnace. I’ve heard this story a million times, maybe more. But the reply of the three men never really struck me until now. Their trust in the LORD is so powerful, they proclaim: “Our God CAN save us, but even if He chooses NOT TO rescue us, we will worship Him alone, we refuse to worship any false god”. It’s that last part that hit me. The “even if God does not” rescue us part.
I want to have that kind of trust in the LORD. A faith so powerful I recognize the sovereignty of God’s plans over my plans, and worship Him even when He chooses NOT to rescue me according to my request. I want to stop thrashing about, trying to save myself, and surrender to His rescue, even when that rescue appears nothing like a rescue at all. Even when that rescue involves the world crashing down around me and those I love most.
And so I was pondering these things this past week. Where I found myself sobbing uncontrollably in a dark corner of The Happiest Place On Earth while my husband, the Bug and The Pea were waiting in line for a roller coaster. But that is another essay for another time. And I began to feel, (to know?) that God was not going to deliver me according to my wishes, my pleas. He is able to, but this time, He will choose not to. The rescue will come in the form of a peace, a peace regardless of circumstances. And I so desperately desire to trust my sovereign Lord.
We had a late flight home yesterday, so the four of us spent the morning doing some last minute souvenir shopping. All of a sudden the Pea grabbed my hand and shouted, “LOOK MOMMY!” as she pointed toward the sky. I glanced up to see a small jet writing letters with white condensation cast against the blue heavens. We took a seat on a nearby bench and watched as the pilot finished his thoughts, one puffy letter at a time. JESUS LOVES, he wrote. We continued on to lunch, and headed toward the shuttle for our return trip to the airport. As I climbed on the bus, I took one last look back toward what we were leaving, as we returned to our reality. And in the sky I saw my own writing on the wall, quite literally, as the pilot traced another thought: TRUST JESUS.

Paranoid Parade Preparation & Permanent Pens...

“Even these may forget. Yet, I will not forget you.
See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands”.
(Isaiah 49:16) Rookie as I am, I was more than a bit concerned that my curious young ‘uns would wander off. After all, this was our first Mardi Gras parade, and there would be LOTS of people there. What if my kids reached out to catch a strand of beads, turned back around, and couldn’t find us?
As such, I prepared a bit differently than I would for our usual outings. Step 1 of Paranoid Parade Preparation: we ALL wore the same thing. All of us donned purple, gold and green tie-dyed T-shirts. (“Yes Officer! She was right here! I just turned away for a second! Her shirt looks like this!” I screech as he eyes the rest of my family in identical apparel.)
Those who know me well realize I’m fond of buying pairs of clothes for trips. Two of everything. Then I dress the kids alike each day of our journey, especially when large crowds are involved. Of course, the Bug & the Pea are so accustomed to the routine, they realize complaining will do no good.
“Yes dear, I know you’d rather wear your leotard and flip-flops, but it’s easier for me to keep track of you if you’re both wearing this purple shirt and skort.”
The kids are well rehearsed, they usually smile and shake their head when folks comment. Sometimes my ploy backfires substantially. For instance, we’re standing in the eternally long line for the public women’s restroom in a rest area.
“Oh look Ethel! Twins!” says the lady bent over the cane, pointing to the Bug & the Pea with a crooked finger.
Ethel smiles and joins in, “Oh, look at the oldest, with that curly hair!”
The Bug replies with her standard, “Oh we’re not twins. Mom just likes to keep track of us.”
The Pea is quick to add, “I am taller, but I am NOT the oldest, I’m the youngest!”
The Bug furls her eyebrows, clinches her fist and punches her sister. Before you know it, we have a knock-down drag out in the rest area restroom in front of shocked, well-meaning strangers. But I digress…
Ornery as the girls are, they are my own. They belong to me, I love them, and I’m in charge of taking care of them. Step 2 as far as Paranoid Parade Preparation involved a permanent Sharpie marker. I gently held the Bug’s squirmy hand in mine and wrote my name and my cell phone number. I figured if they got lost, and panicked, they wouldn’t have to remember who to call and how, because all they needed would already be written on their hand. (The Pea wasn’t satisfied with having my name and number only on her hand. She grabbed the marker and proceeded to scrawl ginormous numbers down both legs and arms until she was an inky mess. “Look Mom! It’s even on my knees!” Oy.)
A few weeks ago, I saw Toy Story I & II for the first time. (I know, I’m really on top of the whole current movie situation, huh?) Toward the end of the sequel, Woody is faced with two astronaut toys that look identical. He tries to figure out which one is the REAL Buzz, his best friend. Buzz thinks fast, and lifts up his plastic boot for Woody to see the inscription: ANDY. Woody and Buzz both belonged to a little boy named Andy, and Andy had marked each toy to identify ownership.
There’s a verse in Isaiah where the LORD is assuring the people of Israel that they are His chosen ones, they belong to Him. They have been disobedient and downright ornery, and they will face the consequences. But the LORD will bless them, comfort them, and renew them. Isaiah, the prophet, predicts the response in chapter 44:5:
“One will say, ‘I belong to the LORD;
…still another will write on his hand, ‘The LORD’s,’
And will take the name Israel.” I love the idea of my name being inscribed in the Lord’s palm, and of me writing the name of the Lord on my own hand. It speaks to love, and belonging, and comfort, and hope in the midst of crisis. How much more powerful than the inked cell phone number of a parent is the engraving of our Sovereign Heavenly Father?
Long story…well, long: we had a lovely time at our first Mardi Gras parade, especially now that we call New Orleans our home. Perfectly safe and sound, separated only as the kids joined forces with newly met friends for jump-roping and a game of tag. And we caught hundreds of strands of beads, candy, and toys tossed from the beautiful floats as they glided down the streets. Amidst the throng of spectators, cheering and laughing and sipping Snow Balls.
And if you, too, were a parade-goer, and were paying extra special attention, you may have noticed two ornery little girls, in purple/green/gold tie-dyed t-shirts, lips bright blue from snow balls, carrying make-shift jump ropes of broken bead strands, covered from head to toe grass and sand from a game of tag, , so many beads around their neck that they could barely hold their head up as they leaped into the air, arms up, begging for more toys.
Those little ones, with permanent marker ink scribbled on their hands?
Well, those were my girls, they belong to me…

Embracing NOLA a.k.a Get Me To Kwee Must Wee Lodge

My newest mantra has been: Embrace New Orleans. Sure, it’s different from what this Kentucky girl is used to, but that’s OK, I tell myself. Embrace it! I chant this when my pesky “creature of habit” excuses begin to surface. In most cases, my embrace-ometer already boasts a 10 in terms of how well I’m adjusting to my new digs.
For example, jogging along Lake Ponchartrain, in shorts, in February as opposed to facing the brutal wintry-mix elements for a run (and I use that term loosely) around the neighborhood. Easily embraced difference.
French doors, shutters, balcony and palm trees…easy 10.
One way streets, U-turns, round-about expressway intersections, 4 way stops mixed with 2 way stops, traveling to the neutral ground between opposite one way streets and waiting for a green light to continue…I’d say 6-ish. I’m learning, slowly but surely. (“Moooooom! How come so many other cars honk at us?”)
I’m desperately trying to embrace seafood. For a gal whose sole fish intake, until now, has been tuna salad sandwiches…this is a challenge. The whole “not a fan of fish” thing is also a big “no no” in N.O., where shrimp, lobster, craw fish and oysters are specialties. However, I adore spicy food. And the spicy-seafood combo does much to woo this Kentucky girl. In fact, I’d like the records to show I enjoyed a shrimp etouffee on Monday. Yet, as far as embracing seafood, I’d say I’m about a 3 on the ol’ embrace-ometer.
Carnival season is in full swing and this family plans to embrace all that is Mardi Gras. The Pea, to her eternal delight, has been chosen to participate in her Academy’s Royal Court. (I must confess, I had to check out a library book to garner details on this tradition. I’m a rookie, it’s obvious.) Apparently each of the krewes (which is kind of like a group of folks who put together different parades) selects a King and Queen and Royal Court. Said royalty dons crowns, tiaras, sashes, scepters and even gets to ride on a special float in that krewe’s parade. There is also a Royal Ball, attended only by the Court and a few honored guests.
The Sweet Pea (basically needing a chauffeur) has invited me, the husband and the Bug to join her highness at the Ball. As such, we are encouraged to dress accordingly. The Husband, as I’ve mentioned before, is quite a “keeper.” He single-handedly chose and purchased lovely dresses for the girls to wear. A fact that is impressive on two accounts: 1.) the girls and I were not with him at the time and 2.) seriously, this is my husband we’re talking about, who’d have thought a few episodes of What Not To Wear could have prepared him to pick out perfectly appropriate formal attire for the children? But I digress. So, the kids are all set, the Husband has a dark suit, that just leaves me.
In a stroke of genius, Mom threw in a purple dress from my closet in KY when she came to visit this past weekend. (As I’ve mentioned before, I brought one suitcase of winter clothes, and I’m thinking my torn blue jeans and sweatshirt circa 1980 ain’t gonna cut it.) So my problem now. Well, my challenge, is to be able to zip up said dress come next Wednesday. Thus my recent desire to resume running and coexist solely on lettuce wedges. Namely because, aside from shell fish, I’ve been embracing New Orleans cuisine with much gusto. (Seriously, cheese fries topped with gravy, these are my PEOPLE!)
When the folks arrived last week, Mom took it upon herself to find “throws” for the girls. Throws are not to be confused with small blankets or pillows, “throws” during carnival season refer to objects jettisoned to onlookers from atop floats during parades. She’d read up on all things Mardi Gras, and was prepared to stockpile beads and moon pies.
While browsing through the French Quarter, we noticed the prices of bead strands. Generally a few dollars each, some strands close to $10. I quickly did the math in my head: we could afford one strand of beads, the kids would have to share, perhaps they could toss individual beads to the onlookers? Wait, no, that’s not gonna work.
Later that evening, Mom and I happened upon a native New Orleanian. Or perhaps a gentleman who had lived in town for some time, and was familiar with the area. At the time I was showing Mom our double-decker Target. (Because, seriously, for this KY girl, paying homage to a two story Target – with it’s own escalator for shopping carts – and it’s own parking garage – is just slightly below the French Quarter in terms of tourist attractions.) Anyhooooo, we were looking through the seasonal items and frowning at the price of individual bead strands. Mom wondered aloud, “Where do you go to get throws? Does everyone just buy them individually?” The Asian gentleman beside us looked both ways. Once the coast was clear, he leaned closer.
He whispered, “Across street.”
Mom and I exchanged glances. “We can buy throws in bulk across the street?”
Our new BFF nodded. “They specialty. You go to Kwee Must Wee Lodge.” And then, like a spy in the night, he sped quietly away.
With this new found information, we headed toward the parking lot. (OK, technically we checked out a huge cart of things we just HAD to have…and then we got in the car.) We were determined to load up on throws at this magical Little Lodge and bulk bead store. I drove across the street…U-turn, stop light, drive to middle, stop light, one way street, two way stop…only a single honk. And lo and behold, the neon marquee we’d been searching for: Christmas Village. (Who’d have thunk it?)
Sufficed to say, I have a trunk full of multi-colored strands of shiny beads for the girls to toss during their school’s parade. (Heaven forbid I alert the kids to the presence of said beads until the very last minute, or else I’ll subject myself to the individual counting and dividing of hundreds of strands. “Wait! That’s mine! That will make my 103rd purple necklace!” “No! That’s mine! I only have 206 green necklaces!”)
Anyhoooooo, carnival celebration will be in full force this coming weekend. And we plan to be on the parade sidelines, arms in the air, gathering beads and moon pies and gadgets galore. Events which are sure to top out at 10 on the ol’ embrace-ometer. The four of us will embrace this wonderful season of carnival: Royal Court, tiaras, throws, gowns, parades, floats, crowds, and maybe even a double order of gravy topped cheese fries at R&O’s up the street.
(Well, AFTER I zip up my dress for the ball…)

In Which I'm Rescued From Embarrassment

My youngest daughter’s looks of pity are hardly disguised. She sighs as if the weight of the world rests upon her shoulders.
“Really, Mom? Is THAT what you’re wearing? It's so EMBARRASSING!”
Her eyebrows furrow and she scampers upstairs to the wooden wardrobe in my bedroom. The lovely closet serves two very distinct purposes: 1.) It holds the extent of my wardrobe – one suitcase full of clothes from Kentucky, and 2.) It provides the perfect Narnian storybook hiding place for the Pea.
On this particular evening, the child flings open the double doors in mock despair. She sorts through the blouses (3), the pants (3) the skirt (1) and the dresses (2). She pulls out the black dress with the green and blue polka-dots. She tosses the newly chosen outfit upon the bed and scurries away.
With slight pause, I change out of my uniform – my favorite chocolate colored cargo pants and my prized bohemian-esque tunic TJ Maxx clearance item circa 1999. (I only hope my friends will recognize me in something else, I skulk.)
I hear activity in the bathroom across the hall. I peak in to say “goodbye.” The Pea continues to organize an impromptu work area. Toothpaste, comb, floss, deodorant (Teen Spirit), hair de-tangler (strawberry scented), mascara, hand soap, baby powder, box o’ makeup, mirror, tissues. Glancing my way, she preempts the objection with an appropriate rebuttal: “I KNOW you need to leave, this will only take a moment.” She ushers me to the salon make-over chair (a.k.a. toilet seat). “Seriously, Mom. You don’t have ANY make-up on. I mean NONE.” (Not entirely correct, I still had the remains of chap stick applied earlier in the afternoon.)
My child, with the dexterity of a magician, proceeds to open the various secret compartments of the (brilliant) Christmas gift from Aunt S.E.M. A make-up box of which you have never seen the likes….rows and rows of eye shadows, blushes, lip-glosses. She rubs my face with a cloth drenched in liquid hand soap. (A wet washcloth would have been lovely, but the soap did maintain a type of adhesive quality on my skin…especially when the powder was applied.) I close my eyes as layer upon layer of shadows are brushed on my lids. I feel eyeshadow rubbed on my forehead, followed by a sticky matter I later identify as toothpaste. A copious amount of blush is applied beside my lips, and I'm asked to open my mouth as a pick containing dental floss is thrust inside. (After gagging profusely, I'm allowed, albeit briefly, to brush my own teeth, floss, and then take my seat once more.) A powder puff flamboyantly distributes baby powder to my cheeks, my neck, and my dress. (I question the latter and am told I need to “sparkle.”) The Little One hands me a mirror to admire her work. I smile gratefully, then shriek as a shower of icy spray hits my back.
“This final touch will make you smell pretty.” Says the Pea as she replaces the strawberry-scented hair detangler back on the vanity.
I make a move to leave, escape the bathroom, sneak down the stairs, grab my purse and my car keys. My youngest beats me to the lower level. “MOM! Don’t forget to Air Kiss!”
Eyebrows raised, I await an explanation. “Seriously, Mom, have you forgotten your basic manners? Were you raised in a barn?”
“When you see Ms. J and Ms. B, you must immediately stop and air kiss both cheeks while holding your keys in one hand.” The Pea demonstrates and then evaluates my feeble effort. “I suppose you’ve forgotten the Pinky Rule too.” (Obviously, it’s been AWHILE since I’ve had dinner out with the Grown-Up Girls.) “Pinky out, Mom. Pinky out like this when you take a drink.”
I consider pointing out the difference between tea party and tapas restaurant, then think better of it. (The Husband: “WHAT? You’re going to a topless restaurant? Me: No Sweetheart, Tapas…tapas…you know, little plates of food. The Silent Husband: No response, zoned out at the mention of tiny servings of food.)
“And remember,” wraps up the Pea, “ALWAYS cross your legs at the ankles and sit waaaay far back in your chair.”
“Are you sure I’m not supposed to sit up straight with good posture?”
“Uh, Mom. HELLO. I think I’m the one with the most manners around here.”
I give the Little One an air kiss – on both cheeks – dangle my keys, pinky out, and reach for the doorknob. I slide my newly made-over strawberry scented, powdered down, tooth-pasted, sticky self out the door. All the while praying fervently for a dark restaurant.
“Don’t stay out too late, Mom. Remember, it’s a school night.”