Over My Dead Body

I spent yesterday sitting around my dining room table with three PTA volunteers from Stevie and Alex’s school. We closed out a fund-raiser and had the tedious task of processing the orders and counting all the money. As women often do, we talked about a wide variety of topics. At one point, we even talked about funerals. It reminded me of a post I wrote early on here on the blog. I dedicated an entire post to my funeral.

Yes, I said funeral.

And yes, I am crazy.

And as if that’s not enough, I am a control freak. (I am a joy to live with. Just ask McDaddy.) So, while I’m still living and breathing and controlling stuff, I thought Id take another opportunity to outline my wishes for my funeral.

It will be one final attempt to have full control over my life. Even if I no longer have it.

That, and because one can never be too prepared.

Oh, and in case I kick off, could one of y’all remind McDaddy about this post?

First, I want the best coffin money can buy. Mahogany, perhaps?

Expensive?

Well sure but, look at it this way. My coffin will be the absolute last gift anyone will ever buy for me. Ever. So, why not splurge? Especially when you consider that it will be my final resting place.

Sounds final, doesn’t it?

My first choice would be a Longaberger Basket Casket, but if the Longaberger’s haven’t created that bad boy (which makes no sense, because y’all know they would sell!) a top-of-the-line solid mahogany casket will be fine.

This one is perfect.

Keep in mind, I said solid and mahogany, not pressed and wood.

When it comes time to order my flowers, I prefer brightly colored gerber daisies. Lots of them! And as an added bonus, be sure to stick a candle down in the middle of the flowers so that the area around my solid mahogany casket will smell good. (Preferably Cranberry Chutney from Yankee Candle).

When picking out my “burial suit” (as my granny calls it!) keep in mind that I want to look good while I’m displayed in all my glory. I think red would be the perfect choice. If I am to have all manner of friends and family weeping over my dead body, it is important that I look good. And just before the festivities kick off, give me a couple squirts of Romance – my favorite perfume – by Ralph Lauren.

I DO NOT WANT TO SMELL LIKE CORPSE.

Now, this next one is a biggie.

Please, please, please whatever you do – do not display me in a funeral home where it smells of flowers and musk. I worship at a wonderful church with my family. I am respectfully requesting that you haul my hind-end out Route 21 and roll me right up the middle of the sanctuary. Our church has ample parking for the huge crowd that will surely be there and it is a beautiful place that is special to me.

I have already talked to Bryan (my mortician friend) and given him strict instructions to please NOT wire my mouth completely shut. I watched an embalming one time and I made it clear that I needed a little bit of slack in that wire. The thought of having my jaws wired shut for all of eternity is more than I can handle. In high school, my jaws were wired shut for six whole weeks. It was not pretty, my friends. Not pretty at all.

Because I want attendees to be relaxed and comforted, the musical selections are very important. I would prefer piano (playing classical hymn selections) or saxophone (Kenny G) music played during my viewing. Something to sooth the mind and the soul. During the actual funeral I would like for our choir director (Chris) to sing, “It Is Well With My Soul” because, well, IT IS WELL! Then, as people are making their way to the front of the church for one last look at me, I would like for Chris to sing “I Can Only Imagine,” because one can really only imagine what they will do when their day comes. I can’t imagine what it will be like; all I know is that I’m ready.

For good measure and because I want to drag this thing out as long as possible, I would also like for someone to play Selah’s version of Take My Hand, Precious Lord and Lead Me Home. And if you’ve never heard that song, you should go find it right this minute and listen to it.

Good ahead. I’ll wait.

As mourners are walking out of the church, “I’ve Had The Time Of My Life” should be blaring (from my favorite movie, Dirty Dancing) because anyone who knows me, knows that I’ve had a good life.

Now, for the burial. To insure that mahogany casket doesn’t get all water-logged, it will be necessary to spend a little extra so that I can have a place in the wall.

Because I can’t bear the thought of being lowered into the ground, I’d like for you to slide my fabulous mahogany casket into the wall, preferably at eye level so that my name-plate can be read easily. And as an added bonus, I will forever be comfortable – cool in the summer and warm in the winter.

I’ve lived a good life, have wonderful friends, an awesome family, and I am ready to meet my maker. What more could a girl ask for? As you stand over my dead body which will be sprawled out in that fabulous mahogany casket, enjoying the smell of my sweet perfume, I want you to think about our good times.

In other words, celebrate me!

You can even cry if you want to. But just know that when you get to Heaven you can find me at the Emerald Fountain (in my glorified body MIND YOU!) eating a swiss cake roll.

I’ll be the one dressed like an angel, singing like a song-bird, organizing the next block party.

Hope to see you there!

Picture This.

While camping with friends over the weekend, we took advantage of wonderful weather and the changing leaves and did some sightseeing. I was bonding with my new Canon Rebel and laughing at the number of professional jokers lying on the ground or using a tripod to get that perfect shot.

I was standing perfectly still without a tripod and got this beautiful shot.

 As I took this picture and walked around to get some different angles, the kids climbed and tromped on these rocks.

I had no desire to risk my life (and my pride) to go down there, because 1. I am the clumsiest person I know just walking, and 2. I had on Crocs flip-flops which translates to stay in the grass.

And then I saw him.

Right in front of me, there was a crazy man following Alex with the lens of his HUGE Nikon camera. (A lens that put my leg to shame.)And then Stevie. And then one of the other kids.

My blood began to boil as I watched his lens carefully to see if I was right. It took me about three seconds to march right up beside of him to ask, “Are you taking pictures of my kids?”

He answered, “Are those your kids?”

Oh my word, this guy is out of his mind. “Well, yes, two of them are, and I can tell you were shooting them, because I’ve been watching you like a hawk for the last five minutes.” I replied. “Can I ask what you plan on doing with the pictures?”

He glared at me (which I couldn’t have cared less about, because? hello, chief of the crazies) and he answered, “I’m just a tourist, and I think the kids add color to the scenery.”

I glared at him right back with crazy in my eyes, “So, you are not putting them on the Internet?”

Chuckling, “No, I’m not that good.”

Not that good? What in the heck does that mean?

He turned and walked toward his car. I followed him because I am just crazy enough to do that. He drove a green Subaru with a hatch-back that was full of photography equipment. While I had no earthly idea what he had planned for the photos he took of my kids, I know that my interrogation was enough to make him pack up his stuff and get the heck outta dodge.

I was standing in the parking lot, telling my friend Missy about what just went down, and all of a sudden, her son screamed, “JULIE!”

I turned around to discover Crazy Man’s car backing up and he was just inches from my leg.

I let out a squeal, and he took off.

So, I have to ask the question. What would you have done or said to Crazy Man?

Next time, I assure you, I will not be so calm.

This post is linked to You Capture.

A Girl Named Lulu

When I was growing up, I always thought I would have a daughter. I dreamed of buying frilly little dresses and shopping the day away with her. I just knew that when she was grown, we’d be best friends.

As I was all sprawled out on the ultrasound table during my second [and what I knew would also be my last] pregnancy I prayed that we’d receive news that we were about to welcome a little girl into our family. My parents had three grandsons already, and OH MY WORD WE WERE GONNA HAVE FUN WITH A GIRL! Within minutes of probing my belly with her magic wand, the ultrasound tech said, and I quote, “this is a boy baby.” Tears immediately welled up in my eyes and while I was thrilled that I was pregnant with a healthy baby, I knew in my heart that I would never have a daughter.

I cried all the way home. And most of the evening. Then, I got my butt into gear and began to think about my life with two boys who would no doubt be great playmates. I also know enough to trust that God knows better than I [GASP!] what I need. Still, from time to time, I pass a rack of cute little girl clothes in a store, or a sweet little pair of pink Nike tennis shoes and my heart melts a little bit. I’m over it now, but I’d be lying if I said I never ever thought about having a girl here in our house, especially when I’m picking up Legos from the floor or folding Buzz Lightyear briefs.

Y’all.

That was until yesterday.

Because yesterday?

McDaddy and I assumed custody of a baby girl.

Yes, you read that right.

Custody. Of a baby girl.

I’d like to introduce you to the newest addition to our household.

A baby girl named Lulu.

I know what you must be thinking.

Because believe me, I’ve thought about it too. And so has McDaddy.

You’re thinking I’ve lost my ever lovin’ mind.

And in a minute from now I might agree with you.

Seeing as how just a few months ago I sat on our couch weeping like a small child when I saw a mouse make its way across our living room floor which set off a three hour stand-off between Me, McDaddy and the mouse. And if I’m being honest, my mouth is watering and I’m shivering just from typing that sentence.

Plus, I’m having a hot flash. And a headache.

But I just felt like we were supposed to do this.

It all started several months ago, when there was an incident with Alex making a not-so-nice comment about our friends’ hampster, Flounder when he was visiting their home. The incident occurred the same week we had a mouse in our house, so in his defense, I totally understood that in his mind, he was comparing one rodent to another.

Which makes perfect sense to me when you consider their beady eyes.

After speaking to a child-counselor friend of ours regarding Alex’s apparent potential to one day become a violent criminal (you know because making a comment about a hampster translates into HEY! I think I might stab you and rip out a kidney!) she suggested that we get Alex a pet so that he could better understand that a pet is a part of a family.

Which would be a much easier task if he weren’t allergic to cats, dogs, peanuts, tree-nuts, eggs and soy.

McDaddy and I talked about getting a fish tank (which now that I think about it seems a lot more reasonable for someone who is crazy afraid and creeped out by rodents.) once summer was over. Then I received an e-mail from a friend of ours asking if anyone might be interested in taking her daughter’s pet hampster, Lulu. I really felt like we should take her, so I responded saying I would talk to McDaddy about it.

When I first presented the idea to McDaddy he did that thing he does when he knows I’m about to jump off the ledge. And then, he casually mentioned that I have problems keeping flowers alive. And the fact that I hate rodents. We had a few laughs and then I did what I do when I need to find out information. I consulted John T. Google about hampster care.

And even though I could barely stand to look at a picture of one, I met up with our friend that evening to bring little Lulu home.

To our house.

We’ve had her for two days and I had decided that I was going to hold her. That is, until she bit the tip of the glove I was wearing. I decided I should wait a year or ten before trying it again.

If nothing else, I’m sure that having a rodent in the same house as me will provide endless blog fodder, especially when you consider my propensity for violent tendancies regarding rodents. And my all-out crazy.

Plus, the boys really seem to enjoy her, which is good considering the incident with Flounder.

Happy Friday, folks!

Young And Restless

McDaddy is travelling with the WV Air National Guard this evening and I’m bored out of my mind. It’s after 10 PM and my house is quiet except for the television. I am listening to The Young And The Restless who have been a part of my family for more than twenty years. One hour a day, five days a week for more than twenty years.

That’s a lot of friggin’ time folks.

I’ve completed many a college term paper while listening to Victor Newman and Jack Abbott argue about their latest plot to one-up the other. Not to mention the number of times I’ve heard Victor and Nikki say “I do!” Only, they usually end up saying “I don’t” a short time later.

Years ago, I was visiting some family in California and we decided to attend a taping of The Price Is Right. I was sure the ‘powers that be’ would pick me because I am loud and fun. And don’t forget patriotic.

 I now realize this wardrobe choice was a little ‘over the top’ but my thought was the whole ‘patriotic’ gig would make me a shoe-in. At least one military person gets picked for each episode, so I thought it was a good choice. [I’d give a finger or two to have those skinny little legs back, too!] Now though, I can’t tell you how happy I am that I didn’t parade myself down to contestant’s row in that get-up.

Sadly, I was not picked to “come on down!” but I left with a cool name tag sticker, a postcard, some great memories, and a parking ticket stub.

The following summer I travelled back to California to visit family and we decided to try it again. For some reason, I was sure I’d get picked this time.

While waiting in line to go into the studio, I watched the parking lot hoping to catch a glimpse of my soap opera family. While I was in college, I worked in the customer service office of a grocery store and I spent many a late night reading the Soap Opera Digest. Because of that I knew their “real” names and even some of the writers and producers because many times they are interviewed for the publications.

SO. When Bill Bell pulled into the lot in his white Mercedes Benz, I recognized him immediately. I hollered at him (cause that’s what I do!) and ran over to him to ask if he’d pose for a picture. He was so very humble and patient which is good because my aunt couldn’t work a digital camera for beans. We stood there for what seemed like forever while I gave him some advice about his characters and their storylines and after a VERY long wait, my aunt snapped this picture of the two of us.

It was 1995 and I was all hyped up on adreneline and sequence. It was one of the greatest days of my life because I also met Joshua Morrow and Don Diamonte and I did it all while wearing this wonderfully bright sequence shirt.

As one might imagine, I still didn’t get called to “Come on down!” but I did get to holler at my west-coast family and make a complete idiot of myself as I rambled on and on about being from West Virginia and watching the show for most of my life. And I have to say that after meeting each one of them and finding out how wonderfully kind and patient they were with me, I was, and continue to be an even bigger fan.

Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum

Some time ago, McDaddy mentioned that the Jeep Club had been invited to participate in a flashlight tour of a lunatic asylum located about 10o miles from our house. Being the freakweird person that I am, I immediately said, “We should go!” On Friday afternoon we said goodbye to the kids, grabbed our overnight bag (yes, I said overnight! WOOHOO!) and headed to the loony bin. I have a psychology degree, and I knew this would be right up my alley. We’d be like modern-day ghost busters, only not, because I don’t believe in ghosts.

We stopped for a quick dinner with the Jeep peeps before making the short drive to the massive, historical building known as the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum.

We were taken into a meeting room and issued certificates of commitment. McDaddy’s reason for commitment was ‘bad company” and my reason for commitment was “Over action of the mind.”

Oh shoot. If they only knew.

Luckily, I had the good sense to look at the lunatic asylum website before we left. I discovered that there would be no lights and no heat. We met our tour guide and he lead us up four flights of wooden stairs. Since the web-site reports apparition sightings, unexplainable voices and sounds, and other paranormal activity at the Asylum, I had no idea what to expect. The tour guide gave us a glimpse into the care and treatment of the patients and even shared how some of them died within the walls of the massive historical structure.  THEN. Then, as we entered the first ward, the tour guide shared a story about a guy that died in a treatment room named Frank. He did a ‘flashlight’ session with our group and somehow, the flashlight that sat in the middle of the floor went on and off three different times as our guide asked “Frank” or “the ghost of Frank” questions. While I have no earthly idea how that flashlight turned on and off like it did, I don’t believe for one second that it had anything at all to do with a ghost, regardless of claims such as this one:

I enjoyed touring the different wards and hearing about some of the patients that inhabited the facility. Even though we froze our butts off during the tour (it is November in West Virginia), I enjoyed the information that was shared with us. I had to wonder though if we were being exposed to asbestos though because the paint is peeling from every surface and most of the floor tiles are disturbed and cracked. We heard tall tales about ghost sightings and paranormal activity, but aside from the flashlight nonsense, we didn’t witness any of it for ourselves, which is just fine with me, because hello? Paranormal Activity on the television scared the soup out of me for weeks.

If you ever have the opportunity to visit West Virginia, you should definitely visit the loony bin. It is quite the experience, especially in the dark, in the middle of November and more especially with a tour guide who believes paranormal activity, is normal. In its hay day, the 262,000 square-foot structure was no doubt a beautiful building with inspiring architecture. McDaddy and I both agreed we’d enjoy the historical heritage tour offered at the asylum.

The creepy, historical Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum.

Going Topless… And Shoeless.

It all started when McDaddy agreed to do a little bit of work on this Jeep.

Remember Justin? He’s the good friend of McDaddy’s who lovingly offered to mow our grass while McDaddy was deployed. The red jeep belongs to Justin and McDaddy had it here at our house doing some work on it as a wedding gift.

Yes, I said wedding gift.

I know. I know. Not my idea of a wedding gift either, but I didn’t get to vote.

Anyway. McDaddy and I were going to the funeral home and then out to dinner and then to SAMS. And he asked if I’d mind to take Justin’s jeep.

The ‘mones are raging and it had been one of those days. I decided to throw caution to the wind, (pun intended) and agreed to ride topless and doorless in Justin’s jeep wrangler. I pretty much knew my hair would be a hot mess, but I was confident that I could de-ruffle my feathers once we arrived at the funeral home.

That is, IF, I could figure out a way to mount the sucker, because it has been modified and sits about 112 feet higher than a normal vehicle.

Clearly, it was not going to be pretty.

McDaddy retrieved a folding stool out of the garage which aided in my entry. Once we were both in the thing, McDaddy started it up and pulled out of the driveway.

Approximately nineteen seconds into the trip, I was rethinking the decision.

We turned onto the main road out of our neighborhood. As we gained some speed, I felt the wind blowing through my hair. A smile came over my face and I surprised myself when I told McDaddy, “We need one of these!”

And as you might imagine, McDaddy was in total agreement.

When we hit the open road, it was as if McDaddy and I were foot-loose and fancy free all over again. I was in my glory. We laughed, and talked, and giggled. And I might, or might not have said, “Justin just got hotter.”

I let out a big yee-haw because it seemed like the thing to do.

I mounted the thing again at the funeral home. Again at dinner. And, again at SAMS.

At SAMS we filled the jeep with a humongous box (500) of Styrofoam cups, two drink dispensers, stuffed shells, ziti, a box of plastic spoons, and a new laptop backpack for McDaddy. Within minutes, we transformed that sexy topless jeep wrangler into a straight-up grocery getter. McDaddy wollered the boxes into the back seat carefully securing them so they didn’t go flying out the back seat.

By the fourth mount, I was getting the hang of it. I finally figured out that if I hoisted my left leg into the jeep first, and then pulled on McDaddy’s hand with one hand, and held onto the hand gripper with the other, I could successfully thrust myself upward and mount the passenger seat.

As I said, it wasn’t pretty.

By this time, the sun had set and it was almost dark.

I was really cold.

In fact, I was miserably uncomfortable, but y’all know I’m not one to complain, so I sucked it up and told McDaddy to turn on the radio. He turned on the CD player and Nickelback blared some sort of nonsense I could barely understand. It seemed appropriate for a topless jeep, but not so appropriate for 36-year-old adults who hadn’t the first clue what they were singing.

I asked McDaddy if we were too old to be blaring Nickelback with the top down.

Agreeing that yes, yes indeed, we were probably too old to be blaring Nickelback, he suggested I plug my iPhone into the little adapter thingie.

I hit my Workout playlist and began to dance around in my seat as Rob Bass belted out Joy and Pain.

It was a difficult task keeping my shirt tucked under the seat belt so as not to expose ‘the girls’to the elements and the outdoors, especially since my mind was focused on my chattering teeth. All at once, Bell Biv Devoe came through the speakers and I sang along, as they sang, “Do Me.”  As if I were some sort of hip-hop dancer, I started waving my arms and shuffling my feet. I probably looked like a drunken goof-ball. As I attempted to prop my foot up on the bottom of the door frame, my shoe got hung up on the lip of the door frame and slipped right off of my foot.

My shoe went flying.

Seriously.

Flying, as in off of my foot. Out of the jeep. Onto the side of the road.

I couldn’t believe what had just happened and for some reason I was laughing hysterically.

When he discovered that my shoe was actually gone, McDaddy shook his head in disbelief

I asked if anyone was behind us, and sure enough there was. I silently thanked God for guiding my shoe onto the side of the road instead of into the windshield of the moving car that was behind us.

Then he asked if I wanted him to turn around and get my shoe.

We giggled all the way home at my stupidity.

And we arrived home with one less shoe than we left with.

Luckily, I was able to keep my shirt on.

Happy Friday, y’all.

And Justin, if you happen to be reading this, thanks so much for the fun time. I think I’ve actually found a jeep that I really like.

Embarassing Moments

I’ve been keeping a running tally of things I DEFINITELY DID NOT DO THIS WEEK.

Because y’all, there are so many it was hard to keep track.

First, while hosting (along with McDaddy, of course) an impromptu get-together at our house after church last Sunday night it most definitely wasn’t me who noticed this

(a mere two hours after our guests arrived) in the middle of our great room for all the world (and 14 of our closest friends) to see. It also wasn’t me who then decided to take a picture because? Hello, did you know I have a blog?

Oh! My! Word! Internets!

There is a very important lesson to be learned here my friends (if, I HAD IN FACT, done such a thing!). When you know in your heart that you should do something RIGHT NOW (like taking a bra to the laundry hamper instead of throwing it in a basket in your living room because you are lazy tired!)  it is probably a good idea to do it right then to avoid embarassment.

[Funny thing is, the bra is lying on top of a pillow that says “Forgiveness is one of the greatest gifts we can give!”]

Next, it most certainly was not me who laughed until I almost peed my pants (for heaven’s sake) because I discovered that my friend and I had gone shopping while she was wearing this mess,

Another important lesson here, folks. Do NOT under any circumstances get dressed in the dark.

Because I am so together and organized and whathaveyou, there is no way I took Christmas Eve pictures of my sweet boys without first checking to make sure that their mouths were clean.

Sheesh.

And lastly, it was not me who cleaned off the top of the fridge to find nine years worth of dust calendars because seriously? Why would I need to keep those?

I guess its on the off-chance that the FBI might need to know where I was on May 3, 2000. Or perhaps I might forget what day in 2002, I was placed on bed-rest. Or maybe I may need to be reminded what day McDaddy deployed in 2009.

It’s all there, folks.

Every single bit of it.

Oh, and just in case you are wondering, there is no way I wiped those suckers off and placed them right back on top of the fridge because that would be very silly. (Ahem!)

I hope y’all have a great Monday!

Head over to MckMama’s place for more things that people probably did not do!

You Scratch My Back

  • A baby turtle
  • Fossils
  • Soft Serve Ice Cream
  • Candles
  • A tow strap
  • Knock off Coach Handbags
  • A Chicken
  • Old glassware
  • old paperback books
  • antique furniture
  • Lamps
  • Little Debbie Cakes
  • Earrings
  • Peaches
  • Boston Terrier Puppy

And just about anything else you can think of.

Who knew you could go to one place and purchase all of these things?

This was hardly a typical shopping experience.

I saw all types of people buying only the highest quality junk.

 At the flea market.

Why do they call it a flea market anyway?

Of all the junk I saw for sale, I didn’t see any fleas. Although it’s entirely possible that I missed the fleas. Between the people watching and the mouth wiping I did. As I wiped soft serve ice cream off of Alex’s mouth, chin, shirt and toes, I saw something I don’t think I was supposed to see.

And, I really wish I hadn’t saw it.

Because it grossed me out.

And it might gross you out too.

So, if your eating, I’ll give you a minute to finish.

Ok.

You done?

Don’t say I didn’t warn you. 

I witnessed a woman (wearing a shirt that said, “If mama ain’t happy ain’t nobody happy”) walk by a table, pick up a wooden back scratcher, ram it down her shirt, scratch her back, and put it back on the table.

I hope that made mama happy.

Cause it made this mama question her decision to visit the flea market on this day.

For starters. The simple fact that a used back scratcher is for sale at a flea market is straight-up nasty. Think for one second about the number of hands that have touched that thing. Not to mention the number of shirts it has navigated to scratch dirty, nasty, strange backs. And then it’s placed on a table with a little square pink neon sticker that reads $1.00.

Are you kidding me? Seriously, one pitiful dollar.

You could just throw the thing away.

Or if you really, really need a back scratcher, go to the dollar store and buy a pasta spoon.

Or nag your man like I do.

Next, is there a person out there that would pay a dollar for a used back scratcher? I guess maybe someone with an itch.

Although, I’m still scratching my head (not with a back scratcher) wondering what kind of person would pick up a used back scratcher at a flea market, scratch their nasty, skanky back with it and then put it back. I’m telling you, I just about puked. And I might have rolled my eyes.

I can tell you with 100% certainty that even if my back had 392 ants crawling on it, I would not for any reason pick up that back scratcher.

And um, I wouldn’t have asked mama to scratch my back either.

Cause I’d take 392 ants any day of the week.

Over mama’s nasty hands.

I’m just sayin.

The Swine Flu

Wow!

What a week it’s been.

All four of us here at the McResidence are on medication for something or another.

Some of us for infection.

Some of us not for infection.

The pharmacy no doubt loves us this week.

Our insurance company probably does not.

For your consideration…. 

It wasn’t me who was shocked to find out that our sweet boy did in fact have pneumonia.

It wasn’t me who dropped her jaw the next day when the Pediatrician called to confirm that yes indeed, our three-year old also tested positive for the swine flu.

Swine flu? Are you kidding me?

It wasn’t me who immediately assumed our sweet boy would have to be hospitalized because, who does that?

Oh, and before you ask, I’ve never been the kind of person who Googlizes a medical condition to diagnose myself or y kids with some weird disease or ailment.

NEVER.

The next day, It certainly wasn’t me who watched in disbelief as our sweet boy flew past me on his scooter at light speed as if nothing was wrong with him.

It wasn’t me who wondered how in the heck he could fly through the house in his Cozy Coupe as if he was perfectly healthy.

He has the swine flu, already.

It WAS me who thanked God over and over for taking care of our sweet boy. As serious as this flu is, I am thankful that he has a mild case of it. With the exception of a fever, you would never know he was sick with something like the swine flu.

Here’s a free tip.

If you or your child suffers from a cough that goes from mild to where did that come from in a span of 12 hours and then gets a fever, you should not ignore it.

Be on the safe side and have your child examined.

You can thank me later.

My friends would tell you that I have been known to be a freak have dramatic tendancies when it comes to my kids. (Ahem!)

98.7% of the time, I have been right.

The other 1.3% of the time, I was right because I followed my motherly instinct.

Oh, and for those of you wondering how you treat the swine flu? I hear that it takes two doses of medicine each day for five days.

Like I said. What a week, it’s been around here. Glad it wasn’t me who lived it!!!

Visit My Charming Kids for more “Not me” Monday posts.

This Too Shall Pass!

If  by chance your child ever swallows a coin, there are a few things you should know.

Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Because it was definitely not my usually level headed four year old child who held his throat with fear in his eyes and admitted he had just swallowed a penny. Because if that had been my child, I would have thought? Wow. now what?

My usually not-level headed self would probably assume he was going to die within the hour because  that’s how my dramatic mind works it can’t be safe to swallow a penny, right?  And then, I would probably say a super quick prayer asking God to guide the thing to a safe place as I offered him a drink because I wouldn’t want it to get lodged in his little throat.

After catching my breath, it might dawn on me that perhaps I should phone his pediatrician because wouldn’t a pediatrician want to know if one of their patients swallowed a penny?

Yes, I believe so.

After waiting for a sweet forever on the phone, the pediatrician would probably pick up the phone and offer her condolences in light of the upcoming festivities explain that coin swallowing is a common occurrence among young children.

Nice.

Glad my child would never swallow a penny.

Then, when she continues with the whole “swallowing a penny or a dime is the best coin to swallow because it is the easiest to pass” you might be caught off guard.

Pass

Well that’s crappy, I would think to myself.

For those of you following along with this purely hypothetical situation, your assumption that passing the penny is only one part of the solution would be correct. The other part of the solution would require someone (probably the kid’s mama) to make sure that he had indeed passed it

At that point, I would probably flip my ever-lovin-lid and throw up in my mouth.

Because have you ever thought about looking for a penny in a pile of poop?

I didn’t think so.

Lucky for me, this was only hypothetical. (Ahem!)

For the life of me, I would not be able to think of an easy way to go about that crappy task. It might dawn on me that resurrecting the potty chair from storage would have to be simpler than the porcelain alternative. Especially since we are planning a week-long-trip to New Orleans the very next day.

It is also entirely possible by the way, that this hypothetical incident could happen just days after your 19-month old fell into a cactus.

Yes, I said a cactus.

Scratching my head in disbelief, I might wonder what I did to deserve this crap these two sweet boys.

Seriously?

Have you ever had to pick cactus needles out of a 19-month old?

Or dissect a pile of poop looking for Abe Lincoln’s smiling face?

For some reason I must have skipped the hypothetical chapter in “What to Expect When Your Expecting,” as I don’t recall reading “How to dislodge cactus needles.” I also don’t remember the “When your child swallows a penny” chapter.

Oh, and for those who are wondering about the course the penny will take, you know, in the event your child might accidentally swallow a penny while making his brother laugh – the supposed route is – MOUTH – ESOPHAGUS -STOMACH (there it will join breakfast, lunch and dinner and then happily sit until it makes it’s way through the miles of) SMALL INTESTINES – LARGE INTESTINES  – and yes, you guessed it, the RECTUM.
 
Google Research taught me that the Lincoln penny was the first U.S. cent to include the words, “In God We Trust.”  If this had really happened, I would think yes indeed I was trusting God alright. I was trusting God to move this penny quickly and safely out of my baby’s body.

Having to go all Mad Scientist on the poop for ten days (complete with rubber gloves and a plastic fork) would probably be a gross, nasty, disgusting, crappy, tedious but apparently necessary job. The sad part is that after ten days of dissecting the contents of the child’s stomach each. and. every. friggin. day. one might NOT find the penny. If that were the case, you would probably be advised to visit the ER for an X-ray. And if the penny was in fact missing from your child’s body you would probably feel like kicking something because your dissection skills? Um, suck.

Thankfully, this was only a hypothetical situation.

If you were to ever find yourself in a similar situation, I now understand the dissection is much easier when it involves hot water, a strainer and some patience.

That’s all for now because I am pooped and ready for bed.