Wednesday, May 26, 2010


I am superfluous. In fact, I’m worse than unnecessary. I’m in the way. The four year old never says this, but she reminds me of it frequently. Here’s how it usually happens. I place Baby One in bed. He fusses. I close his door and go downstairs. Four year old opens his door and gets him out of bed. If she’s busy with her myriad other agenda items, she brings him to me and tells me that he’s awake. Clearly, he’s awake. He hasn’t had time to fall asleep yet. If Better Mother Than Me has nothing else to do, she plays with him in his room, trying to keep him quiet so that I don’t ruin things by putting him back in bed.

This has happened almost every day for the past 2 weeks. No amount of, “Please leave the baby alone,” or, “I know he’s crying. He needs to put himself to sleep,” has done any good. She nods, says, “Okay, Mommy,” and then proceeds to do whatever she wants to do. Obviously, God made a mistake by putting me in charge. And if the Infant grows up with rotten sleep patterns, he can blame the Donna Reed clone just older than him who won’t let him fall asleep.

Monday, May 24, 2010

Copy My Swagger

Rib cages are a good design. For those of you who were thinking about getting rid of yours, I recommend keeping it. Here’s a hypothetical situation to illustrate why a rib cage should be kept in its place.

Let’s pretend there’s a girl who isn’t much of a whiz on a bike. We’ll call her “Mama”. Let’s say Mama goes for a ride on a paved bike path. It’s a beautiful day, 80 degrees and sunny. And let’s say that something distracts Mama. Like, oh, a house with its own waterfall. And if Mama were to crane her neck behind her to look at said pretty house, she might veer off the path and onto the gravel. And then, because she’s no Lance Armstrong, she might immediately try to pull the bike back onto the path, which, as any seasoned cyclist knows, is a bad, bad idea. Because the front wheel would catch on pavement and Mama would fly, head first, over her handlebars. Luckily, the voice in her head would say, “Roll! Roll! Roll!” Which means that she would smack her ribs on the handlebars, skid along the pavement on her arm and knee and say choice words. Actually, just one choice word, repeated over and over. But, back to the rib cage thing, had the now-sore and hurts-to-breathe cage not been around, those necessary but very hard and pokey handlebars would have gone right into Mama’s even more tender inner organs, which would not have been as quick to heal as the ribs. Hurray for ribs!

It was a very cute house, though.