Yeah, my kids are nuts.

Please understand that babies are precious, toddlers turn your lives upside down in so many wonderful ways, and elementary school kids are adorable. But the fun? The fun really starts when your kids get taller than you.

Tiger's Eye has always been fun. I taught him the fundamentals of basic addition, estimation, and general shopping math at Shop 'n Save. He learned bargaining skills. We had many an argument about the items with red tags, explaining that the red tags are great, but sometimes the trade name is still more expensive than the generic.

We have the strangest revelations in Shop 'n Save. It's just amazing what we come up with. Remember, I came out of the closet in that very store.

We had our usual fun and games through the store. When we loaded up the car, T.E. looked across from the bumper and saw an empty cart corral right across the street. With an eyebrow lifted and a hefty shove, I'll be hanged if he didn't send the cart into the stall, not even knocking the railing of the corral, from some 30 to 40 feet away, over a dip in the road, no less. I'm sure that earns points for intelligence somewhere, although I can't be completely sure. May I also remind my gentle readers that T.E. is legally blind in one eye.

A few days later, after laughing at me for being goofy and forgetting everything, we stopped at Moto Mart, where KitKat and T.E. commented on my lack of social graces and obsession with the new soda fountain, which, wow, is so COOL. It has green lights, fab buttons, four additives for energy drinks and lime and lemon! Makes my Diet Coke obsession go to all kinds of new heights.

We purchased fountain soda and a couple of 12-packs of Diet Coke. It's tricky, and the rule is that there are no fountain sodas purchased unless the Nimrod who wants the soda actually goes into the store and carries it out. Hey, I'm no octopus, three kids or not. I don't evolve quickly, apparently.

We all had something to carry out to the car. Next stop, Aldi. KitKat and I took our seats, and T.E., our erstwhile chauffer, backed up and drove in the direction of Aldi, which is about a mile from the Moto Mart. On our way out of the parking lot of Moto Mart, a chick in an SUV beeped and pointed, but she didn't appear to have a problem with us, so we shrugged and went on our way.

We stopped at the stoplight by Dairy Queen, then went on. T.E. is very cautious with left turns, waiting until there's a mile between cars before he turns, which is just fine with me. We pulled over the very big dip and got into the parking lot, and T.E. took his time and parked at least two spots away from the nearest car, just like I like when he's driving. I got out just in time to hear another driver of an SUV laughing like a nut, talking to my son.

"How did you get all the way with it up there?" he asked T.E.

On top of the car, on the driver's side, was one of my 12-packs of Diet Coke, in no different position than when we set off from Moto Mart and my son forgot to put it in the car.

He turned beet red. Please remember that, not five minutes before, they laughed at me :)

Now, I'm just waiting for KitKat to do something. She's sneaky, though. Might be a while before she admits to a mistake or I catch her in the act. Stay tuned...

Thank you, Aunt Alice, for asking me to blog something. It was great seeing you tonight and I will try to keep up better here!

And he caused a stampede in the F building.

Wow. I haven't blogged since July 23. Guess I better make this a doozy.

I'm always asking my kids to do something funny to blog. Perhaps I should reconsider.

Tiger's Eye, my eldest, the child who has been with me the longest, has done something questionable. Part of me is proud. Part of me wants to scream. Part of me wishes I was this creative in high school.

Preface: T.E. and KitKat (lord help us all, they're in the same school again) attend a school where there are buildings, A through S. It's a large campus. The F building is grand central station, where there are a multitude of lockers at the bottom and and classes upstairs.

My son, my darling who has been with me the longest, had two minutes left to get to the top of the F building. On the bottom floor, he saw very slow progress. What does he do?

Oh, simple thing. He yells that they've only got one minute to get to class.

The herd moves forward en masse and freshmen trip. He says three. I told him he'd better be happy that it wasn't KitKat. She'd have tossed him over the rail.

He says it's a perk of being a junior. I say it's the result of him being demon spawn...from his father's side of the family, obviously.

The Sapphire Gazette

The Spumoni ice cream is in memory of a great woman, my Aunt Mildred, who would have been 97 years old in a month. You can read a bit more about her here.

Pop is in the hospital, and it's not exactly wonderful news. He seems to crest, plateau, and then plummet, rising up again to drop once more. There's a blood clot in his leg. There's an IV in his arm. He's not eating well or drinking much.

I'm behind on e-mails, so apologies to all. Things are kind of cluttered right now. I did manage to get out of jury duty. Tiger's Eye is going to be fine, we think. The lesion they found is a benign one and is filling in with the right stuff now that he's getting older. The meniscus separation didn't correlate to his pain, so they're a bit cautious that he doesn't disrupt more ligaments, because he's done this once and it really didn't affect him and we can't pinpoint when it occurred. He's wearing a brace on alternating legs, and that's the best we can do until I convince our FSA people that we can justify our medical spending with our receipts, which they can't seem to read no matter how much I blow up the receipt size and enhance the darkness. Frustrating. I'm still trying to get physical therapy set up in order to get his legs stronger where they need to be to keep pressure off his knees. There's a problem with his patellae tracking like they should, so that means strengthening his muscles in his thighs. I can't do it for him, so I hope he cooperates for his own sake.

I did get a new window unit for our room. My fingers no longer look like they came from a Jimmy Dean box, and my typing speed is up. It's nice to have it too cold and shut if off, even in weather with 105 degree heat index. Oh, yeah. It's some wonderful stuff.

Suggestions for keeping my sanity welcome.

I called the radiology center and they found the x-ray for comparison and amended the report. The report now looks much better and in the addendum, it says:

Paragraph one should say...

Paragraph two should say...

So it's all fixed now.

The report, anyway.

My keyboard broke Friday morning and my power went out Friday afternoon. Monday, the gal I needed to talk to wasn't in, so Tuesday, I finally got her.

She took offense that I was offended at the quality of their reports. She then looked at it, and I pointed out all the problems, and mentioned that I had a screen print of reactions from the MT community of that report. She backpedaled a minute, then said it was the doc's fault for not sending it for editing :(

I informed her that if they ever have problems with VR (she said it was really helpful because finding qualified transcriptionists was hard), I'd be happy to support them by submitting this, but she said the doc needed to review it or send it to edit. I challenged her to go pull 10 MRI reports and see how many errors she found on legal records that make the doc look like an idiot.

So, I've got what I wanted...I guess. The report is fixed and they know where I stand on the issue. Now I have to deal with the fact that TE's knees hurt, doc sent him for x-rays, the lesion came back on the x-ray, they sent him for an MRI to check on the lesion, and the incidental finding was of the lateral meniscus separation. It now goes back to the original thing that his knees were hurting, so we're eventually going to have to have the other knee imaged, as well.

Oh, and I have jury duty summons for the week my boss begged me not to have anything going to take extra work. Yeah, all those $$ going out the window. I think I'll be disqualified just because I type legal documents and probably will answer questions truthfully, which they won't want to hear, but it's all day, maybe more, and it sucks. It's also during the week after Tiger's Eye sees the ortho, so who knows what testing I'll need done?

I'm about to lose my mind.

But hospitals want you to have SO much experience!

This makes me so frickin' mad. Not only did they have the x-rays for comparison, but this is the quality that our local hospital's transcriptionists produce:



Did I mention this is the same place that had my son's boxer's fracture as a metatarsal fracture?

EDIT: It came to my attention that this might be a product of Voice Recognition software, since it's radiology dictation but, in any case, the hospital should reevaluate the documents they produce.

Still freaking out, but this made me smile

Still no word on son's MRI (I was good and only bugged the doc's office twice, once in the morning and one after lunch), but hub sent this over to me and I found it extremely amusing:

This mom's freaking out a bit, here.

Tiger's Eye had his MRI, looking more closely at a "lytic lesion" in his tibia. I know too much sometimes, you know? Until we know more, I'm trying to have him sit as sweet as a magnolia blossom, but he went to his best friend's house, and, judging from the grass stains on his shorts that he has no clue where they came from, that didn't happen.

At least he's not too worried about it, I suppose.

I guess I'll worry more when I know more. Monday...I'll know Monday.

Stuff like this makes you realize how much life your kids breathe into you, and the large percentage of each breath a mom takes is for her kids. He's been with me the longest, and I still see his little face after the C-section. I remember so clearly asking the nurse if I could kiss his forehead, him yelling at the top of his lungs. It clicked then, the mother instinct. He was mine. I had to bring him up and get him ready for the world--my responsibility, and the overwhelming love that responsibility brought.

I am sending the worries away (yeah, right) until Monday, but prayers are welcome.

My son reviews "The Claw"

No, it's not a budget butcher B-movie. We're speaking of this:


My mom's reward for having her second shoulder surgery is a disgruntled, very vocal surgeon who insists that she doesn't do yard work. It's spring, it's been wet, and she's getting antsy. She sent over some peonies that were to die for. I asked Boo, and she said she planted them before surgery.

Nothing like making hay while the sun shines. It might explain why Doc W thought the surgery would take less time - she did her planting in between the last office visit and the surgery itself, apparently.

She recruited Tiger's Eye, for valid reasons. He's approaching 6' and has lots of muscle. No fat, all muscle, and if he takes his shirt off, I think of BBQ sauce from all the ribs I can count. The boy needs doughnuts, cookies, cake, and peanut butter. We all should be so lucky.

Anyway...

He came home, complete with grass stains, smelling like a mix of grass, wild onions, and sweat.

"You know the claw thing?" he asked.

"The Garden Claw?" I responded.

"Yeah, the one where the commercial has the 60-year-old lady turning the thing without any problems."

"Yeah?"

"She makes the ground just turn up, you know? It's hard! I'm tired!"

Maybe he just wanted Grandma to do it. Never know with that boy.

* * *

In case you haven't figured it out, I type for doctors. This is a real gem:

Her weight is obviously not 378, as it is recorded. This was not caught until after she left. I'm sure she'll be happy to see herself lose that much weight when she comes back the next time.

Fun stuff, no?

Emotional milestones

Today, I hit an emotional milestone.

ManCub's 6th grade recognition was this morning. For 10 years, I have been part of that school, from Tiger's Eye attending from 1st grade until today, when my youngest is now ready to go to junior high.

I no longer have a child in K-6. It's sobering.

Ms. V, who has been a part of ManCub's IEP and structured school planning, made a slide show of all the 6th graders, some pics from 1st grade. Wow. It looped through three times, each time more enjoyable than the first, while waiting for the actual ceremony to begin. It started 15 minutes late, but the Spaghetti Factory pictures, one for each kid, noodles hanging from their mouths (Ms. V wanted us to know for certain it was staged), made us laugh.

It's amazing.

As each picture popped up, a parent, guardian, or relative hollered out to claim him or her. I couldn't believe how many people said, "Oh, it's ManCub!" Another parent answered, "Yeah, he's always in red. That's before the hair."

My trademark Cardinals fan. It's hard to remember what he's worn for the week because everything he owns is Cardinals red or has a Cardinals logo on it.

The gentleman behind me saw the picture of ManCub with a bat and turned to his family member.

"Oh, that's that great kid I told you about at the game. He's a huge Cardinals fan. He didn't give me any trouble the whole time we were there."

The 6th grade patrol took a tour of Busch stadium and then stayed for a game that should've been rained out, but stayed on schedule.

I turned around and said, "Hey, he's mine!"

"What a kid," he said. "I only had to yell at him five times."

My face drew up a bit.

He patted my arm. "Just kidding. He stayed close and absorbed the game. Couldn't ask for a better kid."

Nope, I can't. I saw all the kids sitting together. They'll still be together next year, all going to the same junior high. I can't wait to see how they grow and branch out.

I came home and took a nap.

Then...

KitKat graduated from 8th grade, from the same school ManCub's going to next year, the same one Tiger's Eye left two years ago. She let me put makeup on her. She joked that she's never going to have to learn how to do it because Boo, Squitch, and I have it covered. I put her eyes in shades of green. She wouldn't let me put mascara on her. Her eyes are actually quite oriental in structure, and she must sit with her eyes closed while the mascara dries or it ends up in her eyebrows. Yes, her eyebrows. Not only that, she doesn't like the way it feels on her glasses.

Yeah, we should all be so lucky.

She looked gorgeous. But, you know what the most amazing thing is? I primped her, face only. She got out of the shower and let her hair go. She wore clothes like any other day. I love that about her. She's the ultimate come-as-you-are person, and she goes as is. She's my shy one when it comes to conversation, but she's the bold one when it comes to "if you don't like it, don't look."

One of her classmates wore a tiara. I saw it, she saw it, and we looked at each other and made a "pfft" noise. That made about as much sense as the kids coming to the 8th grade graduation dance in limousines. Pfft.

I looked at her friends tonight. They're all so similar in personality. Two of them, a set of twins, love to play around with hair color. Their older sister, Tiger's Eye's good friend, is the same way, but it's not vanity; it's personality. Their mom buys Kool-Aid mostly for the temporary color washes! I sat with their mom. She's a lot like me in personality, and she fights the big battles and lets the small ones go. Most moms would throw fits if their kids turned their hair pink on a whim, but she'd rather them be goofy with their hair rather than sneak out of the house and change clothes. In a house with four females, I think they spend hours over a sink or in the beverage aisle, quality time. These girls (and their mom) are so much fun. Their mom didn't care for the tiara either.

One of KitKat's friends delivered a class speech. In stark contrast to two years ago, at Tiger's Eye's 8th grade graduation, this girl was genuine. She spoke honestly with not a single word clouded by theatrics or just the desire to be a perky, fantastic orator. We have a perky meter system, 0-10. RJ's classmates registered 16. I swear, the girls bounced! Jazz's voice carried well and was totally appropriate for 8th grade. One of KitKat's other friends sang the national anthem. She wore no makeup. Neither did Jazz or KitKat's other good friend.

There's no pretense with these young women. They're not trying to grow up fast at all. Most of them love to read and socialize, and all think their parents are pretty okay people to hug in public and hang on. KitKat has benefited from each one of them. It's so nice to go pick up a kid from a school function and still see 13- and 14-year-olds rushing out to grab their parents, hug them, and drag them back to meet a friend or 15. There's an unspoken bonus to the parents who can tell the twins apart (I can when they're together) and remember the names at least 90% of the time.

I have three great kids. Somewhere, God rewarded me for something. I know I fuss about the homework (or them not getting it done) or surprise projects or surprise school events, but my kids are people that other families remember. Tiger's Eye was asked about by the elementary teachers and the coach mentioned how great he was to volunteer his time, assisting him with basketball drills and practice, a 16-year-old loving the sport and activity more than being perceived as hanging out with a bunch of 6th graders.

I still can't get over the tiara but, in the same turn, she was the only one wearing one, and she wore it proudly until she left. Maybe I'll give her the benefit of the doubt on this one. Maybe she's like KitKat in that she's secure enough to do something totally and completely different.

We have a great school system. They turn out great kids, who make parents look good.

Does this take up 1000 words?

In the absence of anything to blog (other than my KitKat will be 14 Monday and is going to her first cosplay with a little sailor suit and silver hair), I assume that if I find a picture that's worth 1000 words, since I have none (well, Mr. Purr caught a mouse, loved it to death, and left it in the kitchen for ManCub to step on), I'll post it because I really have nothing to say (except Tiger's Eye thinks making Mom hurt her neck in the busy Aldi parking lot to ensure that no cars are coming while HE'S driving is amusing).


see more crazy cat pics

Tiger's Eye's first roadkill

I asked him if this is something you mark in the baby book, trying to take his focus off of being so devastated about it. Something ran up from the creek and right under the wheels. I saw a reddish-orange blur. I didn't want to over-analyze it...it definitely wasn't HIS fault, but when he checked the rear-view mirror, the critter still twitched.

Poor kid. He shook the rest of the way home. He's haunted by the noise it made as it went under the wheel; soda cans were definitely more fun. I want to twitch, too, but I had to laugh it off so he didn't feel so bad...

St. George, do you have a brother? For the snot monsters?

I'm learning that there are different types of snot monsters in this world. All snot monsters are not the same, nor are they created equally.

Mine is the lazy kind from Snot Monsters, Inc. She lets me feel really good for a few hours and then figures she's on the clock and better make it look like she's doing something, so she whaps me over the head and forces me back to bed for a while. I don't like her very much. She gives me a false sense of feeling better and then yanks the rug from under me. She's manipulative, too. She lets me think that one type of medicine is the cure-all, then decides she's stronger than the cold medicine the second time around. She's also a thief and violator of the space-time continuum. My earnings for the week are dwindling, no matter how much effort or hours I think I'm putting into it.

My husband's was just the opposite. He's a full-time employee, efficient, and apparently is due for a raise. One blow and he put Mr. Sapphire down for the count, but only for a day. He then moved on to pester someone else, leaving only a few irritating effects of his stay.

Tiger's Eye has a nomadic snot monster. He comes and goes. He's been pestering the poor kid for a month, riding into town, all guns blazing, and then he takes off again after a day or two. We are using megadoses of vitamin C. We hope it's like garlic to vampires.

ManCub's was the regular Joe employee at Snot Monsters, Inc. He came, did his job, worked half-heartedly, didn't cause too much of a stir, and only managed to keep ManCub home from school for one day. ManCub refused to be beaten by the Snot Monster and kicked him out of his life. We liked this snot monster. If you have to have a snot monster, I think this would be the one we'd invite back. Sad but true.

KitKat has the most insidious, rotten, evil snot monster I've ever encountered. This one takes over her voice and uses it to vent every piece of vitriol in her arsenal. She's vicious, daring me and taunting me, making KitKat demand that I rid her of the beast before ISAT testing next week. The vitamin C doesn't seem to be working; I guess the next steps are crosses and a good priest for exorcism. She allows KitKat all day without a cough, but as soon as she lies flat, the coughing begins. She won't let KitKat sleep and, as we all know, KitKat needs sleep. I'm afraid to wake her up in the morning because the snot monster only allows KitKat to fall asleep at 6:30 and someone (I've been chicken and sending her brothers) wakes her up and the snot monster helps KitKat send them downstairs, shaking, and informing me that the creature has risen from her vault, bringing KitKat with her, and to be ready. She's immune to medicine and makes KitKat's throat too small to accommodate pills, anyway.

I'm a stock market idiot. Does it make more sense to invest in the company that sells cold products or in the individual product, itself?

He's driving...I need a brown paper sack.

Brown Paper Sack moments:

Tiger's Eye put the car in drive.

He drove in traffic. He ran over every theoretically parked car because he doesn't like driving close to the yellow line. ManCub also chants our new mantra: "Scoot over. Middle. Get in the middle."

He drove 45 miles an hour. Even in the middle of the road, it felt like we were at Bonneville Speedway.

Him: "Which lane do we take?"

Me: "You need to get in the right-sided left-hand lane."

Him: "So, right, right?"

Me: "No, there are four lanes. Two are for turning left. You want to get into the right-sided left-turn..."

Him: "Ha ha ha. Gotcha."

He parked in a virtually empty lot. I took a breather, wondered how much some Johnny Walker costs at the supermarket next door, realized I can't drive impaired while he's driving, and settled for Mountain Dew.

He unparked.

We entered a busier-than-heck Wal-Mart parking lot.

Him: "Where do I park?"

Me: "Pick a spot, but take it slow."

Him: "I found it!"

He pulls into the slot straight across from where the lane ends, i.e., he pulls straight in.

Him: "Easy."

Me: "Yeah, but getting out's going to be a real...bear."

And so it was. But, with patience, and waiting for half the parking lot to leave, we had success.

He drove to Gasmart. I told him to park wherever in the virtually empty lot, where all he has to do is like he did at Wal-Mart, pull straight in.

"Take this one," I said. "Okay, I guess take both."

He tried to park in the carport. I kicked him out of the driver's spot when the car sat half parallel yet half perpendicular and 2" away from the fence.

Refills of Ativan? $1. Having Ativan to help forget you're a control freak with a son who's growing up and trying to be free? Priceless.

Penithes and 'Gina

Parenting blogs bring back tons of memories. I love the ones who are absolutely positive their parenting methods are the only ways that work.

I’m not sure I have a parenting method. It’s trial and error, tailor-made to each kid. It’s not the most effective method, either, or I’m sure I’d go shopping with little robots, tallest to shortest, in a nice duckling row. For my leash diatribe, see here.

Tonight’s advice I saw was, “Teach your kids the proper names of their private parts.” I took this advice to heart once. In nursing school, one of my instructors made a lot of sense. If the kid has his own pet name for his privates, who’s going to know if it hurts?

My eldest was two. Hello. Two-year-olds point. If they’re not old enough to point, then they’re not old enough to talk either, but I thought being an instructor made you closer to God or something, so I instructed Tiger’s Eye on the “correct” terminology for his parts, and the corresponding girl parts, because, of course, I had KitKat by then and he’d already noticed the difference.

Wait...funny break...Tiger’s Eye discovered himself and did his first somersault in the same minute. It cracks me up to this day. What’s this? Roll down the hallway.

He had it down. “Penithes and ‘gina.” He understood. We’re good, right?

Next day, we had dinner at my parents’ house. My grandmother and Pop were there. Somewhere during the roast beef being served, Tiger’s Eye announced that:

“Boys have penithes and girls have ‘gina.”

Pop’s deaf, or darn near. I dodged the bullet there. My grandmother, however, came and left the world with every single faculty God gave her. Engrossed in conversation and maintaining the proper food passing pattern, however, she missed him.

“Josh boy. Josh have penith. Mom girl. Mom has ‘gina. Dad boy. Dad has penith.”

He was going around the table! And pointing!

“Grandmom?” He paused.

He spoke her name. Of course she heard him. My sisters had already noticed his designation of us all, and I could barely breathe. My grandmother, a great benefactress, stalwart Christian, and very nice individual, was about to be told she had...

“Do you have ‘gina?” Tiger’s Eye asked.

“Yes, dear, I have china.” She looked quite puzzled. “I keep it in the china cabinet.”

She hadn’t heard the rest! Tiger’s Eye, confounded, looked down, trying to figure out how the heck she kept her vagina in a cabinet, but it shut him up and for that I will be eternally grateful.

Lessons learned:
*When a parent puts emphasis on something, the kid knows it’s important and remember. This is good. You can talk and think they don’t hear, but they do.
*If a kid can speak, he/she can also point, and a proper label is unnecessary when an index finger will do nicely, thank you very much.
*Moms can hold their breaths for an eternity. The same goes for bladders, but that’s not in the context of the story.
*Little blond two-year-olds are parrots and sponges. Never, ever forget this. Another rule that goes hand in hand with this would be, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”

So, progressive parents, do what you want. If he’d remembered the cabinet quandary, it would have been very, very fun explaining to him how to get that up in a cabinet and keep it there. I think I would have used a denture analogy. Hey, he was two. I had the girls believing they weren’t going to grow much more and they weren’t human, they were elves. They had the ears for it.

Soda cans, permits, parkings lots, and a 16-year-old

So I thought I’d have something really, really funny to blog. It turns out our Tiger’s Eye is a very, very cautious young man. I’d rather have that than blog about how many times I needed a brown paper sack. On our maiden voyage, ManCub, our very skeptical child, rode in the back; he commented he was bored. How’s that for having a responsible young guy having a driver’s permit?

We did discover a great secret to learning accuracy. It happened of its own accord and as the result of an indiscriminate litter bug who left a Monster can, upright, in the parking lot. I saw it, paused, and told Tiger’s Eye to crunch the heck out of it. After a few misses, trying with both the front passenger and driver’s side wheels, the most satisfying crunch occurred. I slammed down the rest of my soda, told him to go to another area of the parking lot, and tossed it into the center, attempting to make him try the same in reverse.

He drove right over it, still accurate. He put it in drive and it crunched beneath his wheel. It became a game, then, a relaxing opportunity in a wide-open space to learn the play of the wheel, the tightness needed for the turn, and backing up/going forward to get the car in the best position. I picked up the flattened can, shook off the excess soda, and showed him his good work. I got in the car, and he drove me to a plastic trash can, close enough to where I just opened my window and reached into the can, getting rid of my litter.

He admits to some shakiness now. Good. It’s harder than he thought, he said. I’m glad he realizes that. I think I’m going to save a lot of soda cans and chuck them all over the parking lot next time.

In my day, my first driving lesson included a 350-pound instructor and a drive-through. Seriously. The first thing I did as a driver was ask for fries with that.

As a reward, I let him take the perimeter road and take that puppy up to 20 mph, for about 100 yards. It seems so fast when you’re the passenger!

An hour of nighttime driving has been logged. My son inches closer to manhood, and I’m not dreading it as much as I thought.

Pointless, but fun.

ManCub

http://www.myheritage.com/collage

Gratitude I took for granted.

I have something to be incredibly thankful for. I usually have a very long list, but the most important are:

I still have my son, I still have the back part of the house, we still have our snake collection, and Mr. Sapphire still has a business where the critters are breeding.

We almost didn't.

One of our heavy-duty extension cord melted right in the middle, where the neat coils fused together in a bubbling mess. The fire alarms went off when the smoke got bad enough, but, because there were no flames (yet), we had difficulty finding it. By the time we did, it melted the carpet, the padding, and was on its way into the subfloor. I imagine, had the wood been any further burned, the flames would have started - right in Tiger's Eye's bedroom.

Count your blessings, name them one by one, and may your list be as long as mine!

Meet them, one by one...the nimrods also stalk here.

New site for the website, new blog feed: Club Nimrod, now with pages for each nimrod.

For more, please visit sapphiretigress.com

Child on a leash?? Are you crazy?

This is going to be my contribution to the great child-on-a-leash debate. I don't care if it's a cute little monkey, or brightly colored wrist bands, or an old-fashioned yellow harness with a clip-on leash thing with a loop for mom or dad's wrist...

If you have a frisky child, use the dang leash, guilt free. No apologies!

The leash I used for my eldest was passed down from my mother. You see, when my brother was a frisky three-year-old, she had to navigate airports from St. Louis to Incirlik Turkey. We're talking JFK. We're talking Heathrow. We're talking Germany and Greece and and and...

We made it to our destination, with my brother. Quite a feat for a mother of three, traveling alone to the other side of the world.

Flash forward to 1994. My son was 2-1/2, my daughter about ready to pop out from my uterus. Heavily pregnant with an active son of his caliber in the seat meant constant bumps of his shoes and knees against a belly already pressing on my bladder. Now, you couldn't let Tiger's Eye loose. I already learned that one lazy spring morning when I opened the door and let the screen door bring in some of that lovely air. He knew he had me; I sat. About nine months pregnant, seated on a low couch, renders the best of us disabled. I sat, he watched, and he ran for the door. Before I knew it, he was out the door and on the way to see his grandma.

Yeah. I had on a nightie. He sure was faster than me, and he had a heck of a head start, given that I had to kind of roll off the couch onto my knees and push off the floor in order to stand.

I panicked and yelled when he got perilously close to the street. Thank goodness, he listened and stopped. I took him by the hand and led him back inside, in tears. He got away from me, plain and simple. The fear of him crossing that street and me having to watch...never again.

I told my mother, and she gave me the leash. Smart woman, that one. Five kids gives you wisdom, that's for certain sure.

Soon after, I made one of the last trips to the grocery store before my daughter came along. The C-section was scheduled and I needed to stock up before the big event. I fixed my son in his harness, and he absolutely loved it. He barked a couple of times and panted, and that was just across the parking lot.

The leash gave him wiggle room. It was either the leash or the seat, and, like I said, I don't particularly like bladder problems in the middle of Schnucks, you know. We perused the cereal, Tiger's Eye pointing out his favorites and me denying them for plain Cheerios and such.

Then, she came. A virtuous woman no doubt, young, in 3" heels, the consummate professional. And she lectured me, standing by the cereal with my happy son fixing the boxes in a nice row.

"That's cruel. How can you attach your child to a rope like a mutt?"

"You're right," I said. "Babe, come here." I lovingly extended my hand, which he took. He turned around, and I unleashed him.

What did he do? Just like I anticipated, he ran down the aisle without a care in the world.

"As you can see, I have trouble keeping up," I said, rubbing my belly. "You'll have to get him for me."

She ran down the aisle, her heels clicking against the tile. My baby did this beautiful U-turn around the frozen fish freezer thingy, and careened toward the meat while I leisurely strolled up the aisle. By the time she caught him and led him back, her posh hairdo came apart, and she blew back a free strand of hair with a puff.

She said nothing, absolutely nothing, as she placed his hand in mine. I clipped the leash back to the harness. I said nothing, absolutely nothing, but "Thanks."

I really can't remember using the leash after that, other than a trip to the zoo. When KitKat actually arrived, I had more wiggle room of my own, since Daddy or Grandma kept the baby or I shopped at night after work.

Bottom line? I know my child. I know his potential. I know that, when he runs, his legs extend in a beautiful, deer-like stride. I also knew this could happen in the parking lot.

Moms know their kids. If you think your kid doesn't need a leash, good for you! Mine did. I make no apologies for keeping him safe.

Use the leash, and keep them close. You snooze, you blink, you pick up a tomato...

Think. Just think, people. Thou shalt not judge, and I raise this child and know him better than you do.

See more at www.sapphiretigress.com.

Funny and boring day, but good

There's a Ram's joke that only true fans understand, a quip from my daughter, a slap-happy mother/son moment, a sibling bonding situation, and my take on life.

Have a good one. I remembered someone else's name, too. You can meet Nellie.