Are You There God? It's Me, Xanax.

(Mommy Disclaimer: My Big Girl is getting her feelings hurt because, to date, I have mostly just published posts about the two little ones. I explained to her that this is because I pretty much only post things that will later be completely embarrassing to them and they will probably hate me for it. She's all about the drama and, therefore, any press is good press. I write the following with her permission...and she chose the picture, too.)

Since My Big Girl is about to turn 11, I pretty much stay in a nervous Aunt Flow mode waiting for her "Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret" moment to arrive. (Boys, you're not going to get the reference unless you've spent at least some portion of your life as a fifth grade girl.) Every time she yells from the bathroom, I run at break-neck speed across the house only to find, to my relief, that she just forgot to get a towel before she got in the shower or something to that effect. I'm really dreading the day. Such unfortunate business and I hate for her to have to deal with it. (I have Yankee family members that practically throw a party for the lucky girl when she starts her "lady's days" and then they go on and on to her about how "wonderful it is" and "you're a woman now." Are you people serious?)

My Big Girl has picked up on my fear and is now starting to toy with me. She ran into the office the other day in a panic and screamed, "Mom! Mom! I started my period!"

I nearly jumped out of my chair, "What? What? What!"

"Just kidding," she smiled. "Can I have some ice cream?"

Sigh. Fan myself. "It's in the freezer."

Takes One To Know One

To maintain my good standing with all my Johnston County friends referred to in "You Say Tomato.....", here is a picture of my kids' very own Redneck Water Slide.

I said I had Rednecks in my family, too. I just didn't tell you that I was one of 'em.

Life's a Bea-otch.

I live at the coast but I rarely take my kids to the beach. It is a complete and total hassle to lug the kids and all their gear from the parking lot (if the gods smile upon you and you find a parking spot), across the blistering hot sand, and down to the shore. Oh, and don't forget to factor in The Boy, who is completely friggin' OCD about having sand in his flip flops. I have to leave the girls with him at the edge of the parking lot, take all the crap down to the shore by myself, come back across the scorching sand, gather up the girls and lug the boy Dead Man style over my shoulder whilst balancing on my wedge flip flops (Flat flips flops? Cretin.) back again across the Sahara only to find that a couple of tourist kids have snagged half of my kids' sand toys while I was gone. Then, when it's time to leave, you have to reverse the whole from-the-parking-lot-to-the-beach-deal, but this time with tired, wet, sandy, salty, sticky, sweaty, cranky children in tow. Don't even get me started on the de-sanding of the crotches when we get home. Who needs her hoo-ha exfoliated? For all these reasons, I usually just take my kids to my mother's house and let them swim in her pool.

Since beach-going is a rare occasion, taking my kids out of the pool and onto a beach is like taking me out of the AC and into a tent, especially since my idea of camping is when the cable goes out. Today when we went, once I snapped out of the grips of my shark phobia (thanks a lot, Shark Week), I got quite tickled when I looked around and noticed what my kids were wearing compared to all the other kids out there. While the tourist's kids and the laying-out-not-paying-attention-and-OMG-are-you-really-still-laying-out-using-baby oil-have-you-not-seen-the-data-on-skin-cancer momma's kids were out there nearly drowning in the surf, my kids had decked themselves out in arm floaties and inner tubes. Pool wear...at the beach. My Big Girl's little friend was even wearing swim goggles. Could they have looked MORE out of place? These kids are SO not acclimated to surf and sand. And then there was me, snapping pics of my little monkeys from every possible angle: from the beach, from the sand, in the water, making a sandcastle, etc. What a bunch of dorks. It's like we should've been wearing T-shirts that say, "No, seriously. We're not tourists. We actually live here."

I waited until we got on the beach to put sunscreen on us all. Mistake. Sunscreen plus sand equals something like an apricot facial scrub. Except is doesn't rinse off. The surf was unrelenting and kept knocking the little ones down, flotation devices and all. I tried to keep up with them but the current kept dragging them away from me. Once I saw a rogue wave approach and as I bent down to reach for The Princess, the wave knocked her under and all I got was a handful of ruffly baby butt. Something banged into my leg (which I was positive was a Great White). I screamed and turned to find The Boy smashing into me, butt up head down, too. They both came up spitting and crying. Fun fun fun. My Big Girl, however, was purely delighted with the waves because, "Dude, the boogie boarding is awesome!" (From Mom to Dude. Is that an upgrade?) I figured out about half-way through our beach fun that there was going to be Smirnoff and a Xanax in my future this evening. I was so completely freaked by the rip current and pounding surf that I had to keep counting heads - my three kids plus one. I must have looked like some sort of deranged Rain Man Mom out there, pointing with my finger as I counted one-two-three-four.....one-two-three-four...one-two-three-where the hell is-oh, there she is-four. Mommy says I'm an excellent counter.

After about two hours of all this excitment and the salt water getting into my eyes and making my mascara run (don't ask...I don't know why either), I was ready to call it quits. I loaded up all the I-don't-want-to-go-home-so-I'm-going-to-stand-here-and-scream sandy bottoms and their gear and headed inland. The two little ones, exhausted and sunburned where their apricot facial scrub suncreen treatment had rubbed off, could only whine and cry the whole way home. My Big Girl sat in the back irritated that, once again, the younger two had ruined her life because she had to leave her "killer wave session" and "sit in the back seat with the whiny babies." Then she added the obligatory, "I hate my life." (Don't mistake me, I get a similar reaction when we leave the pool, but it's only a 10 minute ride home with all this "familial love", compared to the 30 minute hell ride that it is from the beach to my house.)

Enough of this beach business! I've gotten in my mandatory beach day this summer. Back to the pool tomorrow. At the pool the toys are already there, the only rogue wave is from a cannonball dive in the deep end, the worst thing you have to rinse off of you when you leave is the smell of chlorine, and the only thing that is going to bite you is one of my kids - which is bound to happen at some point in the day anyway. I think I'm going to stick with my original theory. If it doesn't smell like chlorine and have a pretty, fake blue tile print on the liner, I ain't going in.

You say 'tomato', I say 'to-mah-to'...but I'm pretty sure lil' Preston calls it a 'mater'.

I took my mom, my three monkeys, and a little buddy for some R&R at the local beach today. I was wading in the surf with The Princess when this little boy (about 8) rams into me on his boogie board and says through two missing teeth, "These here ain't zackly good condeetions fer surfin." It was all I could do not to giggle. So I said back, "It shore ain't, sugar." Bless his heart. ("Bless his heart." Much has been written about this saying and it's all true. If somebody says anything ugly or demeaning about you and they tag it with a "bless your heart", they can say pretty much anything horrible that they want to and it's all on you to forgive them. It's like a giant eraser. To a lesser extent, you can also tag "sweetie", "sugar", or "honey" at the end of anything, combined with an arm rub, it's sort of the same thing. "Well, your back-end looks as wide as the hills in that dress, sugar." *rub the arm* See, you're not allowed to get mad at that.) When we were leaving, he and his momma were up by the showers rinsing off and I heard her yell to him, "Preston, git yourself over here raht now!" That there was one of them Johnston County accents! Then she said to me, "The problem ain't gettin' 'em on da beach, it's agettin' 'em off! That's why we got ourselves a pool." Immediately I pictured five folding beach chairs and a leaky, red Igloo cooler around one of those plastic pools they sell in front of the grocery store every summer. This, of course, would be sitting out in the yard right beside the car on cinder blocks and at the end of the slide on the swing set so the 'youngerns' would have 'theirselves' a water slide!' I can see little Preston at the top of the slide right now saying, "Hey, ya'll...watch 'iss!" Lord, I do love me some rednecks! Don't write me and call me judgmental! I've got 'em in family, too. Honey, I live in the South. We've ALL got 'em in here! Sugar. Bless their hearts.

And on the eighth day...

And on the eighth day, God said, "Let there be pralines made at River Street Sweets in Charleston." And God saw that it was gooooooooood.

Mom-Mo-Mo-Mom, thisth sith what she's tryin' to thay...

It cracks me up that The Boy, 4, still feels the need to "translate" what The Princess, 3, is saying to us, especially considering that he stutters and has a lisp and she doesn't. Sometimes if we don't hear it from her first, we have no idea what the hell he is talking about!

The Return of the Prodigal Mom

I just got back into town from being away for four days on vacation with my cousin, M. (Only my own bottom to wipe for four days....ah....nirvana.) I just knew when I drove up to my house the kids were going to go CRAZY and run out to the car and cover me with kisses and hugs and "PLEASE DON'T LEAVE US AGAINs" and "WE LOVE YOU MOMMYs". I pulled in and layed on the horn, put the mini-van (Honda Mom-Mobile) in park, got out, and readied myself for the blast of affection I was about to receive. (I do, after all, spend my entire life caring for their every whim and need. I know that my leaving for four days must have been excruciatingly painful for them. My welcome was sure to be a tearful and joyful reunion!) Finally, after I honked the horn AGAIN, the husband and kids sauntered out the house onto the porch (looking a little irritated at having to leave the air conditioner to welcome me). They all said, "Hey" in a rather obligatory manner and then The Boy yelled across the driveway, "Mom....why did your carriage ride last SO long?" (Okay - I remember telling him that I was going to Charleston and that I was going on a carriage ride. Apparently, The Boy thought I had been on a carriage ride the whole time. What the hell did he think I was doing...reenacting the friggin' Lewis and Clark Expedition?) So, I'm still standing there by the van and it becomes evident to me that the only effort any of them was going to make to welcome me home was to step out of the front door. (What, no banners? No balloons? Flowers?) They certainly were not about to go all out and come down the steps! So I ran across the driveway, up the steps, grabbed the little ones up, and asked, "Did you miss me?" My husband smiled and said nothing, but I could tell that he was silently contemplating whether or not now would be a good time to ask if he could go play golf. I silently told him back, Oh hell no! My Big Girl kissed my cheek. The Princess said nothing. The Boy said, "Not bad and not much, but a little bit." I'll take it.

I decided to show my appreciation for all my husband, my parents, and friends had done with the kids to make my trip possible, so I made a big dinner for all of them: fried chicken (it was going to be grilled but a severe thunderstorm rolled in right as I found the charcoal), pasta salad, big green salad, the works. Needless to say, any effort like that takes a lot of prep and cookware to pull off. I was exhausted from the trip, worn out from prep work and cooking, and all my husband could say when he came into the kitchen right before I put the meal on the table was, "This kitchen didn't look THIS bad the whole time you were gone." Sigh.

Did I mention that there was also a raging forest fire a few miles from my house when I came home, too? Lightning struck a tree in the national forest nearby moments before I drove up. Coincidence?

Okay, so let's sum it up...no one really cared much that I had returned (did they even give a damn that I left?), they only missed me a "little bit", I was told that I did more damage in the kitchen in one meal than had been done in there in almost a week, and we had a monster storm roll in which, conveniently, put out a forest fire a few miles from my house. Welcome home, me.