Taking his turn as a poet

During the school year, McKay's teacher had the class do their own version of Judith Viorst's poem, "If I were in charge of the world." Her poem has always been a favorite of mine, and I like his version even better. It gives you insight into his personality, which is oftentimes so agreeable that his dislikes tend to be kept to himself (I know, great kid, huh?)

But it's interesting to me the things he would eliminate and the things he would keep, if he were in charge of the world. I think it would be an excellent psychological assessment tool to see what we'd all write. Maybe I'll do one of my own soon.

If I were in charge of the world
By McKay

If I were in charge of the world
I'd cancel wars,
Broccoli
Mean people, and also
slow computers

If I were in charge of the world
there'd be mansions everywhere,
servants, and
no homework.

If I were in charge of the world
You wouldn't have germs.
You wouldn't have laundry
You wouldn't have disgusting foods
Or "clean the yard"
You wouldn't even have to clean.

If I were in charge of the world
Foods with sugar would be healthy.
Everything would cost 1 penny.
There would be no work
And a person who sometimes has bad grades
And sometimes has bad days
Would still be able to be
in charge of the world

Uh-oh, Spaghettios

Here's an interesting tidbit I bet you didn't know: Some of the greatest contributions to mankind have been accidents of science.

Yes, that's right.

Important accidents, like Penicillin and x-rays, that changed life as we knew it forever.

And there were also some less-important things like Silly Putty, potato chips, and Viagra - all brought to us by accident.

Today, another accidental discovery was made, right here in my house.

It will never cure cancer. It will never redefine medical science. It will definitely never bring life back to any men suffering from E.D.

It will, however, cause me to develop a brain aneurysm.

Our scientist? She, the one I so glowingly sang the praises of a few days ago.

Her experiment?

How far spaghettios will travel when accidentally dropped from the kitchen table:

The answer, in case you were wondering?

About 12 feet in all directions.

And if that weren't enough, the spaghettios somehow defied gravity, and climbed UP THE BACK OF THE CHAIR, as though trying to return to the table from whence they came.

How many seconds before my head exploded, you ask?

About eight seconds. (I was a little shell shocked and had a delayed reaction.)

As a result of our accidental discovery, we now know that all it takes to turn me into a manic, mumbling fool is to cover half of my kitchen with tiny, little O's and sticky tomato sauce.

Please, internets, we're professionals here.

Do not try this at home.

She

Holding her tiny hand, I look down to see her clutching the doll tightly to her chest. Her skin is soft, and her fingers, entwined in mine, give a slight squeeze. I smile inside when the tiny bunnies painted on her nails catch my eye.

I say a silent prayer of thanks for someone up above who knew that I needed to girl up my life by having her in it.

Before she came, nobody wore pink. I was the only one who ever listened to Broadway show tunes. And the tears that fall inevitably during movies like Charlotte's Web? Until she came, they were mine alone.

Now, it is her cheeks that I wipe tenderly at the movie theater. It is our shared conspiracy when we pick musicals for family movie nights, knowing those boys of ours won't like it one bit. It is her eye that catches mine and smiles when we see them squirm. We're a team now, she and I.

It is she, this tough little chica, who still likes to climb in for a snuggle with her mama at three in the morning. She, who mocks me for eating the same thing every day for lunch, but yet turns and does it herself.

And sometimes, when looking at her, I feel as though I am looking into a mirror. But then at in a flash, she is off, and it makes me sigh in wonder at this unique person that is all her own.

She is baby and princess, teenage-wannabe and wise sage, all rolled into one. She is delicate and tender, but still not afraid to climb trees with the boys. She knows what she wants, and is impatiently waiting for life to deliver it. She's my very own spice girl.

And I wouldn't trade her for the world.

Mars versus Venus

A simple illustration of one of the fundamental differences between boys and girls.

When a girl wants to look nice, it goes a little something like this:

A boy cannot comprehend any reason to look nice. It simply doesn't compute. Let's be honest, even hygiene can be a bit tricky for the average young male to grasp, let alone style.

But dressing up? This is their version:
Any questions?

Never Poke a Sleeping Bear

You know the phrase, "So-and-so is a mean drunk," right?

Well, have you ever heard the phrase, "The Husband So-and-so is a mean sleep?"

Someone I know is a mean sleep. This someone is kind, attentive, thoughtful, and loving.

As long as he is awake.

But when he is deep in the throws of REM, there is a whole other side of his personality that comes out. The first time it happened was near the end of my first pregnancy. It was smack dab in the middle of a bitter Minnesota winter. I was sicker than a dog, and unable to take any medication (due to the pregnancy, and our desire to not have our child born with a third nipple or horns on his head. Because that's what they tell you will happen if you take anything resembling medication while pregnant, you know).

So, one night at about three in the morning, I started coughing.

And coughing.

And coughing. (I don't deny it was annoying.) But this certain someone sits up, shoves me to the very edge of our bed and yells, "KNOCK IT OFF!"

I, of course, immediately curled up in the fetal position and spent the next several hours crying, imagining my impending divorce, and wondering how I would raise my newborn baby all by myself.

And when the sun came up? Mr. I-Have-Rage-When-I-Sleep had no memory of his bad behavior. He was oblivious to the hurt feelings and wounded heart that I had nursed all night. He simply didn't remember. And he felt horrible when he found out.

Over the years, I've been unable to break him of this annoyingly bad habit. Most times, it's merely mumbling and cursing under his breath if something wakes him up unexpectedly. But the latest installment happened a few nights ago. The Husband had fallen asleep in the basement while watching TV. I gently shook his shoulder and asked him (in my sweetest voice, mind you) if he wouldn't like to come upstairs and sleep in his own bed.

He looks at me in a daze, starts grumbling, and says, "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?"

Now.

If I were new to the whole angry sleep thing, I might have been offended. And sad. And ready to call Sleeping Rage-A-Holics Anonymous. But you know what I did? I smiled, laughed, and left him to sleep - alone on the couch, all night.

Because that crook he'll feel in his neck the next morning?

Totally serves him right.

A sign they're returning to life

Look what I found on the kitchen table this morning:

It leads me to wonder just what the poor little thing could have done to make the soldiers so angry? Probably had the audacity to exist, that's what. You know how princesses are always flagrantly committing that crime.

Luckily, I dismantled the firing squad before Hannah was aware of the harm being done to her beloved Princess Polly Pocket.

I am considering showing her the picture and then helping her dress all their toy soldiers up in Barbie clothes.

Think it's too much for a Monday morning?