Flossing Those Hard to Reach Places

I'm going to let you in on a little parenting secret.  If you already have children past the baby stage, you've probably experienced this.  If not, well, consider yourself warned.

OK.  Imagine your future child at any point in childhood.  Toddler, grade school, high school, whatever.  Now, think of a few stupid things that kid might do.  Imagine the ways you will prevent those stupid things from happening and how your child will be raised properly in order to avoid such silly catastrophes.

Are you ready for this?  Whatever you just imagined will never happen.  So go ahead and think of some more really dumb things your future kid might do.  

Yeah, those things will never happen either.  The parenting secret you never hear about is this:  Your children will come up with bizarre antics you cannot possibly predict or prepare for.  All of the things you worry about will never happen.  Instead, completely different things you  never even dreamed of worrying about will sneak up on you and force you to question the sanity and intelligence of your offspring.   

Case in point:  One afternoon a few weeks ago as I enjoyed a quiet afternoon at home, the telephone rang.  Thanks to Caller ID, I knew it was our family dentist.  I also knew my mother-in-law, whom we call Nonni, had some dental work scheduled for that day and, perhaps, was too drugged to drive herself home.  As always, I was completely unprepared for the true nature of the phone call.  A transcript of our conversation follows:

Dr. Dentist:  Mrs. Psycho?  It's Dr. Dentist.  How are you?

Me:  I'm good, how are you?

Dr. Dentist:  Fine, fine!  You know, your mother-in-law was here today and said some things about Secondo that I want to talk to you about.

Me:  (caught off guard) Um...Secondo?  

Dr. Dentist:  Uh, yeah, Secondo.  It's probably fine, but Nonni said he told her he ate some dental floss.

Me:  (there's no way I actually heard what I thought I heard)  What?

Dr. Dentist:  Yeah, I guess Secondo had a full container of floss that he found on the counter and, well, decided to chew on it because it was minty and then he, um, ate it.

Me:  He ate it?  Actually swallowed it?  (My kid ate dental floss and I had no idea.  Parent of the Year?)

Dr. Dentist:  I don't know what it will do to him.  If he swallowed it all in one big blob, it might stay that way and just, you know, pass.

Me:  Ooookaaaayyyy...  

Dr. Dentist:  But if it came unraveled in his stomach or, you know, on the way down, it might not come out all at once.

Me:  (unpleasant mental image)

Dr. Dentist:  You might want to talk to Secondo to make sure if, you know, some of the floss comes out he doesn't, um, pull on it.

Me: (flashback of what once happened when our very grumpy, tailless calico cat ate a bunch of yarn)

Dr. Dentist:  (clearly extremely embarrassed now)  Yeah, so, I guess if that happens and only, um, part of the floss comes out, you should call the doctor and see, um, if there's something they can do.  But you know, I just want to make sure Secondo doesn't tug on the floss because that might, um, damage something.

Me:  Yeah, that might be pretty bad.  (gagging)

Dr. Dentist:  (nervous laugh)  I never thought I'd have to make a phone call like this.

Me:  I never thought I'd get a phone call like this!  

After a few more awkward laughs (there really is no smooth way to end a phone call about dental floss emerging from your child's butt), we both hung up.  I was home alone and actually blushing from that ridiculous conversation.  Then, the Mom Mind kicked into overdrive.

See, when you become a Mom a part of your brain becomes irrational, paranoid, and extremely loud.  It doesn't matter how rational, smart, and calm you are before you have kids.  There's no escaping the Mom Mind, which insists a child not immediately within your line of vision is being kidnapped.  The Mom Mind thinks a skinned knee could be fatal, a fever is spinal meningitis, a rash is an antibiotic-resistant staph infection, and a school bus more than five minutes late has crashed and killed everyone on board.


I usually attempt to ignore the Mom Mind and only listen to the rational part of my brain that quietly reminds me I'm not living in an episode of ER or Law and Order SVU.  I told myself to wait until Secondo came home from school so I could ask him about the dental floss before calling the pediatrician.


But wait.  What if, right at that very moment, Secondo happened to be using the bathroom at school and happened to notice something odd?  What if he had dental floss hanging out of his rear end and tugged on it a bit too hard?  

Shut up Mom Mind!  That's totally not even possible!


When Secondo got home from school, I asked him about the dental floss.  I said, "Dr. Dentist called because he was worried when Nonni told him you ate an entire roll of dental floss."  


Secondo looked at me like I was out of my mind.  He said, "I didn't EAT the dental floss!  I just sucked all the minty flavor off and then spit it in the garbage.  Who would eat dental floss?!  That's crazy."  


I am so glad I didn't call the pediatrician or the school nurse.

The Laxative Incident

During Terzo's late infant/early toddler months, he suffered from severe constipation.  He was still breastfed, but his diet seriously lacked variety.  He ate bread, cheese, and those dried apple snacks from the baby food aisle.  That's it.  No real fruit, no meat, no vegetables, not even a sip of juice here and there.  It's no wonder the kid could only move his bowels once a week and those events were marked by crying, vomiting, and wonderment.  Wonderment, because the resulting diaper changes had my husband and me standing around questioning the laws of physics.  Seriously, I'd add a drawing here just to illustrate how unbelievably brick-like Terzo's poops were but no one would believe it.

At Terzo's one year checkup, his pediatrician prescribed a laxative powder that I'd mix into water (or juice, if I could get him to drink that) and would help him move his bowels like a normal human being.  She cautioned me that the dosage may need adjusting once the laxative started to take full effect.  When we got home, I dutifully followed the doctor's instructions and started giving Terzo the laxative once a day.

Two days later, my husband took off for a business trip.  Dinner time rolled around, and I had so little desire to cook that I did the unthinkable.  I took three children out to dinner alone.  Prima had just turned seven, Secondo was two and a half, and, like I said, Terzo was one.  I chose a restaurant close to home, someplace with decent food and a kid-friendly attitude disguised by grown-up decor.  The few other weeknight diners were spread throughout the dining room.  We ate a quiet meal and, as the waitress took our dessert order I began to smugly congratulate myself on my outstanding parenting skills.  My mind wandered into a favorite fantasy, where other diners approached our table and complemented me on the fine manners and exceptional beauty of my children.  "Why dear, we didn't even realize there were children in the restaurant!" they'd gush.

Then, I looked and Terzo and my heart sank.

Red face.  Eyes squeezed shut.  Tense little body.  Grunting.  Oh, the dreaded poop face!  It was too late to do anything other than wait for him to finish and hope he didn't throw up.  Then, I remembered the laxatives.  Would they be working already?  I scooted over to take a quick peek down the back of Terzo's little jeans as he sat in the restaurant's high chair, and the sight which assaulted my eyes is something I will never forget as long as I live.

A stain, spreading nearly all the way up the back of his shirt.  As if that wasn't bad enough, poo began to ooze over the top of his diaper, right into his pants.  Horrified, I decided my only option was to throw the kids into the minivan, race home, and hose Terzo down in the yard.


Wait...it was winter.  Never mind.

I'd have to use the restaurant bathroom.  I grabbed the diaper bag and did a quick inventory.

 

Not good.  One pink sock, one diaper, three ancient Cheerios, two baby wipes, a tongue depressor, and Terzo's Yankees jacket.  The curse of the third child strikes again.  Who really bothers to leave the house prepared after that third baby comes along?

As I sat trying to figure out what to do with Prima and Secondo while I attempted to clean Terzo up, the waitress returned with dessert.  I had no choice but to rely on the ice cream to keep the two older kids at the table while I was in the bathroom, which (luckily) was very close to our seats.  I gingerly picked Terzo up, holding him at arms' length, and carried him into the bathroom.

That's when the real fun began.  Keeping my ears peeled for unusual noises from the dining room, I stripped Terzo to his birthday suit and attempted to clean him up with only two baby wipes.  Not happening.  I grabbed fistfuls of coarse paper towels from the bathroom's dispenser, wet them in the sink, and tried to clean Terzo as he checked out the exciting world of Restaurant Bathroom.  Because, no way was I going to make that kid lay down on a public restroom floor.  If you've never had to clean liquid feces off an extremely mobile toddler while preventing him from playing in a public toilet, you haven't truly lived.

Listening hard for sounds from the dining room,  I anxiously waited to hear an outraged voice exclaim, "Why are these poor young children here alone?!?!  Call the police and DCF immediately!!"  Or, the sounds of little feet running around the restaurant, shattering china, thrown cutlery, and the insane giggles of children on a destructive rampage.

But all was quiet.  Too quiet.  What if my kids weren't even in the restaurant any more?  What if they were, at that very moment, being lured into a shabby van filled with shadowy, creepy people?

Working frantically now, I wiped as much poo out of Terzo's pants as I could and put them back on his little body.  His shirt was beyond help, so I tossed it into the garbage with a huge pile of soiled paper towels and a diaper that was, quite possibly, the smelliest diaper in human history.  I zipped Terzo into his jacket and hoped it wasn't obvious he had no shirt on underneath it.  I sat back, surveyed my apparently clean child, and then thought, "Oh, crap."  Literally.

In my desperation to change Terzo while psychically monitoring my other children, I hadn't even noticed how unclean the bathroom had become.  We'd managed to smear poo on the floor, on the potty, and on the wall.  Oh, and on my jeans.  Thank goodness for well-stocked paper towel dispensers.  A few quick wipes, and the evidence of our diaper disaster had disappeared.  Well, other than the horrifying odor.

After thoroughly scrubbing both our hands, I held my breath and carried Terzo out of the restroom.  I didn't even want to know what Prima and Secondo had done to entertain themselves during that little poop party.  When I saw them still sitting quietly, eating ice cream and not surrounded by cops, social workers, reporters, and outraged restaurant patrons (not to mention creepy van owners), I felt indescribable relief.

The bill paid, I quietly informed the waitress that someone should change the garbage in the bathroom.  I really hope they also doused the entire room in undiluted bleach.  I took everyone home, gave Terzo a bath, took a shower, and washed our clothes twelve times in hot water.  I vowed never to leave the house without a well-stocked diaper bag again, never to take three children out to eat alone again (and yeah, those vows were broken pretty quickly), and to immediately cut back on that laxative dosage.

Five years later, I'm happy to report that Terzo's diet has somewhat improved.  He'll eat a few kinds of fruit, anyway, and hasn't had a need for laxatives for years.  His bowels are quite regular in that he moves them almost daily.  He also manages to clog the toilet almost daily.  Yes, he still defies the laws of physics.  How is it that the smallest person in our family, the person who ingests the least amount of food, produces unflushable poo?  Sometimes, my husband and I just stand and stare at the toilet in wonderment.  Should we call the Guinness World Record people?  A doctor?  An exorcist?

The Magic Trick

During her toddler and preschool years, Prima attended a wonderful daycare center.  She loved her friends, she loved her teachers, and she loved the special activities the center had to offer.

One special event in particular earned Prima's adoration above anything else.  Once a year, the daycare arranged a special magic show put on by a performer called The Amazing Andy.

 

The Amazing Andy stood before his pint-sized audience dressed in snazzy stripes and suspenders with a top hat over his long hair.  He conducted his magic show in a high, squeaky voice and didn't get discouraged when his tricks went terribly wrong.  The children howled when his magic wands fell apart or his magic rings refused to come unstuck.  They gleefully shouted his special magic words along with him:  "Pink Panther Pickles With Ketchup On Top!!"  

By the way, I spent a good part of the day today trying to remember The Amazing Andy's exact magic words.  I made the mistake of asking my husband if he could remember them and he said, "Yeah, it's 'Abracadabra I'm a Pedophile."  So you see, my husband is clearly to blame for all of the insanity in our family.

Being chosen as The Amazing Andy's assistant was the highlight of many a child's daycare experience, and Prima was no different.  When The Amazing Andy chose her out of a crowd of eager preschoolers to assist with a magic trick, her face glowed with something akin to religious fervor.  Her eyes sparkled and her little body trembled with such joy I honestly thought she might collapse in some kind of fit.  

I think it was the best moment of her life.

That night, Prima emerged from the playroom and announced to my husband and me, "I am going to do a magic trick just like The Amazing Andy.  I memorized his magic words."  

She brandished a magic wand and a rubber ducky with such confidence.  How could her trick fail?  Prima carefully hid the duck under a plastic bin.  "I'm going to make this rubber duckie...DISAPPEAR!"  She took a deep breath, waved her wand in dramatic circles over the bin, and spoke the magic words.  "Pink panther pickles with ketchup on top!"

Without hesitation, Prima lifted the bin to revel in the success of her magical abilities.  Incomprehensibly, the duckie still sat there.  Mocking her with its cheerful grin.

Never one to immediately accept defeat, Prima tried again.  And again.  The duckie refused to disappear, and Prima's faith in The Amazing Andy's magic words began to falter.

So, we did what any decent parents would do.  We helped our poor, sad, nonmagical child achieve her goal.  My husband said, "Maybe it would work better if you closed your eyes while you said the magic words."

"Yes," I added, "and say the words really slowly.  Three times."

Because she trusted her parents without question, Prima immediately put our advice to the test.  Once again, she hid the duckie.  Once again, she took a deep breath and began to wave her magic wand.  She spoke the magic words slowly and clearly, "Pink panther pickles with ketchup on top.  Pink panther pickles with ketchup on top.  Pink panther pickles with ketchup on top."  

Slowly, hopefully, she reached down to look under the bin.

NO DUCKIE!!!

Oh, the joy and rapture!!  The thrill, the elation the exultation!  Prima did real, actual magic!

Who knows where that rubber duckie ended up.  An alternate universe?  A strange bathtub on the other side of the world?  Mars?  Or, maybe someplace a bit closer to home.

Prima tried many times to recreate her one magical moment, but it seemed her supply of magic had run out.  For years, she honestly believed she'd made that rubber ducky disappear and we didn't have the heart to tell her otherwise.  Sometimes what's funny when you have a preschooler isn't so funny when you have an older child who still tells people about the time she accomplished real magic while you stand awkwardly by, smiling, and knowing someday that poor kid is going to be seriously pissed off at you.

Yes, we eventually told her the truth.  She yelled at us.  She might still be a little bitter.  OK,  a lot bitter.  But she also spent a few years thinking she'd done the impossible.  She believed she could make magic.

And you know what?  I believe she still can make magic.  

Poker Face

When you become a parent for the first time, there are certain supplies you know you'll need.  Crib, stroller, car seat, pacifier, Vodka.  Then, there are those supplies no one tells you to stock up on.  You have to learn as you go and hopefully not inflict too much damage on your child along the way.  I think this is why most people have more than one kid.  The second baby is a do-over, a chance to finally get it right after that first practice round.  Luckily for my almost dozens of readers, I'm here to share one essential parenting tool you won't be able to live without.  You can't register for it at Babies R Us or pick one up on eBay or Craig's List.  It takes practice and nerves of steel.

I'm talking about the poker face.  

I never had a good poker face until Prima reached the toddler years.  Until then, I'd managed with inferior strategies like making up a reason to turn my back on her so she couldn't see my face or just quickly leaving the room with my head buried in my hands.  As Prima got older, it became clear I needed to improve my game before she developed severe emotional scars.

The first incident happened when Prima was about two years old.  She walked up to me, lifted her shirt over her adorable toddler belly, and said, "Mommy, what's this?"

 Faced with my first parasite-feeding-off-my-child's-blood challenge, I panicked.

Apparently, to a small child a parent's look of shock translates to this:

Prima completely freaked out.  Removing a tick from a child's belly is hard enough when the child is calm.  Trying to perform such a delicate operation when the child is crying, thrashing around, and screaming, "Get it off me!  Get it off me!" is pretty much impossible.  No amount of reassurance or calming from me could counter the effects of that initial moment of shock and horror.  The tick eventually came off and I vowed to hide my emotions behind an impervious poker face in the future.

Unfortunately, I didn't do so well with that vow.  One morning, Prima played happily in her room while I got ready for the day in the bathroom down the hall.  I heard her little feet come tapping down the hardwood floors but, being busy with my mascara, didn't actually look down at her as she came to stand in the bathroom doorway.  She said, "Mommy, I think I need a tissue."  I turned to her and saw something like this:

Blood.  Lots of blood, smeared and splattered over my only child.  The sight of her gory face caught me off guard, and I did it again.  My poker face failed me, and the expression on my face instantly conveyed this message to Prima:

Once again, our house filled with drama.  Who would have thought a little nosebleed could inspire so much fear?  However, I'd finally learned my lesson.  My poker face would never fail me again.  No matter what emergency presented itself, I remained an immovable rock of stoicism and rationality.  Nothing could shake my poker face.

Until Secondo was born.  For the first three years of his life, he suffered from a serious deficiency of the self-preservation desire.  Sometimes my poker face could withstand the onslaught of his death wish, but all too often it failed me.  Luckily, Secondo seemed impervious to the effects of parental shock, fear, and horror.  Even the time he grabbed a garter snake which then wrapped itself around his leg and bit him, didn't phase him in the least.

 

Even though Mommy and Daddy stood there staring with looks of complete panic on our faces, he didn't get upset.  When I screamed and my husband dramatically ripped the snake off Secondo's leg and threw it across the yard (yes yes, poor snake, but sheesh people it had it's teeth in my child's leg!), Secondo didn't bat an eyelash.  When the blood started trickling down his leg from the puncture wounds inflicted by the garter snake's needle-like teeth, Secondo only shrugged.  

Apparently, Secondo did not interpret the Shocked Mommy face in the same way Prima did.  To him, a look of panic somehow translated to:

 

So, in order to avoid encouraging my second child to kill himself before his fourth birthday, I once again had to practice keeping my poker face on at all times.  Or at least, until he outgrew his suicidal tendencies.

Then Terzo came along, and I totally gave up on the poker face.  Who has time for worrying about emotional scars?  Anyway, it's kind of funny when a kid freaks out and thinks he's going to die because he swallowed a Lego or landed on his head on some cement.

Anatomy Lessons

If you've picked up a parenting book or magazine in the past several years, you've probably read that the best way to talk to young children about their bodies is to use the proper names for things.  It makes sense, right?  You avoid instilling a sense of shame and teach your children that their bodies are natural and not something to keep secret or hidden.  If, like me, you weren't actually a parent yet or had a little non-verbal infant you probably thought, "Huh, that's a great idea.  I am totally going to teach my kid to say vagina and penis!"  

This idea appealed to me so much that I proudly used correct body part words as a daycare teacher.  Didn't phase me.  I could talk about the penis and the vagina all day long.  And don't even get me started on testicles!  Who doesn't like to say testicles?!  

Well, then darling little Prima came along.  What a pretty, angelic little thing, with her wispy blond hair and big blue eyes!  I tried so hard to stick to what the parenting books and magazines said I should do, but I'll admit it.  I failed.  I could not look at that cherubic little face and say the word vagina.   I mean, look at this face.  Could you say vagina to this face?

When that face is your own little child, looking right at it and saying vagina is way harder than those stupid magazines made it sound. In fact, I'm pretty sure whoever wrote those articles didn't even have children.

Teaching Prima about boys' anatomy turned out to be much easier.  I didn't need to worry about saying penis to her because a thoughtful little boy in her daycare class took care of that for me.  Apparently, little Conner's mom and dad could look at his face and say penis without any problems because he knew that word really well.  So well, in fact, that he taught the other little toddlers all about the penis.  

Thanks Conner's mom and dad.  My husband, in particular, loved having a beautiful little daughter who knew the word penis.  For example, when you're a Daddy enjoying lunch at a deli with your special little two year-old girl and she busts out the p word in her loudest, shrillest voice, the pride you feel is indescribable.  

Then, our boys came along.  I realized the blame I put on Conner's mom and dad might have been misplaced because it turns out saying penis to little boys is much easier than saying vagina to little girls.  Unfortunately, the male fascination with that particular appendage starts at an extremely young age.  Secondo initiated quite a few awkward bath time conversations based on his early appreciation for his own anatomy.

My attempts to explain my lack of a penis without using the word vagina only caused more confusion.  Our talks usually went like this:
Secondo:  Why don't you have a penis?
Me:  Girls don't have a penis.
Secondo:  Hahahahaha!!  You have to have a penis or you can't go pee.
Me:  I can go pee, I just don't have a penis.
Secondo:  Yes you do.  Everyone has a penis.
Me:  No, honey.  Girls don't have penises.
Secondo:  Then what do girls have?
Me:  Um.....time to get out of the tub!

Because Terzo has an older brother, I've been able to totally avoid talking to him about human anatomy.  I'm pretty sure penis was one of Terzo's first words.  Secondo also learns interesting words at school and teaches them to Terzo.  With absolutely no effort on my part, both boys learned about wieners and balls.  For a long time, the word wenis found its way into household conversations.  And last week, Secondo asked me what dick means.  I think I put the fear of God into him with that last one, so maybe Terzo won't learn it for another few days.

From time to time, one of the boys publicly brings out the p bomb too.  Most recently, we unexpectedly ran into Santa at the local book store while holiday shopping.  Secondo and Terzo started talking to Santa about what they'd like for Christmas, and when Santa asked if they'd been good little boys Terzo saw an opportunity to sabotage his brother's holiday joy.

Santa's response?  "That's what big brothers are for!  Ho ho ho!"  Gee, thanks Santa.

Being a parent is pretty hard, but there are perks.  We have to take those perks where we can, and one of my favorites is the chance to take a mistake by a child and turn it into a joke that lasts for years.  When Secondo was little he one day noticed his testicles hanging out down there by his penis.  I guess he'd been too interested in the penis before to notice it had company.  When he asked about it, I said, "Those are your testicles."  Testicles is not an easy word for a small child, and for a really long time Secondo couldn't manage it.  He used the closest word he could.  Tentacles.  A better mom probably would have gently corrected him and continued to use the word testicles until he got it right.  But what's the fun of that?  Substituting tentacles for testicles in a conversation is way too entertaining.  Besides, the mental picture is too good to resist.

 

He'd either be single all his life or the most popular boy EVER.

Party Favor Fish

Have you ever seen that show on Animal Planet where pets alert their owners to some sort of ghost or evil spirit?  I haven't either, but I've seen the commercials for it.  I'm pretty sure our rabbit isn't able to sense the presence of troubled spirits because we had our own haunting for a while and that silly rabbit did nothing but eat and poop as usual.

It all started with a birthday party.  Secondo went off to a Halloween themed party to stuff himself with candy and damage some other parents' eardrums for a while.  When I picked him up, I was not at all surprised to see the large bag of candy clutched in one had.  What did surprise me was the small goldfish bowl in his other hand.  The bowl was occupied by an actual, alive goldfish.  I looked around and saw that each and every party guest also had a live fish to take home.  Now, I may not be a member of PETA or a vegetarian, but even I balk at the idea of passing out live creatures to seven year old boys and (even worse!) expecting the parents of those boys to provide some sort of home for those creatures.  Nevertheless, we had a new pet.

Let's call him Party Favor Fish.  That's not what Secondo named the fish.  The name Secondo gave his fish wasn't nearly as cool, and anyway, I can't remember what it was.  Prima and Terzo fell in love with Party Favor Fish too, so I had no choice but to dig up the old fish tank and make a real home for Party Favor Fish.  Luckily I'd killed raised fish before, so we had everything around the house we needed to keep Party Favor Fish happy.


Party Favor Fish wasn't happy though.   He alternated between lying motionless on the decorative pebbles at the bottom of the tank and darting crazily around in circles.  He refused to eat.  Sometimes I felt like Party Favor Fish was watching me, even if I was in another room. I tried to tell Party Favor Fish that I was sorry he'd been bounced around in a small plastic bowl at a birthday party and that I, personally, don't agree with the practice of giving live animals as party favors.  Either he didn't speak English or was too blinded by scaly fury, but he didn't seem to see the depth of my sincerity.


So, Party Favor Fish died.  

The children sadly gathered for Party Favor Fish's funeral to say their goodbyes as we flushed the tiny corpse away.

Little did I know, we hadn't seen the end of Party Favor Fish.  He waited until I was alone, and he struck in the bathroom.  He must have watched some horror films before he became a party favor.  Anyway, there I was, blow drying my hair (but not in the nude, so I was pretty sure I'd survive the story), when suddenly the cordless phone jumped off the bathroom counter and landed in the very same toilet that served as Party Favor Fish's watery grave!

At the time, I wasn't that suspicious because it seemed as if maybe the cord from the hair dryer had knocked the phone into the toilet.  However, after several minutes of loud swearing and scrubbing my hands with anitbacterial soap, I began to wonder...

A few hours later, after I'd cleaned the phone and let it dry, I made a phone call just to see if it still worked.  Success!  My joy at the abilities of modern technology to survive a dunking in the toilet were short-lived.  As darkness shrouded the land and the children went to bed, I found myself alone in roughly the same part of the house as Party Favor Fish's now-empty tank.  Suddenly, I heard a strange beeping, over and over.  Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep.....  What could it be?!  I fearfully made my way into the kitchen and saw the phone lit up and beeping, as if someone were pressing a button over and over!

With a horrified look on my face, I picked up the phone and nearly screamed out loud when I saw the number 5 flashing over and over on the display!  That's only one less than 6, and kind of similar to 666!  Party Favor Fish clearly possessed the phone!  I rushed over to the wall and ripped out the phone cord  (am I the only person who's always wanted to do that?) to finally stop Party Favor Fish's eerie message from beyond.


But how to exorcise the restless soul of a vengeful goldfish?  His tiny fish brain couldn't understand that we hadn't meant to kill him.  How could I redirect his wrath to the mom who callously handed him out as a party favor in the first place?  


I'll tell you how.  With the power of the Internet, that's how.  I typed the birthday boy's address into Mapquest and printed out some driving directions from our house to his.  Then, I folded it up real small and tossed it into the toilet with a good handful of fish food.  I flushed, and crossed my fingers that Party Favor Fish's vengeful spirit could read maps.  Apparently it worked, because we've had no further haunting incidents.  I like to think Party Favor Fish went on to become a happy little angel fish.

But I sure hope he haunted the hell out of the birthday boy's family for a while first.

The Pros and Cons of Italian DNA

Growing up in rural Indiana, I didn't know any Italian families.  In fact, I'm absolutely positive there aren't any Italian people in Indiana.  Lots of Olive Garden restaurants, but no actual Italian people anywhere in the state.  See, I can prove it:

 

It's no wonder I thought cannoli were disgusting until I arrived on the East Coast.  It's also no wonder I was totally unprepared for the way my non-Italian DNA would interact with my husband's Italian DNA when we had children.

Normally, when two people make a baby together, their DNA blends in a harmonious way to produce a child that has qualities and traits of both parents.  People look at the baby and say, "She has her daddy's eyes!"  Or, "He has his Mommy's nose!"  As the baby grows, his or her personality traits inspire the same reflections.  "Little Joey is stubborn like his daddy!"  Or, "Little Tommy has his mommy's flair for fashion!"  When an Italian person and a non-Italian person create a child, however, things are very different.  The non-Italian person needs to know up front that his or her DNA will not be represented in their child in any way, shape, or form.  The Italian DNA beats the other DNA into total and complete submission.  When the sperm and ovum unite, the DNA does not merge.  The Italian DNA kicks all other DNA right out of the zygote.

The non-Italian DNA doesn't stand a chance.  Look at my sad DNA up there, weeping as the Italian DNA kicks it out.  There goes the gene for red hair, the gene for being patient, and the gene for keeping your hands still while you speak.  The Italian DNA conquers every strand in the double helix, no exceptions!

Don't misunderstand me.  I'm not saying Italian DNA is bad, or that non-Italian people should avoid letting their sperm or eggs mingle with their Italian counterparts.  Marrying into an Italian family has fantastic perks.  Holidays and parties never get boring, the food is incredible, and the daily free entertainment is priceless.  I love all the aunts and uncles and cousins and wine.  I love my husband and I think our children will grow to be interesting and wonderful people even if his DNA killed all of my DNA.  I'll even go so far as to say that anyone who isn't Italian should try their damnedest to marry into an Italian family!

Well, I used to say that.  Now I have to adjust it a bit and say that anyone who isn't Italian should try their damnedest to marry into an Italian family that isn't from the Jersey Shore.

There are some risks no one should take.