Look How Far We HAVEN'T Come

When I began blogging, our youngest was in a car seat. We'd discovered he was extremely scared of people in costumes while on our first family trip to Disney World. While checking in our room, there was someone dressed in a Detroit Lions' costume in the lobby. Our daughter did her overly happy, Forrest Gump wave to him/her but our three-year-old son reacted a little differently. Not exaggerating- he ran up Daddy's six foot frame so quickly, and sat on his bald head kicking and screaming! Once we got to our room he crossed his short legs and said,
"Let him come up here and see what happen." (He was THREE)
We didn't realize how big his fear was until we got to Disney World. Our daughter was in heaven. All the characters were out it seemed, the first day at Magic Kingdom. She ran to get autographs and pictures with Tweedledee and Tweedledum! Her brother, ran the opposite way and jumped over the red, roped off area. You know the areas around the nicely manicured lawns...where we AREN'T supposed to walk, stand or sit.

Oddly he is okay with people in some Halloween costumes. There was the one time when he was about four and we were trick-or-treating in the neighborhood. He was dressed as Batman! He and his sister were ringing a doorbell.
"Trick-or-tWeet!" he and his sister yelled.
They got their candy, turned to walk down the driveway to us and here comes his nemesis...the Joker!
I thought it was cute.
He dropped his bag of candy, let go of his sister's hand and ran through their yard. He actually cleared the ditch as if he were walking on air! Daddy ran after him...he didn't see the ditch. After an expletive or two he caught him. Kids seem to get supernatural strength in times of distress. He was fast!

Well, he's about to start middle school (sixth grade) next month. Of course he's no longer in a car seat BUT he is still scared of people in costumes. He actually googled this phobia and asked me to find him a therapist.
"You are gonna have to do something because it will be tough if other middle schoolers find out...not good," I advised him.

He would eat Chick-fil-A everyday if he could but we have to get it to go. There's a chance the cow could come out. And I know what you may be thinking: let him see someone put the costume on so he will see how it works. Nope! Tried that. No rationalizing from that 11-year-old. We shall see what happens. His school does have a mascot.

Interpreting

Back in December (2013) a 34-year-old South African was in the spotlight for allegedly faking sign language during the memorial for leader, Nelson Mandela. Many members of the deaf community said the gibberish from the man, did not resemble sign language in any way. It was later determined that he may have a mental illness and hopefully he has been given care. He said he heard voices and saw angels. You know a few comedians had their way with this. I remember seeing an amusing skit about it on Saturday Night Live.
But I could relate, in some ways, to the story- to his "faking" that is. It took me back to the summer of 1997. I'd relocated to another city and needed a job. There was an opening for an Income Maintenance Caseworker with the Department of Health and Human Services. Sounds big right? Well, it was a job as a caseworker for the county- food stamps.
There were many people interviewing for the job. I really needed it and wanted it and I knew I needed to stand out from the other candidates.

So it came to me... sort of like the voices the fake interpreter in South Africa experienced.

"I see that you studied in Spain not too long ago," the interviewer smiled.

"Yes! and it was a great experience," I added.

"So you speak Spanish fluently?"

I started thinking about my level of Spanish. I did take two years in junior high and my two years of high school Spanish were great! I impressed one of my Spanish teachers. And I did take the plunge and went to Spain after just one year of Spanish in college. But did that make me fluent?

"We really need someone bilingual here. We don't have anyone in the building who speaks Spanish," she said.

I could sense how much I was needed. This is what will make me stand out!
"Si! I am fluent!" I answered.

Was it really important to tell her that my high school teacher was impressed because I was one of the few who actually did my homework and didn't talk AS much as the others? That I went to Spain to get the credit so I could skip Spanish II and be done with my required two years of a foreign language? And that was just a year prior to applying for the job.

I tried to assure myself that it would be okay. I knew basic conversational Spanglish. She did say no one else in the building spoke Spanish, so, unlike the guy in South Africa, I would not have to worry about a community of bilingual co-workers knowing I was NOT fluent. It would be a piece of pastel!

I knew greetings, salutations, colors, numbers, simple phrases, body parts, days of the week and months. So it would be like the families talking to a kindergartner pre-k level student. But I did learn a few words I knew would be vital: food stamps and pay stubs. I also kept a Spanish/English dictionary on my desk beside my cross.

Initially, things looked like it would be okay. Then, one day my supervisor called me in to interpret for him. So just like the South African interpreter I found myself a few feet beside the boss. My writing and description of the scene in his office doesn't give any justice to the look on the couple's faces during the horrid interpretation that day.

"Can you ask them when they moved to this county?" my boss stated.
"Cuando you get aqui?" I asked them, pointing down.
They looked at their watches and gave me the time they arrived to the building. Uh oh.
I tried again. "No. Que dia you come here." Still pointing down. They were confused so I helped them out.
"They said, they moved here a month ago."
It got really loco and I was sweating so badly. A few times the couple asked questions but after the first two or three words I didn't even try to get it. I would start using the few Spanish phrases I knew- no matter what they asked.
"Que es esto?" (what is that?) Their faces and responses were priceless.
My boss continued to ask me to ask them questions or give them information. Sometimes he would direct the questions to them louder and he started using gestures.
"Have you received food stamps in any other county before?"
I only knew present tense verbs and again, the basic stuff, so I asked them,
"Que es esto?" (what is that?)
And they would look around to see what I was referring to. While they talked (too fast) I kept thinking of other phrases I knew even if it was not appropriate.
"Do you have proof of bills you pay and your earnings?" my boss asked. I shortened it.
"Cuantos anos tienes?" I asked. (How old are you?) and told my boss,
"They said they left it at home but can bring it in a few days."
By the time we finished I'd asked them their ages, favorite color, the month they were born and, "What is that?" several times. I don't know who they thought was crazier- me or my boss for talking so loud. Once during the conversation, I did tell them he was crazy and old. I knew those words and I knew they would believe me based on his behavior.

Believe it or not I did not get fired. My Spanish got better, especially after meeting more families and talking incorrectly on the phone. There were quite a few times I had to hang up. I begged families to speak muy despacio (very slow) so I could catch a few words. I had to take control on occasion when I received calls.
"¿Cuál es tu nombre?" (What is your name)
Once I got the name I would say, "No mas or esperar!" (No more or wait!) This gave me enough time to look them up. Then I would just tell them either that they had food stamps or they didn't.
"Sí, de alimentos!" or "No! de alimentos!" And a polite, "Gracias!" while simultaneously hanging up.
Sure there was a chance that was not why they were calling but I did what I had que hacer.

Walked in but Limped Out!

Okay, our son will start fifth grade in August. The Genesis of this blog was when he was three and his sister was five. They were so funny. All kids are funny when they're young. I thought I'd run out of funny stories about them by now. But they still do ridiculously, funny things, that leave me feeling a little dysfunctional as a mom.

We've always had humorous stories when it comes to visits with doctors. And we still do.

Our ten-year-old went to the doctor recently after complaining about his throat and a headache. Normally when he complains and we suggest going to the doctor he has a change of heart.
"Well I think we should wait until tomorrow to see if I feel better."

When he doesn't change his mind we know we have to take him in.

So after a brief examination, the doctor tells us he needs to do a test for strep- just to rule it out. I knew what this meant: his throat would have to be swabbed.

As the doctor walked out to retrieve "supplies" the ten-year-old jumps off the table.

"Come on Daddy, let's go," he said, walking toward the door.

Daddy remains calm and in his seat. I just smiled. I've been through enough doctor visits with them both to know what's about to go down. Daddy usually underestimates the power of the (listen for the epic, powerful music in the background) TEN-YEAR-OLD! Not to take credit from Daddy because he has been there for backup when doctors, dentists and the Chick-fil-a staff (yes, he's still scared of the cow) have needed help, but I've told him he can't go all WWE on my baby- slamming him down by the throat.

"No Buddy. We gotta wait for the doctor," Daddy said nonchalantly, while looking at his phone.

He gets really close to Daddy's face and asks, "What's he gonna do?"

Still calm, he responded, "Well, he's just gonna check your throat to make sure it's not really bad."

"Naw Daddy he already did that. He don't need to do that again!"

I could tell he really meant that too. His body language changed abruptly. He stood differently.

Let the games begin!

The doctor and Daddy were involuntarily about to play TRY and Pin the boy on the table.

I sat really still and tried to be invisible. Too late...he was coming toward me for a lifeline. I did the only thing I could at the moment- I began rumbling through my purse. Don't make eye contact!

I decided to make a run for it before the doctor came back. I had to now because our oldest was beginning to smile. Not good.

Before I could make my move the doctor came in. Doc has some age on him but about six feet, so I figured between him and Daddy, they should be just fine with the little one.

"Okay Mr. Jackson, jump back up here for me," he said, patting that crinkly white paper on the table.

The ten-year-old confidently looked at Daddy.

Daddy finally put his phone down and said, "No Buddy. He's talking to YOU."

Surprisingly he sat on the table on his own.

The next few minutes were just a mess. He tried to swab his throat but the little one put up a fight. I turned my back.

I heard that white paper ripping! The doctor tried to keep his voice sweet but yelled, "No, no! No hitting!"

He finally called for backup, "Daddy. Can I get some help please?"

"Cut that out and get it over with!" Daddy yelled as he went over to help.

He put up a fight but it wasn't a fair fight. Daddy pulled out the claw, picked him up and put him down on the table in a flash. When he hit, what was left of the white paper, he protested screamed.

"Now Doc!" Daddy yelled, and the doctor was able to quickly swab his tonsils...finally.

The room was a mess! The two GROWN men were sweating, white, shredded paper was everywhere EXCEPT the table. It was muggy in the room and our daughter was bent over laughing uncontrollably.

The rest of us were silent. Daddy fixed his clothes and the doctor limped out with his sample.

Now That's Scared!

Playing around with our son the other night and I decided to do what my parents and friends' parents did when I was little. I decided to scare him. Now, when we were little we enjoyed it- being chased by adults or the adults hiding and jumping out to scare us when it was dark.

Let's set the scene: Daddy and our daughter were hanging out downstairs. He was watching TV while she created animations on the laptop. They were sitting just a few feet from the stairs.

I was chasing our ten-year-old son around upstairs. At one point I decided to let him get ahead of me. I backed up and turned the hall light off. This light is left on for them at night so they can easily navigate to the bathroom the ten-year-old won't be scared at night.

All the laughing immediately stopped.

"Mama?"

"Mama, I know that was you."

I didn't move.

He darted into his room and closed the door. Then locked it.

I crept up to his door and put my ear up to it, smiling.

I could hear him pushing his chair up to the door. I muffled my laugh.

Then, I heard him hit the floor.

"Mama? I can see your feet!"

Well why don't you come out.

So I just tiptoed to his sister's room a few feet away and sat on the floor. Waiting to see how long he would act scared.

No act.

Daddy's cell phone rings downstairs.

"Hello?" he said.

"Daddy... can you tell Mama to come out and stop trying to scare me?"

"Where are you? Are you upstairs in your room calling me?" Daddy asked. "And why are you whispering?" he added.

Shocked, I almost gave in but the youthful, mischievous girl in me decided to play a little longer.

I quietly walked downstairs and motioned for Daddy not to say anything nor rescue him yet.

I went back and scratched on his door. He pushed the chair closer to the door.

"Okay Mama, stop playing!"

I went back to his sister's room to wait.

I didn't hear anything from him for about two minutes- just his TV. I assumed he just got wrapped up in a show or something.

Then...

"Daddy. Please come tell Mama to come out."

I heard Daddy walking upstairs while he had him on the phone.

"Okay. I'm upstairs now and Mama's not gonna scare you anymore," he assured him, while making a face at me.

He moved the chair and came out of his room.

"See Mama. I knew it was you!"

Well, why didn't you come out then?

"I had to use the bathroom," he revealed.

"Well go to the bathroom then," I told him.

"I already went."

Daddy and I both stopped and looked at each other.

Before we could ask, he came out of his room with a cup. It was clear so I could see what looked like Mello Yello. But I knew it wasn't- we don't buy sodas.

Not sure how long my mouth stayed open.

"I know you weren't that scared that you peed in a cup!" Daddy yelled. "You can't be scared in yo' own house boy! And we were all here too!"

I closed my mouth but opened it again long enough to add, "And you are about to be a tae kwon do black belt dude."

I almost didn't blog this one. #soembarrassed

Shower Scenes

Not sure why but our son still has problems with the shower. Tonight we reminded him to take a shower... a few times. "I don't like 'em," he softly said. His honesty caught me off guard. But so did a quick thought: "You don't want to be the stinky boy at school!" Like water from showers he should be taking, the conversation began going down the drain. "I just don't like taking them. They take too much time," he added. So Daddy threatened him... "You don't want me to sit in the bathroom again to make sure you take a shower." Last time that happened, I overheard more than water running as our son casually and comfortably said, "Daddy! You know I got some hair down here!" He wasn't talking about hair in the drain either. And Daddy casually replied, "Really" "Yes Daddy. You know down here on that round thang. Some boys at school call them balls but they don't look like balls 'cause it looks like, you know, one- not two with an "s"." There was a pause, then I heard him step out of the shower. "See Daddy. This-" "Just hurry up and wash yourself man!," Daddy told him with a little more urgency in his voice. Interrupting the memory, Daddy warned him about the little girls at school. Thinking this would give him more reason to embrace t showers. "The little girls at school are gonna talk about you." Shaking his head confidently he replied, "Nah... they won't." "GO TAKE A SHOWER DUDE!" We both shouted. He reluctantly walked to the shower. Head down, saying, "I don't know why everybody make a big deal about showers." After the shower we asked, "Did you brush your teeth?" He threw his hands up in despair. "Take showers. Brush your teeth."

What Looks Like Crazy on An Ordinary Day

Turning forty-one has been fabulous and amusing! I have finally learned to relax and not worry so much about some of the trivial things. Unfortunately, I have had to accept that my metabolism is not as it used to be. I'm not the lean, young girl who could eat everything when I wanted and not have it camp around my mid-section. I remember constantly trying to GAIN weight, as a junior high student. Quite different now. Years ago I could just grab my size when shopping and not worry about trying it on in the store. Now I take several sizes in the fitting room. This is usually how I gauge my weight. Usually, I leave out with my hair sticking up, sweating and leaving every item there.

Recently, I was running late for work. I quietly but quickly grabbed my red shirt and pants from our closet. I didn't want to wake my husband so I used a dim light to see and took my clothes to our bathroom. I put on my pants, but the shirt was a little challenging. I could hear some threads popping as I forced it over my head and arms.

The shirt fought me as I attempted to pull it over my torso. The shirt yelled, "I DON'T FIT YOU!" I'm a fighter, so I was determined to get the shirt on. Until... I began sweating and felt a little dizzy. This was ridiculous! It felt like I had a blood pressure cuff on my body!

Glancing at the clock, I realized I had minutes to get out and head for work. But how was I gonna get out of the shirt? I could barely breathe or move. How in the world did this happen? Sure I'd gained some weight and it fit a little snug but gracious, I could get it on before.

I could feel tears coming. I sucked it up and took a deep breath and tried to pull it up and over my head.

Comedy! After about five minutes of circling around with my arms stuck and eyes covered, I finally got the thing off. Couldn't believe I didn't wake anyone. So I cleaned up, cooled down, stomped on the evil shirt and quickly threw on another one.

On the way out to the garage, I slammed the ripped shirt into the trash! Not to be outdone, I immaturely gave it half a peace sign.

Driving to work, I reflected on the whole ordeal and tried to accept that I had simply blown up. It's life. I collected myself and walked into work...feeling bruised mentally and definitely physically.

Later, when I got home, my eleven-year-old daughter asked me what happened to her red shirt and why was it in the trash.

Yep! I'm crazy.

Really?

There have been times when I shake my head just thinking about how fortunate our kids are are that they weren't reared the same as us. They don't have to stay outside from sunrise until the street lights come on...in rotisserie heat during the summer in NC. Knock on the door if you dared...for water or bathroom. "Stop bammin' on that door!" an air conditioned adult would yell, while giving me a dingy, tupperware cup of water, through the door, before it slammed shut. And we've rarely beckoned them to come in, during the eleventh inning of rolling bat, just to turn the channels of the TV. While the Genesis of our childhood was different and somewhat tough, there were numerous things that were simple and that just didn't need to be taught. Simple things will arise periodically, that will have the little bubble above my head around the word: Really? For example, yesterday was a gorgeous day which called us all outside. So we're actively enjoying it: running, and riding our bikes, when our daughter abruptly runs past all of the dirt, and grass- all the way home to...spit. Really?