KISS (Keep it Simple, Stupid!)

Single mothers in search of a mate need only visit McDonalds on a Sunday afternoon. There, in an effort to both feed and entertain their children, divorced dads congregate, some typing away on their laptops, and others attempting to corral their children within the confines of the indoor play gym.

It was in front of one such play gym where I sat drinking a smoothie, using my eyes to watch my eight-year-old and my ears to listen to conversations around me. Let’s face it. People watching is my favorite pastime.

“Yeah…I don’t know if he liked me too much,” I heard one voice say.

Immediately, my attention was drawn to my left where two ladies sat, both of whom were in their late twenties. While the stouter of the two slurped her Coke, her friend sat nodding in agreement.

“I can’t even remember his name,” the stout girl continued.

My attention was drawn to her snake tattoo which meandered around one arm and across her back. It briefly disappeared behind the strap of her tank top and peered out reluctantly from the other side.

“You can’t even remember his name?” her friend responded.

Her friend was a slender woman, with blue eyes and long dark hair. In bars, she would be “the pretty one.” Her hair was tied up in a ponytail and, like her friend, a plethora of ink peeked prominently out from the sleeves of her tight tee-shirt.

“It’s not important what his name was. He didn’t like me anyway,” the stout girl answered.

To their left sat a young father who wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. He was well dressed, athletic and, based upon his preoccupation with his laptop, employed. I couldn’t help but notice him casting his eyes in the direction of “the pretty girl,” also listening to the conversation.

“I can’t believe he didn’t go for you. Anyways, it’s hard to find someone with a job, let alone someone that will call you,” the pretty girl said. “All I get are bums.”

I waited for the divorced dad to fall out of his chair. Instead, he remained seated and appeared to be searching for a way to introduce himself. Before long, opportunity knocked.

“Mommy! I’m stuck” a little voice shouted from the slide. It came from the pretty girls’s daughter, a child of about two.

“What’s the matter?”

“Uhhh…she can’t climb down from the platform,” the divorced Dad explained, “I’ll go help!”

He rushed off, ran to the top of the slide and lifted the child to the platform below. He then held her hand at each step until she hopped safely onto the ground. His own son ran past at lightening speed and almost barreled into him.

“Dad…what are you doing? You can’t wear your shoes in here!”

“Oh…sorry. I’ll wait for you over there.”

He lingered for a moment to see if the pretty girl noticed his super-heroics (she had not), glared at me for failing to hide my smirk, and returned to his seat. There, he refocused his attention on his laptop, casting me angry looks.

What did I do?

The pretty girl reached for her child’s hand and moved to leave. Then, without so much as an appreciative glance in the divorced dad’s direction, she said to her friend, “I’m bored. Do you want to do something later?”

“Well, if you have a sitter tonite, we can go out,” the stout girl answered.

“That sounds great. Who knows? Maybe I’ll meet someone.”

For the Love of Dog!

Dogs play an important role in the lives of my parents. They are valued above all else, including the house, cars, food and well…each other. The current canine residing with my parents is a giant black lab named Sheeba who parades throughout their modest home as though she is queen. Who can blame her? Even I am confused.

So, as my mother entered the hospital to embark upon a routine surgery, preparing for an overnight stay, the first natural question posed by my father was, “How long is this thing going to take? I have to let Sheeba out.”

“Uh…I’m not sure sir,” the anesthesiologist answered. He looked at my mother as if to say, “Is he kidding?”

He wasn’t.

The following morning as I journeyed to the hospital to retrieve my drug-ridden mother from her cramped room, I was already prepared for an earful about my father. The two of them are always at odds over something and situations resulting in stress only add oxygen to the already blazing flame.

“Do you know what your Dad did?” she asked from her hospital bed, angrily grabbing for her back brace.

I did. She had explained in detail throughout the course of three pain-killer induced phone calls the previous evening.

“What did Dad do, Mom?”

She relayed the story again, complaining about how he was never the person to count on in a crisis, how next time, she would certainly have my sister or me take her to the hospital and that the whole situation was just ridiculous. Somewhere in the middle of her rant, however, I noticed her eyes beginning to droop and I seized the opportunity.

“Would you like some coffee Mom?”

“Sure…iced tea. Give me an hour or so, though, I’m tired.”

An hour later I returned with two iced teas. By this time, my father had reappeared and was perched in the wooden, uncomfortable chair that was reserved for guests but designed to expedite visitation periods. He looked up at me asking, “Did you get my message? I wanted coffee.”

I had not. Still, I handed him my iced tea. He deserved it.

After all, Dad IS the man that you need in crises, just not health-related ones. As a teenager, when I wrecked my car, Dad was there. In my first apartment when a fuse blew, Dad drove over in the middle of the night. If a tree needs taken down, a thermostat fixed, a patio installed or a jungle-gym built, Dad is definitely your guy. Hospitals, on the other hand, make him nervous.

Like many people who talk when they’re nervous, he immediately explained how he couldn’t find the right prescriptions, how he had to make obligatory phone calls and that, of course, Sheeba needed walked. After hearing this last statement, I looked over at my mother who, had she not had a recent dose of Percocet, could probably manage a more convincing roll of her eyes.

“That reminds me,” he continued. “I think that the housekeeper forgot to shut the door to the bedroom.”

“Uh, oh,” Mom answered.

My father, sensing my question, explained, “Sheeba got a skunk again. I think she got on the bed.”

“In your bed? Why isn’t she outside?” I asked, completely and utterly disgusted.

“Well, it’s cold out. Also, she doesn’t smell that much anymore,” Dad explained getting a bit defensive.

I imagined Sheeba lying in their four poster bed, eating popcorn and watching Pay-Per-View. In fact, she was probably wearing a tiara and being waited upon by the other dogs from the neighborhood who were attracted by her pungent odor.

Dad continued,” She did have some mud on her paws. I gave her bath, but she really likes to run and it’s muddy out…”

“The dog is FINE!” my mother snapped, visibly irritated.

Soon after, we busted my mother out of the hospital. On the surface, I drove because my car is easier to get in and out of than my father’s SUV. Underneath, I drove to keep her from killing Dad.

As I opened the door to their home, Sheeba came bounding toward her, excitedly wagging her powerful tail and frantically sniffing my mother.

“Hellloooo doggieeee!” my mother cooed. “Hello baby? Did you miss me?”

She stumbled into the kitchen to retrieve a dog biscuit from the enormous glass cookie jar labeled, “Sheeba.” After digging inside, Mom pulled out a biscuit and tossed it into the air. Sheeba gobbled it up hungrily and perked up her ears.

I eyed the dog as if to say, “I know you…I know what you are up to…you DON’T FOOL me!” Then, I commanded, “Sheeba! Get down!”

“She’s okay,” my mother answered, giving me a look. She meandered to the back bedroom with the dog running eagerly behind.

Did Sheeba just flip me off with her tail?

I filled a plastic hospital cup with water and entered the back bedroom. Mom lay horizontally on the bed. Sheeba sat next to her on the floor, licking her fingers. I placed the water on the night table at which time Sheeba began to lick the cup.

“Ewwww! Sheeba! That’s not for you! Stop that!” I shouted.

My mom looked up and said, “Ohhhh…It’s okay, Kristen. My baby doggie is okay.”

“But she was drinking your water, Mom! Gross!”

“That’s okay,” she mumbled. Then, just before she entered a deep, dreamless slumber she shouted down the hallway to my father.

“Aren’t you going to let the dog out?”

Trash to Treasure

Whoever coined the phrase, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure” probably had small children. Kids, after all, are completely fascinated by what most adults consider trash. Cardboard, especially in its most gigantic form, can occupy an entire day. They spend hours popping bubble wrap, meticulously poking each inflated circle and protesting any attempts to discard the limp piece of plastic left behind. Shoe boxes, chopsticks, old hats and empty milk cartons enter their hands and become something entirely different, their imaginations adding new life, and usually some sort of insect, to items that we would typically dispose of.

This fascination, however, rarely works both ways. Adults find the trash of children…well…gross.

“Here, hold this,” our then, two-year-old stated simply, extending his chubby fist.

I opened my hand and a piece of chewed up graham cracker wetly kissed my palm.

“Uhhh…thanks!” I answered, rushing to rinse it off.

Later, our six-year-old exclaimed, “Mommy, I’m done with this, you can have it.” She placed a half-eaten granola bar in my purse.

It’s the thought that counts.

The tendency of children to keep trash and the desire of grown-ups to throw it away collide somewhere inside the family minivan, or more specifically, somewhere deep between its seat cushions. Inevitably, a quarrel over what should be kept and what should be tossed begins with a friendly game of Find that Smell.

The game, Find that Smell, begins with the press of a button and an idle sniffing of the air. Participation is announced by uttering the phrase, “Holy crap! What the heck is that?” Similar phrases such as, “$%^&! Something must have died in here!” are acceptable, but only if articulated by a person who is authorized to perform a search of the vehicle. The conclusion of Find that Smell occurs when one participant shouts, “EEEEWWWW!” Please note that if a participant passes out before the smell is found, he or she will be disqualified.

So, when my husband opened the driver side door, sniffed the air and declared, “Holy #$%^! Did you spill milk in here?” I KNEW the game was on!

I aggressively ripped out car seats. After all, as most moms know, the undercarriages of car seats are rich locations for disgusting items that children would like to keep, but that we would like to throw away. The removal of these seats revealed crayons, crumbs, crumpled paper and old dingy toys, all of which lay cringing from the sunlight. Finding nothing during this first pass, I redirected my plan of attack.

Our eldest is fairly neat. While we might find the odd booger on a pillow, she typically throws trash away and keeps the bugs outside. Our youngest was only two. Therefore, most objects that he would have with him in the car would be chaperoned by us. That left our six-year-old, the animal, bug, and condiment lover.

So, poised above the bench seat where her booster was typically perched, I thrust my hands between the cushioned van upholstery. Unfortunately, I performed this act without gloves, a common mistake of Find that Smell that often leads to disqualification.

“EEEEWWWWW!!!! Oh my GAWD! What IS THIS?!” I exclaimed.

The game was over. I had won.
“What is it?” my husband asked. Then, he called to our six-year old. She came trotting over, her little brown curls bobbing in the breeze.

“Did you put this in there? What is that?” he asked.

“I dunno…” she answered.

Flipping the object over, I determined that, at one time, it had been some sort of open condiment container. Mayonnaise? Ranch? I wasn’t sure.

“Well, whatever it is, you can’t keep food in the car. It makes things stinky!” He said.

I moved to throw it away as she stared curiously at me with her giant blue eyes.

“Mommy, you can’t throw that out. What will I use for my French-fries?”