Someday My Prince Will Come To - Or Not

When my daughter, Syd's beloved guinea pig died, we allowed for a proper time of mourning (three days). Then we brought home a baby Netherland dwarf rabbit. Syd named him Prince Charming. He was the umpty-umpth rabbit to hop into our hearts.

"Rabbit Sings the Blues" by Teece Aronin, on 

products in the phylliswalter store at

Redbubble.com. 

Why we were so optimistic about this rabbit's prospects, considering our luck with previous ones is unclear. The closest I can come to why we felt this way is that we didn't feel that way. I think what we really felt was a glimmer of hope and a lot of enthusiasm about sustaining a tiny life with the bonus that neither of us would have to get pregnant. 

The other rabbits had died. With the exception of one, that was snatched from Syd by a dog and killed, we never knew exactly what went wrong; some "syndrome" or another would strike and next thing we knew, our rabbit was gone, hopping up God's bunny trail.

So, now, here we stood, Syd and I, with Prince Charming.

We bought him from a breeder who kept him and a pile of other rabbits from a mishmash of litters all stashed together in a stuffy outbuilding. 

Gently, Syd picked him up. He didn't thrash around; he just gazed placidly back at her as if peering into Heaven, or something just short of Heaven since Syd didn't have carrots sticking from her ears.  

We stopped at the pet store on our way home to buy Prince Charming some supplies. Syd was holding him in her hands when a clerk revved up a noisy floor buffer and Prince Charming promptly fainted.

The clerk immediately switched off the floor buffer. Prince Charming's eyes were closed and his head had lolled to the side, but with the noise stopped, all it took were a few gentle strokes down his back to bring him around. Syd and I breathed again, bought the supplies and took him home.

We'd had Prince Charming for maybe a couple of months, when Syd woke up one morning to find him dead. After the crying subsided (for both of us), I told Syd she could stay home from school. I used a towel to lift Prince Charming from his cage, wrapped him up and placed him in a shoebox. We decided I would bury him in the woods off a nearby bike trail.

I found my garden spade, picked up the shoebox and went outside. Not until I'd walked a few yards up the path did it occur to me how obvious it was that I was the mother of a kid whose rabbit just died, who was single with no one else to pawn the task off on, and was looking for a place to bury the beast. It was still morning but brutally hot.

A few feet into the woods was a little bush that looked perfect for bunny-burying so I slinked off the trail, knelt in the dirt and started digging. Then I thought: What if someone comes by? This was public land and bunny-burying was probably frowned on. If someone did come along, I would pretend to be talking on my cell phone. It seemed to me that would minimize the risk of anyone questioning me.

Digging a hole, even one that short and shallow was hard work in that heat. My hair had fallen into a page boy droop that made me look like Prince Valiant's sweaty father. Then I heard some women coming up the path. When they were close enough to see me, I started talking into the phone with a no-nonsense clip I hoped would deter them from speaking to me. Then I fumbled the phone and accidentally hit the speaker button. Loudly and clearly came the words: "I'm sorry, but your call cannot be completed at this time. Please try again later."

The look I gave the women was intended as a warning that I'd just escaped from prison. They walked on, eyeing me cautiously as they passed. I didn't care; I had a bunny to bury. 

Prince Charming was the last of our rabbits. Maybe someday we'll try again. But right now, two things are sure: 

Fainting bunnies are adorable.

And when they never wake again, it hurts.



  

Waiting For the Bus

It was at a party for her daughter's eighth birthday, in the midst of a whole lot of hoopla, that we had this conversation, the other mommy and I. As parents tend to do when en masse, we talked about our children - their quirks, their cleverness, the lengths to which our love for them had driven us. We each had a boy and a girl, but in my case, the girl was older, and in her case, the boy was, by just a few years.

Image: Teece Aronin

Our daughters were classmates at school, and that was how the other mommy and I first met. She was flamboyant and loud, but in good ways - extroverted, I should have said. She was tall and sexy and could make smoking look almost as glamorous as people thought it was back in the fifties. She could also drink like a fish but didn't seem to lose control from it. I could never imagine her sick on booze, cooling her face on the bathroom tiles like a lot of people do when they've drunk too much. She seemed to take everything in stride, made everything she did look easy. And she was a loving mother, a hands-on mother, the kind of mother who makes mud pies with her kids.

Since children's parties and parent-teacher conferences were our usual conversation venues, we didn't talk often, but I enjoyed her when we did. One time she listed for me all the reasons she'd preferred to work outside the home even when her kids were babies. She said the same thing as a lot of women who work, when financially they can afford to stay home; that the adult interaction made her a better parent. Then she jokingly confessed the "real reason" and laid it smack on her daughter's playhouse doorstep: "That kid always talked way - too - damned - much."

But that was a different time and not the conversation I'd started to tell you about. This other conversation, as I said, took place on the occasion of her daughter's eighth birthday. But we weren't talking about her daughter; we were talking about her son. We were at her home, a comfortable townhouse she shared with her family. Being at her place always cheered me up because it was cluttered and chaotic even when she entertained, and she made no apologies for it. It cheered me up because when I entertained, I either compulsively bulldozed the clutter out or compulsively apologized for it to my guests. How could I get as comfortable in my skin as she was in hers, I wondered.

Anyway, there we were, the other mommy and I, grazing from the veggie plate, when she told me that when she was a girl, she used to make fun of the "short bus," the smaller buses used to transport kids with special needs to and from school.

So this is how the kids who teased, the kids who bullied might turn out, I mused. I had never met an adult with the guts to admit to that kind of behavior, but this one had, and she'd grown up to be . . . well . . . good, in a lot of ways. I don't know if she made fun of the kids themselves, the kids with special needs, I mean, or if she just joked about the bus itself, telling her friends they belonged on one and that kind of thing. I suppose it doesn't matter now.

For the life of me, I can't remember how we got onto the topic of her son's first day of kindergarten or what possessed her to tell me something so personal, but she did. She said that she stood at the curb with him, waiting for the bus, and the picture of them was so clear in my head, her standing there with him, her son, born with Down syndrome.

And she said that what looped through her mind over and over were the words: "Please God, don't let it be a short bus. Please God, don't let it be a short bus. Please God, don't let it be a short bus."

I don't remember if it turned out to be a short bus or not, but maybe that doesn't matter now either.

Besmirch Research

According to an article I found online (where everything you read is true) up to 68% of kids may be more likely to exercise when their friends do.

Image source: stockadobe.com

This conclusion was based on research conducted by experts who may be more likely to conduct studies of things that may be more likely to be common sense. Or it might have been the fault of the article's writer. But why anyone would deem it necessary to couch these findings with "may" and "likely," as though they represent radical thinking and careful wording is essential for avoiding a lawsuit, is beyond me. 

How could such a statement not be true? Imagine with me if you will:

It's a beautiful June afternoon. Little Billy Bumponalog is sitting under a tree finishing off an all-day sucker and two toaster pastries. His best friend, Joey trots over. Joey says, "Hey, Billy! Let's play tag!"

Billy Bumponalog slowly stirs from a stupor induced by a plunge in his glucose levels. He gazes up at Joey through slitted eyes. 

"Is that you, Joey?" Billy asks weakly.

Joey is annoyed. This has happened before, just yesterday, as a matter of fact. "Sure it's me. Who'd you think it was?"

"For a minute there, you looked a little like my Aunt Babs," says Billy. "She always brings me candy when she visits. Man, I'm kinda bummed you're not her."

"You know, I think you may be over-indulging your sweet tooth," Joey advises. "That might make health-endangering conditions such as obesity and diabetes at least somewhat more likely."

Joey has a bright future writing about medical research. "Now, c'mon," he says. "Let's play tag!" Then he bops Billy lightly on the head. "You're it!"

Because of Billy's blood sugar levels, that playful little tap knocks him cold. He slumps onto his side for a long summer's nap. Joey shrugs and runs off, playing tag with himself, thumping himself on alternating cheeks, right and left, right and left until he too falls to the ground, unconscious.

Gosh, maybe it is plausible.

The Watched Pot of Winter

It’s been winter for weeks now and I’m still trying to catch up to the notion that winter is a good and natural thing, a thing needed by the earth, a time for nature in my part of the world to close its eyes and rest; a time for things to take stock and catch their breath before the bustle of spring returns.

Like his mother, Jon gets a  
little flaky in the winter. 

Winter never was my favorite thing, but years ago when I was about to drive from Michigan to Colorado, my view on winter took an uptick. It was January and someone remarked that it was a shame I wasn’t making the trip in a few months when the scenery would be prettier.

“But winter has its own colors,” a friend replied, “and they’re beautiful.”

On the trip I appreciated the landscape more than I would have had my friend not made that observation. Winter’s sepia and olive tones became nearly as appealing as the purples, greens, yellows and reds due to burst from the soil come April.  

Why then has winter become so unappealing to me again? Why can’t I think my way back to that long-ago road trip when winter was cold, bleak and barren, yet beautiful nonetheless; when it was something to love despite, or even because of its harsh embrace? Why can’t I get back there again?

It’s not as if I have no good memories of winter. My son was born in the winter, umbilical cord wrapped around his neck, his first cry the bleat of a newborn lamb, raspy, plaintive, yet raging, simultaneously helpless and furious. 

That little bleat told me my son had arrived and that he planned on staying, despite the scary start, and his grandmother’s first thought at the sight of him was that he should pick up a hammer and help the other elves. He was a minikin, but he was my minikin and he was healthy.

And one of the things I laughed at the hardest in this life would never have happened had it not been for winter.

One morning my mother landed on her fanny after slipping in the snow, her coat leaving a nubby-textured imprint next to a Nike-esque swoosh from where her boot had shot out from under her. If I’d seen her fall, I’d have been upset, but walking up on the plop and swoosh, and knowing she was fine, made me weep with laughter. Mean-sounding, I know, but she was laughing, too.

Maybe I'd feel better if I just stopped fighting winter and stopped staring at the calendar as though winter were the proverbial watched pot. Maybe I need to remember my son’s first wails, picture him as he was the other day, wind-whipped and thrilled, barreling down a hill on his sled. 

Maybe I should think about moments like those and stop fighting what is as inevitable and as necessary and as natural as death. At least winter is temporary and there will always be another spring. 

There will always be another spring, right?

If You Can't Stand the Heat, Get Out of My Kitchen

We haven't had a kitchen fire in my home for almost a week. I know that's not much of an accomplishment for most families, but in my household, kitchen fires are such frequent occurrences that not having one for six days is a reason to celebrate. In fact, kitchen fires happen so often in my home that these days they hardly faze the kids.


The last time we had a kitchen fire was when my sandwich burst into flames. I was pitching it in the sink just as my son strolled by.

"Hey, Mom, what happened?" he asked in the same tone he also says, "Hey, Mom, how are you?"

"My sandwich caught on fire," I explained in the same tone I also say, "Not bad. How are you?"

He looked at the sandwich and said, "Maybe your sandwich took one look at you and you were so hot, it combusted."

When a friend of mine who shall remain nameless heard that, she suggested I get the boy's eyes checked. At first I took that as a crack about my cooking then realized it was a crack about my looks. Not all of us can age as gracefully as you, PATTY!

Another time I was on the phone with someone while attempting the death-defying feat of cooking while talking. A wall of flames shot up off the stove-top, across the microwave and over four of the cabinet fronts. On the other end my friend heard the whoosh of the fire, followed by rapidly repeating clanking noises as I rearranged the pans on the burners and doused the flames with baking soda.

"Holy mother of God!" he yelled. "What happened?"

"Oh, it's fine," I said. "I just had a little fire on the stove. Speaking of mothers, how's yours?"

I recently learned that my own mother had similar challenges. Our circa 1940 "state-of-the-art" stove had a temperamental broiler that set dinner on fire on a regular basis. My father was always at work when this happened and since dousing fires was not my mother's forte, she would scream for our neighbor, Ray who would rush over and knock out the flames.

I'm not sure what it says about my mother that another man had to put her fires out while my father was at work. Come to think of it, I'm not sure what it says about my father. Oh wait - yes I am.

At construction sites they sometimes post a sign heralding their safety record. The signs say things like: 137 days without an accident! I'm going to do something similar in my kitchen. If I posted a sign tonight, it would read: Six days without a fire!

I know what the root cause of my kitchen fires is: multitasking - cooking while breathing, cooking while blinking, and as in my earlier example, cooking while talking. Cooking while not a cook sums them all up, I think.

I should be embarrassed about all this, but instead, I'll stand proudly by my sign: Six days without a fire! 

Actually, it's not going to be a sign exactly; it's going to be a dry erase board I can update every day, and any day now, reset to zero.   

One of the Better Mommies

What can I say about the woman who had my hands, my face and even my laugh years before I did? I can say she is a blessing. I can say she's still my friend and I can say she's still one of the funniest people I've ever met. And she's all of that to my children, too.

My mother in her glorious youth.

My mother was and is a rarity. When I was a child, I counted on her to know it all and she never disappointed. She could open every stubborn wrapper, soothe the bloodiest of toes stubbed on the barefoot runs of summer and sing just like Julie Andrews - to my ears anyhow. And in my child's universe, she and I were everything that mattered most.

I remember hiding behind her skirts when my father would come home playfully roaring, "Where's T.C.!" I recall wobbling like a drunken aerialist just trying to walk in her high heels, as if I could ever fill her shoes. And there was no safer place on earth than her lap when J.F.K. was assassinated and all I understood was that John-John's daddy had been so very badly hurt.

A year or so after the death of J.F.K, she took me to see Bambi and I turned and stared at her dumbfounded in the dark as she cried when Bambi's mother saved his life only to die herself and when Bambi called for her, not comprehending her absence. Years later, when I was a mother, I understood painfully well what had made her cry that day.

As I phased into adolescence, I liked her far too much to seriously consider rebelling, and would lie in bed with her at night, the two of us laughing ourselves sick until my father would come in, laughing at our laughing and boot me out. As my interest in film history grew, we went to more and more movies together. She saw to it that I was exposed to theatre, took my brothers and me to museums and lectures and saw me through college and my first foolish mistake of a marriage.

My brother often refers to her as, "One of the better mommies."

That she was, and is, and always will be.

A Perfectly Beautiful Son

Mother's Day will be here soon, so I thought I'd reach way down deep in the memory drawer and pull something out that I wrote years ago and haven't looked at in a while.

A picture of me with my own son

A woman once told me about the day when her son, born with cerebral palsy, came into the house upset because some neighborhood kids had been bullying him. She stood with him in front of the full-length mirror she kept in her bedroom and said, "Look at yourself. That's your body and it's beautiful." 

After she told me that story, I wrote this poem for her. I'm sharing it here for all the mothers of children with disabilities. Your children are amazing, and they have made you more amazing too and probably stronger than you ever thought you could be. Happy Almost Mother's Day to all of you.

A Perfectly Beautiful Son

"I'm crippled and useless; the kids say I am."

"You're my perfectly beautiful son."

"Mommy, how can you say that when you know how I look?"

"You're my perfectly beautiful son. You look like your father. You're lucky, my pet. He's handsome and strong. Can't you see? You belong. Be proud, my beautiful son."

"My feet drag on the ground; I fall down all the time."

"You're my perfectly beautiful son. And when you fall down, you get right back up. You've never stayed down and I know you won't now. Get up, my beautiful son."

"My hands always shake; I spill everything."

"You're my perfectly beautiful son. And when your hands shake, I will hold them in mine. It will steady us both; not just you but me, too. Hold tight, my beautiful son."

"My speech comes out funny; people can't understand."

"You're my perfectly beautiful son. And when I hear you speak, I hear magical sounds. The words are so clear and their meanings so dear. Speak out, my beautiful son."

"People think that I'm weak, just because I'm so small."

"You're my perfectly beautiful son. And your heart's grown so strong, how could you be weak? To me you're so mighty, sometimes I can't speak. Stand tall, my beautiful son."

"The kids have been saying I'll wind up alone."

"You're my perfectly beautiful son. You have so much to give and a great life to live. And when the day comes that a girl sees this too, I'll love her so much - but not like I love you. But I'll love her to pieces, and I'll shout to the world, 'My son's found his true love! What a perfectly beautiful girl!"

If Sr. Martha Was Right, My Kids Are a Real Snooze

I am the parent of two of the brightest candles on the cake, two of the sharpest knives in the drawer, and two of brightest bulbs in the marquis of motherhood. These future captains of industry, United States presidents, Nobel Prize winners, or better mousetrap builders are, in my humble opinion, destined to accomplish great things. Why, just look at their picture!

How is it then, that these two mothers of invention (Sydney, age 15 and Jon, age 13) can’t come up with one simple plan to alleviate their occasional run-ins with boredom? Why is it their mother, not nearly as clever as they, who is expected to come up with the solution?

Jon actually had the audacity to tell me one day that he was so bored, the only thing keeping him awake was the discomfort he felt from being bored.

“Read,” I suggest to them. They say. “Nah.”

“Let’s go for a walk,” I offer. They say, “We don’t feel like it.”

“Go do something together,” I urge. They gasp, “Yuck!”

One day, after an exchange very similar to those above, I shared with my offspring what Sr. Martha used to tell us back in high school: “When you’re bored, you’re boring,” she would say.

As I quoted Sr. Martha to the kids, I thought how cleverly I was throwing the ball back in their court. Throw a ball; no, they'd shoot that idea down. Skeet shooting; hey, how about that? “Too loud,” they’d complain.

Even Sr. Martha’s retort, enough of a verbal slap back in the day to straighten my friends and me right up, was met by my youth of today with sullen, unfazed silence. If Sr. Martha was right, and Sr. Martha was always right, then my kids can be a couple of real snoozers. 

Though their boredom is neither my responsibility nor my fault, I am endeavoring to come up with a list of activities guaranteed to blast out the bilge of boredom and restore the busy bee buzz that happily engaged kids generate. Following is the list I’ve come up with so far and I can be ready to implement it at a moment’s notice.

Mother Teece’s Boredom Busters:

• Make water balloons and use them to play dodge ball.
• Paint each other’s faces with washable markers.
• Groom the cat - a friendly and patient cat (or dog) is required for this activity since trips to the E.R. do not constitute good boredom busters. 
• Script and then shoot a movie using their phones, laptops or cameras.
• Make a house of cards.
• Visit an elderly neighbor and offer to help with errands or yard work.

Now . . . following is an alternate list that I often wish I could trot out. I call it:

Mother Teece’s House of Horrors Boredom Busters

• Force your children to sit through every Barney, Blues Clues, and Dora the Explorer episode you had to watch with them when they were toddlers.
• Make plans together for you to ride the bus with them to school, then coordinate your outfits just to make the trip more fun.
• Hold hands with them and skip past the basketball game the kids up the street are playing.

Granted, my real list isn't very lengthy, nor, you might argue, as inspired as my alternate list, but I plan to keep working on both until they're as long and as priceless as the Mayflower Madame's client register combined  with Heidi Fleiss' little black book. 

Other parents no doubt can come up with even better ideas than these, but if they're ever feeling stuck, they can borrow my list. EITHER ONE THEY WANT.

Angel in a Helmet

One morning, I lost my Mother of the Year Award twice in 15 minutes.  

I was attempting to get my seven-year-old son and nine-year-old daughter off to school. My daughter was on a course of oral steroids for treatment of a run-in with poison oak. I, in my finite wisdom, defied the clock and decided she should take the pills right then before we left, even though we were extremely tight on time. She sat at the kitchen table, her face swollen and blotchy, crying because she didn't want to go to school looking like she'd just gone nine rounds with a boxing kangaroo. 

               
She put one of the pills into her mouth, but because of the sobbing, was unable to get it down. Cleverly, I used child psychology to help her swallow the pill: "Swallow - the - pill - now - please." We Mother of the Year Award winners always say please to reinforce good manners in our kids. What a surprise when she cried harder. By the time we left the house, water and pills had dribbled down her front, into her lap, and onto the carpet, upsetting us both even more. 

               
After we got in the car, my son told me his lunch money was in the house, even though I had expressly instructed him to put it in his backpack. "Oh, this is just great!" I said, stomping up the walk to unlock the front door for him. 

               
A few minutes later, both kids had been safely deposited at school, and as I decompressed, I began a post-mortem of the morning. I decided that even though I was clearly wrong, I wasn’t going to be too hard on myself since 99.9% of the time I am patient with my kids. I was also under a lot of stress that day. 

I decided that the first thing I was going to do when I picked the kids up later would be to apologize for acting like a “big, dumb jerk,” which is how I would refer to myself in hopes of making them smile. Then, I remembered a child to whom I had apologized many years before.

                
During high school, I volunteered every afternoon at a learning center for people with disabilities. There was one little boy, Vincent, who lit up every time I walked into his classroom and would rush to me for a hug. 

I wish you could picture him as clearly as I can: four years-old, Black, slight build, and an ever-present helmet to protect his head during seizures. He had the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen - huge, round eyes with long, curling eyelashes, and he was completely nonverbal. I was crazy about this child, and if he thought I was the highlight of his day, I knew he was the highlight of mine.

               
One winter day, it was time to go home, so I started helping Vincent with his coat. Gently, I placed his little fist against the opening at the top of the sleeve and guided it in. About halfway through the sleeve, his fist stopped. I assumed he'd purposely grabbed onto the lining.

               
“Vincent, you have to put your coat on; this isn’t time to play,” I said. I pushed down on the little fist again, but it went nowhere.

“Vincent, this is not funny,” I said peering straight into the bon-bon eyes. Those eyes would have no effect on me, no sir. He looked back at me with a placid little smile that I mistook for defiance. “You have to put your coat on now, or you’ll miss the bus. Now, please stop fighting me.”

               
When I failed for the umpteenth time to push his hand through the sleeve, I reached up through the cuff to grasp his hand and pull it through. What I pulled through were his hat and mittens. He had been unable to push his fist through the sleeve and unable to tell me so.

               
Shamefully, my eyes darted toward a teacher who was calmly and successfully helping another child into his coat. I was glad she didn’t seem to have noticed. Then she smiled and said, “Don’t you just hate it when you do something stupid like that?”

              
I admitted that yes, I did hate it when I did something stupid like that. Then I looked at Vincent who was still gazing at me. His expression was the same as before, but this time I saw it for what it really was: patience - patience for the “big, dumb jerk” determined to shove his fist through his hat. I knelt in front of him, put my hand over my heart, and peered into his face.

               
“Vincent, I am sorry. What I did was wrong. I apologize.”

               
Staring into those eyes, I wondered if he understood. Then he grinned, spread his arms like the wings of an angel, and executed a graceful freefall into my hands. What resulted was one of the best hugs I have ever gotten or ever given, and it taught me this lesson: Never hesitate to apologize to a child when you are in the wrong. When I picked up my kids that afternoon, I told them how sorry I was for the way I'd behaved, and they graciously accepted my apology. 

              
I have thought of Vincent many times since those long-ago days at the school. And no doubt, I will think of him many more. When I apologized to him, he assured me without a word, that finally, I had stumbled into doing the right thing. And no doubt, if he’s even still alive, he suspects nothing of what he did for me that day.

Short Comedians

My ex-husband is a stand-up comic who for years milked our kids for all the free material he could get. Actually, being a writer, I did, too so I’m not pointing any fingers. Now the kids are teeenagers and suddenly they aren’t that funny anymore. Any parent of adolescents knows what I mean. But the ages of three to ten were the golden age of kiddie comedy in my household, and it was great while it lasted.

            When my son, Jon was three, he was sick and I left him in the car with my mother while I ran into the store for his prescription.

            “Grandma,” he announced from his little car seat in the back, “I’m gonna throw up.”

            “Just a minute, Jon; I’m coming,” my mother said, fumbling to unfasten her seat belt and find something for him to vomit into. Due to my fortuitous failure to clean the car, she was able to get her hands on a fast-food paper bag. “I’ll be right there,” she said.

            Scrambling out of the car, despite her bad knee and reliance on a cane, she threw open Jon's door and thrust herself in just in time to hear him say, "But not today."

            Jon was the kind of kid who would chatter happily to anyone who would listen - and often to those who hadn't planned to. One day, when he was about four-years-old, a friend of my husband's stopped by. And even though Jon had never seen him before, he linked his arm through Larry’s, guided him to the love seat and cuddled up against him. Within seconds, Larry couldn’t get a word in edgewise as Jon explained the intricate plotline of a Teletubbies video he was watching.

            “. . . and the yellow one is La-La. La-La almost always has an orange ball with her. The purple one is Tinky-Winky and Tinky-Winky has a big purse. The red one is Po, and Po . . .”

            After at least five minutes of this, Larry glanced at me and made a brief comment, prompting this gentle reprimand from Jon, “Excuse me, Larry, but if you’re going to keep talking like that, you’re not going to be able to hear this.”

            By the time our daughter, Sydney was three, she had perfected a dry, low-key delivery that takes some comics years to develop. And when she was three-and-a-half, her father and I were sitting at the desk of a carpet salesman who was writing up our purchase. Sydney started fiddling with the man’s calculator. When I told her to put it back, she put me in my place by quietly but arrogantly dismissing me: “Talk to the man, Mommy.”

            Flash forward to Jon age five and Sydney age seven. I was driving somewhere with the two of them in the backseat. Not surprisingly, Jon started complaining about his sister.

            “Mom, I’m never going to believe Sydney again. She always tells me these really great things she’s going to do for me and then she never does them. She just lies to me, so I’m never going to believe her ever again.”

            Sydney executed a masterfully elongated silence before saying in a very sly tone, “Hey Jon, I’ve been workin’ on that rocket ship for ya.”

            “Oh really?” Jon called out in a delighted little yelp, all excited and ready to jump on board.

            When I recounted this anecdote to the kids the other day, Jon said, “I hate you for lying to me about that rocket, Sydney.”

And Sydney said, “It’s still in the attic.” She was even lying to him about the attic since we don’t have one.

Anyway, even though they rarely cough up charming and quotable nuggets these days, the kids are still the cheapest source of material my ex and I have – at least until they get wise to us, unionize and demand compensation. If that happens, I’ll hire a couple of four-year-olds. Like elephants, they work for peanuts - except for the ones who are allergic, and they work for cookies.