Who's on first?

Last night as Paul was looking through 7-year-old Ethan's school papers:

Paul: Ethan? Where is the classroom contract you are supposed to get signed for your teacher?

Ethan: Oh yeah... Mom needs to sign it too.

Paul: Okay - where is it?

Ethan: Where is what?

Paul: The contract we are supposed to sign.

Ethan: I don't know.

Me: You took it from me, remember? After we got out of the car?

Ethan: Oh...

Paul: Will you go get it please?

Ethan: Get what?

Paul: The contract.

Ethan: What contract?

Paul: The contract we are talking about.

pause

Ethan: What are we talking about again?

Dreams

Zayd, Ethan, Paul, Mollie and I were taking a stroll around our neighborhood when the topic of dreams...
well... nightmares came up.

Zayd: I had three nightmares last night.

Me: Three! Holy cow! What happened?

Ethan: I have nightmares too!

Me: Yes Ethan, I'm sure you do. Zayd is talking now though. K?

Zayd: So in the first dream, I was in Mrs. Foley's classroom (his 4th grade teacher) and she closed the door and said, "If you are in here now - you are in this grade for the rest of the year." And I was like "Nooooo!"

Me: Oh my. That does sound scary.

Zayd: (snorts) It was.

Me: Then what?

Zayd: Well... my second dream was that we had to bring these decorated cubes to class and talk about them and I had no idea what the teacher was talking about but everyone else had their cubes all decorated.

Me: Ah....

Zayd: Why did I have those dreams?

Me: You're anxious about school starting.

Zayd: Anxious?

pause

Zayd: Yeah. I guess I am kinda nervous about school.

Me: Actually lots of people have dreams kinda like yours - Sometimes dreams tell us that we are nervous about something... Those are sort of nightmares, I guess. They are dreams about how we aren't prepared for class, or a presentation, or something. Some people have dreams that they walk into a room without all their clothes on...

Ethan: I am naked in all of my dreams!

pause

Zayd: What?

Ethan: Yeah! I'm naked in all my dreams. I am in school and I am walking around naked but no one cares or looks at me, well except my friend Matt, but he doesn't care either, he talks to me and stuff and has lunch with me and doesn't say anything and the other people don't say anything to me either but I am naked...

Me: You are totally naked?

Ethan: Well... yeah. I am pretty much naked. But no one cares or laughs or anything. Well... I guess in some of my dreams I have my underwear on... but sometimes I don't have my underwear on.. and I just walk around and stuff...(he shrugs his shoulders)

pause

Ethan: I guess I have a lot of nightmares, huh?

The 48 inch rule

Our family spent a four-day weekend in the Cities to do the amusement park thing. Zach and I don't do rides. But the two middle children LOVE them. And this was the first year that Ethan, our 7-year-old was tall enough to ride the "big boy" rides.

However, just because he is tall enough doesn't mean I think he is old enough. 

This story is really about my epiphany...

Roller coasters scare me. I don't like the feeling of dropping a hundred or so feet at a sharp angle. I don't even like falling off the high dive. I'm not afraid of heights... I just don't like the falling feeling. My biggest fear in life is that someday I'll have to jump out of an airplane as ransom to get my children back. I'll do it, but I won't want to.

Zach likes roller coasters even less than I. He has told us that if he had to ride a roller coaster to save our lives...

He wouldn't do it. He'd rather see us dead.

Fortunately, this means I have someone to hang out with when we go to Valley Fair. 

Ethan was determined to ride the Wild Thing - a 207 foot drop at a 60 degree angle roller coaster that makes me ill just looking at it. I told Paul I didn't think he should go on it. It might be a bit too scary. Paul seemingly agreed...

SEEMINGLY.

Until, that is... I was sitting on a bench at the other end of the park waiting for the water park to open... when I got a text message from Paul saying that "they" were at the Wild Thing.

Me: "Ethan?!" I texted back.

No response.

I turned to Zach.

Me: If your father takes Ethan on that roller coaster - I am going to just lose it.

Zach: Why?

Me: Because - it is dangerous! Ethan isn't THAT big.

Zach: He's 48 inches... he's big enough.

Me: But he's too young!

Zach: But if he wants to...

If he wants to? If he WANTS to? What does that mean? He doesn't want yet... does he? I decide - right? I mean, just because he is 48 inches tall, he gets to make decisions about his life? Who made up that rule!?

I haul Zach across the park to where the Wild Thing lives.

And, by God... I found my boys... including my 7-year-old fresh off the ride. Ethan was red-faced and smiling.

My baby rode a huge roller coaster...

.... and loved it.

In fact, by weekend's end... he had ridden every ride that absolutely scares the hell out of me. 

At Nickelodean Universe he road the "Rock Bottom Plunge- Which is a 97 degree angle 67 foot plunge. O.M.G. - who is this child?

And who let him grow up?

And what's going on? And I'm going to be 43 in October...and my eldest is in 10th grade and in three years when Paul and I celebrate our 20-year wedding anniversary he'll be graduating and my second one will be in high school and the third will be just a year away...

And what the hell!

Even though I could see my boys growing taller and getting older... it still was okay - because I had Ethan. Ethan was my baby and he plays that role quite well. But all of a sudden, he didn't want to be the baby anymore. In fact when I hugged him after his ride on the "Wild Thing" he said...

Ethan: Why are you hugging me so much?

Me: Because you are my baby and I was worried about you on that big roller coaster.

He pulled away

Ethan: I am not a baby anymore, mom. I am a big boy now.

I stood there and stared at him as he walked over to his older brothers to relive the experience.  

Who decided that 48 inches makes a baby not a baby anymore. And how come he knew about that rule...

and how come no one told me? 

Hormonal blurr

I'm an equal opportunity humorist...
I am more than willing to laugh at myself:

I was in need of some tampons of a particular size. This was an emergency, so I left the house abruptly and went to my nearby Target store to pick up what I needed.

The aisle was so... so...

so overwhelming. I don't know... there were SO many choices. I don't ever remember the sanitary accoutrements aisle being so utterly confusing.

SO many sizes, brands, and colors to choose from. Good God! What happened! All I was looking for was MY brand; MY size; MY color. It seemed as though all sanitary appliance companies had chosen to change their packaging all at once.

I finally found what I needed... and just as I was about to pick it up, I noticed the Target brand right next to it... at a considerably lower price. Apparently, my hormones had the best of me because normally I don't ever take price into consideration when purchasing anything... But for some reason - I felt frugal - frugal with the essence of my womanliness.

So I picked up the Target box - same color, different price - and headed home... right for the bathroom.

And when I got there I opened up the box...

Me: What the hell?

It was the wrong sized stuff.

HOW DARE TARGET mess with MY colored tampons! Purple boxes mean purple-sized tampons... not blue-sized tampons! Why would Target do that! Why would it give me blue-sized tampons in the form of purple tampons??

I threw the box in my bathroom closet and stomped down the stairs...

Paul: Where are you going now?

Me: To the store to buy tampons.

Paul: You just went to the store to buy tampons...

Me: I bought the wrong size.

He looks at me and holds back a laugh.

I look at him and hold off biting his head off...

I have now decided to boycott Target tampons... so I head to CVS. CVS would not try to mix with a woman's hormonal blurriness by confusing her into buying the wrong sized tampons.

I arrived at CVS and decide that this time, I will purchase my brand.

Me: Shit.

CVS doesn't carry my brand.

How the hell does that happen! My brand is like the mother ship of sanitary brands. The queen mother of tampon brands...

I stare at the aisle full of other brands... different colored packaging, different names, different sizes...

I feel dizzy...

I pick up a box... look at it carefully to make sure I have the best "not my brand" tampon and get back home...

... and back up to the bathroom...

... and open the box...

Me: Holy shit. No way.

It's the wrong size again. It's the same wrong size I bought at Target.

This is not cool. This is about as uncool as it gets.

After a few minutes of staring at the second wrong-sized box of tampons... my brain walks out of its haze to a brilliant idea.

I tend to squirrel away tampons all over the house... kitchen drawers, closets, coat pockets, purses, cars, etc. Although I can't tell you why...

So I yell at the top of my lungs...

Me: BOYS!!!! EVAN!!! ZAYD!!! ETHAN!!!!

A minute later, they all show up in my bedroom.

Me: I'll give you 50 cents for every tampon you find in the house - as long as they are purple.

Ethan: What's a tampon?

Zayd: I'll show you...

Everyone flies out of the room...

And about five minutes later... I have a dozen... purple, correct brand, correct size tampons.

pause

Boys motivated by money is a good thing.

Mollie's meal

The other night as dinner was winding down, Evan -- who always finishes first -- decided to fetch Mollie (our 6 month old mini Goldendoodle) from the backyard.

Thirty seconds after Evan went outside... we hear him scream. We all look up and see him running -- more like flying -- towards the house.

Evan bolts in and slams the sliding door behind him.

Evan: Oh my God! (heavy breathing) Mollie (more heavy breathing) has a squirrel head in her mouth! (more heavy breathing for dramatic effect).

Paul: Evan! (he yells). Don't yell!

Evan: (moderate to heavy breathing) But I'm not kidding! It is really a squirrel head! I saw it!

Me: Okay Evan. That's enough. We are all eating. Let's talk about this after dinner.

The family tends to take what Evan says with grain of salt. It's not that he lies... he just tends to misinterpret situations...

At which point Mollie appears at the sliding glass door with something in her mouth -- like a golfball...

...or perhaps a small rodent's head.

With the exception of Paul - the boys and I get up from the dinner table to get a closer look at Mollie's mouth. We huddle around the sliding door and crouch down to get a better look -- through the safety of the sliding glass door, of course.

Zach: Oh my God! It IS a squirrel head!

Zayd: (starts laughing) Oh my God!!! (more laughter)

I get on all fours and lower my head to the floor to look for myself.

pause

Me: Oh. My. God. Paul! There is a squirrel head in her mouth!

Paul continues eating as if I said, "please pass the butter."  I am panicking - First of all - this is CLEARLY a squirrel head. It looks like a squirrel -- hair and all -- that just happens to be taking a nap in Mollie's mouth...

...except its body is missing.

The boys begin the obligatory "Ughs," "Oooos," and "Groooosssss"...

Paul: Boys. Sit down and finish your dinner. (he says sternly)

The boys and I obey.

We are silent for a moment (none of us eating because, frankly, it is hard to eat after you have seen a squirrel's head in your dog's mouth) - as we each turn to steal a glance of Mollie who is still sitting on the other side of the sliding glass door looking at us like, "What?"

Me: Paul? Isn't it kinda bad for her to eat a squirrel? I mean, couldn't she get sick?

Paul: I don't know. (He doesn't look up and keeps eating)

Me: Don't you think we should get it from her?

Paul: Maybe. (He doesn't look up and continues eating).

In hindsight, I think Paul's reaction was a protective mechanism. If he had acknowledged that it might be dangerous for our puppy to have a squirrel head in her mouth... that would have lead to the inevitable:
Paul would have been the designated squirrel head retriever.

We eat silently for a few more moments. Then, I make an announcement:

Me: I'll give ten bucks to the first person who gets the squirrel head out of Mollie's mouth!

Everyone (with the exception of Paul) whips their head around to look at me with a mixture of excitement, disbelief and pure greed...

Zach: (still sitting) I'll do it!

Zayd: (stands up) I'll do it!

Evan: (already moving towards the door) I'LL do it! I found her first!

Ethan: I can do it too!

Me: Well then... go out there and do it!

Zach: Should we use a paper towel?

Me: I think it would be best if you used a plastic bag to protect your hand.

The boys trip over each other to get out the door onto the patio. They surround Mollie.

Evan makes the first attempt but can't seem to get Mollie to hold still. Extracting a squirrel head from a puppy's mouth is delicate work. After a few tries, Zach goes in to show the other boys how it's done.

After 30 seconds he turns away holding his stomach saying:

Zach: Ughhhh... I can't do it. That is so gross. I feel sick...

Zayd takes his turn while Evan and Ethan hold Mollie...

After a few moments I hear cheers mixed with more ughs, oooooooos and grooossssess.

Zayd emerges from the chaos, triumphantly holding the plastic bag up high -- and laughing so hard he is crying...

Zayd: I DID IT!!! I HAVE THE SQUIRREL HEAD!!!

Everyone is laughing because Zayd has one of those contagious laughs. He laughs from his heart... and his belly... He can barely breathe he is laughing so hard.

Me: Oh my gosh Zayd! You are AWESOME! Look at you! Totally courageous. You're like the crocodile hunter or something...

Zach: I cannot believe he could do it. That was so gross. I couldn't have done it.

Zayd: (still laughing).

Me: Okay - so now... we need to find the rest of the squirrel's body.


Zayd: Why do we have to find that?


Me: Because we don't want Mollie coming back later with other part of the squirrel in her mouth... and then throwing that up...

pause

Me: Zayd? Would you look for it please?

pause

Zayd: That'll cost you another 10.

Seven Days; One Pair

Zayd and Evan returned home after a week at the YMCA's Adventure Camp at Lake Comorant, MN -- their first week away from home.

I had two fears:
1. Getting called by camp officials to pick them up and bring them home after one night.
2. Looking inside their duffle bags when they returned.

Tonight I faced my second fear.

I hauled their duffles to the basement laundry room and had decided I would throw everything into the laundry without looking or smelling anything.

All was going well until I got to a zippered side pocket on Zayd's duffle.

There I found seven pairs of underwear...

....each one them clean.

Oh. My. God.

One by one I pulled them out of the pocket and placed them on the ironing board. They were neatly folded - looking just as they had when I first packed them in...

After staring at the gleaming stack of underwear for a minute in disbelief,  I grabbed one and gave it a quick sniff...

...Hoping to God the smell would take me out and I'd come to a few minutes later comforted by the fact that I would have seven gross pairs of underwear to wash.

This of course did not happen.

The stack smelled like Downy -- Original Scent.

I threw them in the washing machine, poured twice the amount of laundry detergent necessary, set the temp on hot wash, shut the lid... and did the math:

Hmmmm... We left the house a week ago Saturday and spent the night at my in-laws lake cabin. He had enough underwear to change into a fresh pair on Sunday, and each day after that until today - seven pairs in the suitcase... 

Seven pairs still in the suitcase... all clean.

I took a deep breath and walked up the basement stairs to find him on the computer in the kitchen.

Me: Zayd. (I say in a monotone voice)

Zayd: What. (He replies while continuing to work on the computer)

Me: May I ask you if you wore the same underwear all week.

Zayd: Sure.

pause

Me: Did you.

Zayd: Yes.

pause

Me: You wore the same pair of underwear since we left the house last Saturday. (I remain calm).

Zayd: Yes. (He still does not make eye contact).

Me: You did not change your underwear once.

Zayd: No.

Me: May I ask why?

Zayd: Sure.

This is why some parents eat their young.

Me: Why did you not change your underwear, Zayd.

Zayd: (He finally looks at me - expressionless). I was too lazy.

pause

I take a deep breath.

Me: You told me they made all campers take a shower everyday.

Zayd: Yes.

Me: Did you?

Zayd: Yes.

pause

Me: And you put the same pair of underwear back on.

Zayd: Yes.

I have nothing more to say to this child.

I walk up another set of stairs to our bedroom where I find Paul, folding clean laundry.

Me: You are never going to believe what I found in Zayd's duffle bag.

pause

Paul looks up at me slowly... and braces himself.

Paul: Uhm... what.

Me: Seven pair of clean underwear.

Paul stares at me for about 10 seconds and his eyes narrow. He too is doing the math and probably trying to absorb the magnitude of this information.

Paul: Gross.

pause

Me: Really gross.

pause

Paul: So he hasn't changed his underwear since we left the house last week.

Me: That is correct.


pause

Paul: Gross.

******
Zayd has since been forced to soak in the bathtub filled liberally with Axe.

But...

I don't know where he put that 7-day-old pair of underwear.

And I'm not coming out of my bedroom until someone else finds it...

Charades

Thinking is bad when you play charades with my children. If you think, you won't know what's going on...

I find it best to let my mind go totally blank.

Then, at least, I have a fighting chance to correctly guess what they are acting out.

Actually, guessing what Ethan is acting out is pointless. Ethan acts out things that don't happen... Well... with the exception of things that happen in his imagination...

Oh, and things that could be part of a Scooby-Doo episode.

Zayd? Oh my God, Zayd. Zayd's act is 10 scenes long... So you may correctly guess at least 30 plus different actions before he gets to the one he is showcasing for charades.

Tonight - Ethan went first. He turned his back to us, squatted, and did a little butt wiggle.

This should be interesting.

Then he got down on all fours, leaped around the room with a wild look on his face... and then stopped, looked at us and said...

Ethan: Well?

Me: Well what?

Ethan: Well? What is it?

Evan: Ethan. It was nothing. You didn't do anything.

Ethan: Yes I did!

Evan: Then what was it?

Ethan: I can't tell you! Then you can't guess!

Me: You are going to have to do it again, because we didn't follow.

We all watched for another five minutes.

Me: Ethan. I have no clue what you are doing.

Ethan: Oh my gosh! I can't believe you can't guess it!

Me: I must be slow tonight. What were you doing?

Ethan: I was peeing in the toilet and then I looked behind the toilet and saw a zombie monster and then I ran screaming out of the bathroom!

Of course he was.

Me: Okay. Zayd, you are next.

Zayd began his show. After about a minute, Zach asks:

Zach: So... uhm... Zayd? Are we watching the prelude to what we need to guess, or are we watching the pre-prelude to it?

Zayd honestly had no clue what Zach was talking about. So, he kept on acting...

Here's a run down of Zayd's actions - each of which we guessed, and each which were not the actions to be guessed...

1. He is lying on the ground with his eyes closed.
2. He sits up with his eyes opened and a smile on his face.
3. He stretches his arms.
4. He gets up and walks to an unknown space where he leans towards something at eye level and looks closely.
5. He appears to be looking in a mirror.
6. He picks ups something, picks up another thing, does something with his hands... then brushes his teeth. (Yup - clearly brushing teeth - he spits and rinses too).
7. He combs his hair
8. He gets dressed - pants, shirt, socks, shoes...
9. He stops again and looks at something.
10. He opens a door and closes it.
11. He walks some more.
12. He opens another door and pulls something out.
13. He does a move that looks like he is starting a lawnmower.
14. He begins pushing the object which he started like a lawnmower...
15. He walks around pushing for a bit.
16. He stops and looks at us like we are crazy.

Zayd: Oh my God! Don't you know what I am doing yet?!

Yet? Seriously?

Evan: You're mowing the lawn.

Zayd: Yes!

Zach: You know Zayd, you don't need to do all that stuff beforehand. You could have just started with starting the lawnmower... we would have guessed it.

I flash Zach a disapproving look.

Zach: What?

Me: No Zayd. You are doing it just right. Don't listen to Zach. You do a great job at charades.

Why rush him? Pretty soon, he may not want to play charades with his mom.

I've got plenty of time to watch...

Najla vs. The Wall Anchor

You'd think when a kid like me grows up to be a 42-year-old woman, wife, and mother to four boys of her own...

Her fear of her own dad "getting mad" would subside.

Nah. It doesn't.

This little ditty is part of a much bigger story that I have been working to cut into segments for my blog for months. The big story is that my mother convinced me to tackle a huge home improvement project for her while my father was out of the country.

Home improvement projects, in and of themselves, are rarely pretty. Less so when you are trying to do it for your mother. Even less so when you are doing it for your mother while your father is out of the country because your father would FLIP OUT if he knew ANY home improvement project was occurring.

I have officially become an accomplice in a crime that will be etched into the walls of my parents condo for eternity.

So - THIS part of the story comes at the end of the home improvement project. The last little tiny finishing touch which I couldn't get finished before dad came home. I did not get the towel rack hung in the upstairs bathroom.

Everything else was finished (including the other rooms involved in this project which as a whole I lovingly refer to as "Project Hell").

In the upstairs bathroom, I had carefully chosen and hung a few pictures that my mother loved, yet complimented the decor. I placed a couple decorative pounded copper vases with leafy sprigs in a way that would draw the bathroom user in... and make them want to kick up their feet, and stay a while.

But the towel rack. I had not gotten the towel rack hung up yet. So I had to go back to my parents the day after my dad came home from his 3-week adventure overseas adventure.

When I got there, my dad was dressed as he usually does when he is lounging around the house - in his seersucker bathrobe, my mother's purple slippers with strange enormous flowers on the sides, and a towel wrapped around his head.

He gave me a kiss on both cheeks when I came in.

Me: So! How do you like the changes? (I try to act super positive and cheerful)

He shakes his head...

Papa: You know... you're mom... she shouldn't have asked you to do all this for her.

Me: No! I didn't mind. I finally have time, and she's done of a lot stuff to help me out - so it's not problem. It really wasn't that hard.

Okay - that has GOT to be the biggest lie I have ever told. For God's sake - I've named it Project Hell.

Papa: Well. It looks good. You did a nice job.

Me: Thanks!

He sees that I have a bucket of tools with me.

Papa: What are you doing now?

Me: Oh I just need to hang this towel rack in the bathroom upstairs - then I'm all done.

He peers into the bucket.

Papa: Is that a drill?

Me: Yeah?

pause

Papa: Do you know how to use that?


Now I'm irritated. If I could give him a play-by-play of the 24-hour a day, 7-day Project Hell, he would step back in awe of me and say "Drill away my fantastic, skillful, eldest daughter!"

Me: Yes dad. I know how to use it.

His eyes narrow as he looks at me skeptically. He lowers his voice and leans towards me as if we are part of some drill mafia or something.

Papa: What do you need that for?

I mimic his stance, look, and voice....

Me: I need to drill the screws in the wall to hang up the towel rack.

Actually - let me now impress you with my towel rack drilling expertise. I learned over the course of Project Hell that there are such things called "wall anchors" - which one needs to use if the screw one is putting into the wall is not going into a stud. Up to this point in the project, I needed to drill a narrow hole into the wall so I could gently tap the wall anchor into the drywall. Then I would use the drill to securely screw the screw into the anchor.

Papa: Do you need any help?

Me: No. I got it. Don't worry.

I walked into the bathroom and began pulling my tools out of the bucket and placing them onto the bathroom counter.

My dad was right next to me. Looking at everything.

Papa: Who does this belong to?

It belongs to the hardware store I just robbed.

Me: It's Paul's.

pause

Papa: And he knows you have it?

omg

Me: Yes dad. He knows I have it.

He nods his head, still looking at the tools.

Me: Dad? Why don't you just let me surprise you, okay? Let me do this. I'm going to close the door, and when I am all done, I want you to come in and see the project all complete!

Please... please go away.

Papa: Okay. I'll go and watch TV. I'll be right next door if you need me. You're sure you don't need my help?

Me: Yup! I'm sure. But thanks. And I will come and get you if I need help.

He leaves me in peace to work.

So I pull out the screws and wall anchors for this towel rack... but man o' man... the anchors are HUGE. I look 'em up and down and I can't figure out why they are so fat. I convince myself that they must be big because they need to hold the weight of bath towels...

I drill a small hole in the wall so I can tap in the anchor. I try, but the hole is WAY too small.

I get a bigger bit and drill a bigger hole.

Then I get an even bigger bit and drill an even bigger hole.

I do it one more time - one bigger bit for one bigger hole. Surely my mad skill at towel-rack hanging will not be thwarted by this last project?

"Now!" I think to myself, "This has GOT to be big enough."

I place the anchor up to the hole and ever so gently tap...

And with that - the anchor goes right through the drywall along with my hammer head leaving a hole in the wall a bit larger than the size of a half-dollar.

"Oh shit." I whisper.

All that stands between my father and me is one layer of drywall.

My mind start racing and I begin to hyperventilate.

"Okay. Okay. It's okay Najla. Just think. Think," I whisper, looking frantically around the bathroom for something to cover the hole with.

I find a picture I was going to leave off the wall, and extra nail and I hang the picture over the hole. It looks like something is very wrong. The picture obviously has no reason being hung in that spot... but at this point, I am thinking of my children. They can't grow up without a mother.

Then I compose myself and walk out of the bathroom.

Papa sees me.

Papa: Are you done?

Me: Oh...uhm... no. Not yet. Don't go in yet, okay. I just need to make a few finishing touches!

I need to find my mom. I start hurrying around the condo half yelling/half whispering "Mom! Mom!"
I find her in the living room. She sees me wild-eyed and panicked so she starts to panic.

Nana: What! What!

Me: Shhhhhhhhsssshhhhhhhh....

Nana: (whispering) What?

Me: You have GOT to get Papa away from that room he is in. He cannot go into the bathroom.

Nana: Why? What happened? (she is really panicked now)

Me: I put a hole in the wall.

Nana: Oh God, Chino!

Me: Okay - seriously mom. You have got to protect me. If he finds that hole in the wall, he is going to go ballistic and the only reason it is there is because you wanted me to do this project. You have to keep him away! Please. PLEASE don't let him go into that room!

Nana: What am I going to do? How am I going to do that?

Me: Mom. I don't know. You take care of Papa, I'll take care of the wall, and everything will be okay.

Now, let me just say my dad isn't some sort of crazy family-abuser. But... when a mother and daughter conspire to do a major home-improvement project that he would never have allowed had he been in the country... and when his daughter walks into his bathroom with tools that he is surprised her husband allows her to take with her unsupervised... he's gonna get mad about a hole in the wall.

Nana: Okay. What are you going to do?

Me: I'm calling Paul. He'll know what to do.

So my mother goes off to distract my father and I go outside to call my husband on his cell.

Cell phones, in my estimation, are for emergencies. When someone calls me on my cell, that suggests to me that they really need to talk to me right now. If they didn't need to talk to me, they'd call me at home and leave a message with one of my children which I will never get. My husband never answers his cell which drives me crazy, especially when I really need him... like when I am about to be hung out to dry by my father for putting a hole in the bathroom wall after I had told him I was completely capable of hanging the towel rack on my own.

I leave a message.

Me: "Paul. You need to call me as soon as possible. This is an emergency. Please call me now!"

I sit on the front steps of my parents condo for a few minutes. Then I walk back in toward the bathroom.

Nana: Your dad is in the bedroom now taking a nap.

Me: Oh! Thank you!

Nana: Did you talk to Paul?

Me: No, he hasn't called me back yet.

Nana: Okay - show me the hole.

We walk into the bathroom and I remove the picture.

Nana: Oh my Gaaad!

Me: MOM.

Nana: Do you think Paul can fix it?

Me: I know he'll know what to do.

My cell rings.

Me: That's Paul. (pause) Hello?

Paul: (very calmly) What's up?

Me: Oh my God Paul. You have to come over to my parents house right away and help me. My dad is going to go through the roof! I put a huge hole in the bathroom wall trying to hang up the towel rack.

There is silence for a split second and then he bursts out laughing.

Paul: How did you do that!

Me: Paul! (my voice has fear, anger and a hint of panic mixed in) Seriously! You need to come and help me!

Paul: Well, I'm not at home... I'm out at Menards right now and I need to run a few more errands.

Is he kidding me? Errands? My life is in danger and he has errands to run? 

Me: Paul - seriously. Please! I don't know how long I can keep my dad out of the bathroom!

Paul: It'll be fine. I'll come over as soon as I can.

It seemed like an hour, but he came over after about 20 minutes. I sat in the bathroom with the door locked so my dad couldn't get in... and periodically left to check the front door. I also did NOT want my dad to see Paul come in -- THAT would create great suspicion.

Paul: Show me what you did.

I grab the picture and lift it.

Paul starts laughing again.

Paul: You made it sound huge!

Me: Hello!? It IS huge!

He starts going to work to make it right...

Paul: How did you keep your dad from seeing it?

Me: My mom helped distract him and I have been locked up in here.

Paul: Oh my gosh Najla.

He keeps chuckling to himself.

Me: I just don't understand what I did wrong! Look at these anchors Paul. They are huge! I didn't want to drill too big of a hole and I really super gently tapped the anchor in and it just went right through the wall.

Paul picks up the wall anchor and looks at it.

Paul: Najla, these are screw in anchors - the other ones you have been using just needed to be tapped in.

pause

Me: Oh.

Screw in anchors. What the! Shouldn't there be something on the packaging that says, "Hey! Girlfriend! These anchors aren't like the other 10,000 you have used so far to hang up towel racks, hooks, and shelves. These are different just because we want to make life difficult for you. They are called screw in wall anchors."

Paul: This is going to be a cinch. The towel rack holder is going to cover the hole perfectly.

Me: But will it be strong enough?

Paul: Yup. It'll be fine.

Paul finished putting it up for me and quietly left the condo.

I cleaned up the bathroom, and then brought my mom and dad in to see it. My mom kept looking at me wondering what happened to the hole.

Papa: Well... you did a good job Chino! I didn't think you knew how to do it - but it looks great!

I just stood there and smiled.

Comforting mom

I didn't have the best week of my life. And it finally fell on me like a ton of bricks this morning.

With my cup of coffee in hand, I curled up on the sunroom chair and weeped with Paul trying his darndest to make me feel better. The tears running down my face and the sobs choking up my throat reminded me of when I was a kid.

I felt like a kid. I was hurt.

I don't think it is a bad thing to cry in front of your children. God knows they cry in front of me all the time.

So when my 7- and 10-year-old found me in tears... well... they did what I do when they cry.

They tried to comfort me.

Zayd, 10, was a little hesitant. He sat on a nearby couch and looked at me. But Ethan, 7,  jumped right up on the armrest of my chair and started patting my back.

Ethan: Mom... What's wrong? Why are you crying?

pause

What do I say? It's hard to explain. What do I say to my 7-year-old?

Me: Well... I guess... there are some people who have hurt my feelings.

Ethan: Oh.

pause

Ethan: Well... remember what you and dad told us at our last family meeting? You said that if you are nice to others then they will be nice to you? Maybe you need to do that.

We had a little family "talk" a couple of weeks ago because we had four boys running amuck. Telling each other to "shut up" and "you're stupid," sassing Paul and I, and generally being brats. They needed a little realtiy check. Apparenty, our "talk" actually left an impression on Ethan.

Me: Yes. Well.. I've been trying. At least I thought I was trying. I don't know. But it doesn't seem to help much. So it makes me sad.

pause

He sits for a minute.

Ethan: Okay. Well, maybe you need to tell them they are hurting your feelings.

Me: Yeah. I guess it's not that easy hon.

He leans over and touches one side of my face.

Ethan: Hmmm... I think you need to try to forget about them. Just wipe them from your mind.


He sounds like his dad.

Me: Okay. I'll try.

I decide that maybe I need to just go back to bed. I was up early and it wasn't helping my emotions...
So I left Paul and the boys and crawled into bed.

About 20 minutes later, Paul comes in to sit by me and talk.

...and a few moments later... Zayd walks in, throws something on the bed next to me, and walks out.

It's a lovely picture he has made in his summer art class.

Paul: I think that is to make you feel better.

Me: I guessed as much.

Then Ethan walks in, climbs into bed next to me and strokes my hair.

Ethan: Mom... you are still crying? You need to stop crying.

Me: I know. I will. I'm just tired.

Ethan: Remember what I told you? You need to stop thinking about it. You just need to relax today!

pause

Zayd walks in again and throws another drawing on the bed and stands there.

Me: Okay. I will.

Ethan: How about you go and find something to relax you? Why don't you go and get your nails done!

We all stop and look at him.

Zayd gives out one of his little snort laughs and Paul tries to muffle a chuckle.

I get a big smile on my face and look up at my sweet little boy who looking at me as serious as can be.

I get up in bed and give him a big hug, kiss on the cheek and I hold his head in my hands.

Me: You are absolutely right, Ethan and you are such a sweet little man!

He's only seven and he already knows that there's nothing like a good manicure to take care of a bad week. God he's going to make a great partner to someone someday.

Calls from the homefront

My children and I have discussed on numerous occasions that they should not call me while I am at work unless it is urgent.

My definition would include:

1. Broken bones

2. At least a pop can full of blood loss

3. Any injury involving a sharp object that is still embedded in the body - particularly the eye

4. The removal of an appendage 

5. Fire 

And frankly in all these cases, they either should be on their way to the hospital before they call me, or have already called 911.

Their definition of urgency:

1. A splinter

2. A scratch that would take a nuclear microscope to see

3. Inviting a friend over for a sleepover.

4. Asking what we are having for dinner

5. Asking if tonight when I get home if I will drive them to the local grocery store to rent a video game.

Zayd needs to talk to me at work today. The sitter - who DID have an important question to ask me - called - and then gave the phone to Zayd.

Zayd: Hello! Hello! (he says in a sing-songy joyful voice).

Me: Yesss?

Zayd: Uh... Hi. (pause). Mom?

How is it that he is questioning whether it is me or not on the phone, since clearly the original contact came from his end, not mine.

Me: Yes Zayd.

Zayd: So... I have a little tiny question to ask you...

pause

Zayd: Okay?

Me: Yes Zayd. 

Zayd: Uhm.. okay. So... (pause) Wow! This phone is really loud! 

pause

I take a deep breath to oxygenate my patience.

Zayd: Uhm... (his voice goes down to a whisper)... uhm... are you still there mom?

Me: I'm here Zayd. Go ahead. 

Zayd: Oh! Good! Okay then... so... uhm... I wanted to know if you talked to dad about me getting an email account?

Ah yes... let's add email to our list of urgent discussions....

Me: No honey - I haven't talked to dad yet.

Zayd: Oh. 

pause

Sensing extreme disappointment I say:

Me: But thank you for reminding me. Why don't you remind me again tonight and we'll sit down and talk it over.

Zayd: Okay! Uhm... do you think you can put it on your calendar?

Me: What?

Zayd: Will you put it on your calendar so it's scheduled?

pause

Me: You want me to put the email discussion on my calendar?

Zayd: Yes.

I consider this for a moment.

My 10-year-old son is scheduling an appointment with me to discuss the urgent matter of obtaining an email account. On the one hand - very professional. And on the same hand - he knows me too well. If it isn't on my calendar it does not exist. Part of this is my ADD (although I have never been formally diagnosed - I am certain that I would respond to medication)... part of it is the fact that I am juggling too many tasks at once.

And then... 

I am overwhelmed by guilt. 

Because my son knows he needs to schedule an appointment with me in order for me to remember to talk to his dad about the urgent matter of obtaining an email account.

Me: Zayd - yes. That is a great idea. I will put it on my calendar to remind myself to talk to dad.

Zayd: Oh! Thanks mom!

pause

Zayd: Oh and mom? I love you mom.

With all my faults? Thank goodness...

Me: I love you too.