Winner-Winner-Chicken-Dinner and How Legos are Taking Over My Life

Just a good cup of coffee and a quick blog post before I get back to the fascinating reading of business law and management accounting...
(Yes, that should be read in a tone that is dripping with sarcasm.)
So yesterday, we had somewere around five bucks between the two of us and John was on his way to get money from an ATM. I was awake with the boys despite the fact that I was called into work last night and had to sleep. I was a little more than perturbed that John was making me stay awake so he could do this when there really was no need. So I'm counting down until he comes home and I can go to bed when he comes barrelling into the house.
"I haven't even been to the ATM yet," he said.
Excuse me, what? I've been waiting for you and you haven't even done what you set out to do yet???
"I didn't have to. I used the two dollars that was left in my wallet and bought a scratch-off lottery ticket..."
This is where I was gearing up to let him have it! I hate the lottery. We do not have that kind of luck. It is a waste of money and time, etc.
"....AND I WON FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS!!!!!"
What? Really? The only thing we have ever won was a t-shirt as a door prize at a PTO meeting. Really.
But yes, he did. And I made him use it to pay the electric bill. One less bill for me. Yay. He used the rest to take the boys shopping. He is all extra-proud because, despite my stressing that my money is really our money, it has always been a secret blow to his male ego that a woman supports him. He isn't as progressive as he sounds in print. And so he bought some toys for the boys and is all about emphasizing that Daddy bought them. Whatevs. I won't rain on his parade.
Evan wanted a new Lego set. Which brings me to the second part of this post.
I effing hate Legos. First of all, the damned things are too expensive. And Evan is too smart. We can buy him the huge, most expensive and complex sets and he will retreat to his bedroom, closing the door to the rest of the world like a mad scientist, and will emerge with the whole set constructed within an hour or two. So they don't even buy him that much entertainment. And then they get taken apart and put together with all of the other deconstructed sets until there are what seems like a million pieces that are indistinguishable from each other. In other words, if you wanted to rebuild one of the sets, you can't because the pieces to the plane are jumbled in with the pieces to the fire station or space shuttle or whatever else is down there because I cannot keep track anymore.

And these are just the pieces that do not end up in my Kirby. Because the Kirby eats everything. I hate that damned vacuum.

And then there are the product lines Lego has: Lego City and Pharoah's Quest and Star Wars...On and on it goes. And we have meltdowns all of the time because something new came out and we no longer have the complete collection and OH-MY-GOD-HOW-CAN-I-LET-MY-KID'S-LEGO-CITY-NOT-HAVE-A-FLORIST?????? I am the worst mother of all time if I do not rush out and spend $100 on the set he lacks that he will put together in 1.5 hours and then feed to the damned vacuum.

Yes, I hate Legos.

So tomorrow, I am going to work on my idea. I am going to buy a bunch of those clear plastic shoe storage boxes and each time I buy a lego set, the directions and picture are going to be put into the bin along with the Legos that go to that set. And he will adhere to it or Mommy is going on a Lego Strike. I am declaring Lego Law in my house. Right. Now.

When Mommy Has Homework

And of course Mommy waits for the last possible minute because I am busy saving lives, one set of lungs at a time, for a gazillion hours a week. And if there is one thing I have learned, it is that this program I am in is definitely not for the faint of heart. As in a paper due every two days. Really, y'all, I'm not kidding. In APA format, please. Usually I manage to spit them out like crazy since I am the master of the last minute paper. When John was in school, this enabled me to be his enabler. He would wait until the last minute and I would feel bad for him and crank out a paper for him in addition to my 24 credit hours' worth of classes. And he would always get A's on my papers, and thus the bad behavior on his part was reinforced.

But these are my papers and no one is going to rescue me like I did John. And I most decidedly waited until the last minute this time. I had until 11:59 PM Colorado time to complete the paper, and I submitted it at 11:43. Well, the paper and the 2 ads I had to design for some unknown telecommunications company in North Carolina. Ask me what I know about telecomm and I will tell you I can log my ass onto the internet and hit "talk" on the cordless phone. Seriously. And I had to market a telecomm company that manages the telecomm expenses of multi-location national companies. Seriously. It is like a sick joke. And so I had to come up with this marketing plan.

Excuse me, what? A marketing plan? WTF is that?

And so I was perched at the kitchen table for hours, looking haggard in an old pair of scrubs and some reading glasses, main-lining coffee and muttering expletives under my breath in the hope that Evan, who was awake and in the adjacent room, would not hear me. And he kept coming into the room to show me something or other, or tell me some random fact he learned in school a week ago that just came to his 9-year-old brain. And I am trying to be Good Mom and act interested. I sincerely hope the "MMMM-Hmmmmm"s I kept offering up sounded like they came from the heart. I really do. But what I really wanted to say was, "Evan, Mommy has this insanely difficult farking marketing plan to write. Do you know what a marketing plan is????" But I didn't because I love him and cannot afford the extra therapy. But I must have had APA on the brain because one of the random facts he spewed in my direction was, "Mom, palm oil is killing the rainforests!" Or some shit like that. And I responded with, "That's interesting, Evan, can you cite your sources on that information?" To which John busted out laughing, asking me if I really asked that of our 9-year-old kid. And--surprise, surprise--my little smartass came back in the room and thrust his Time for Kids issue at me, exclaiming, "Here's my source, Mother." Ugh. What was supposed to happen was Evan was supposed to be stumped and try to figure out what in the hell I was asking of him. It was supposed to buy more silence, less interruptions, and at least get me through the SWOT analysis of the paper. This is what one gets when they raise a smart kid. Because then not only was he back at the kitchen table with me, but he had the magazine and he actually wanted me to read the oh-so-interesting article of how palm oil is going to kill off all of the rainforests. Seriously. So when I looked at him and said, "Yes, Evan, but how is TeleSource going to reach a bigger market segment to compete for a bigger piece of the telecommunication dollars pie???", his eyes glazed over and he finally left me alone.

And now I realized I never got a goodnight hug. But the damned paper was in on time.

This is what I get when I say I want it all. I get just that. And something or someone always suffers just a bit.

Another First

Because we are terribly healthy individuals and insist on passing our habits down to our kids, I present to you:

Zach's first McDonald's french fry.

Tough Love

We've been telling him. We've told him time and time again. We meant business, and apparently he thought we were just playin'.

"Evan, if you do not clean that room, we are going to throw away anything that isn't put away."

Of course I realize that as Evan gets older, his room becomes less and less our territory and more and more his personal space. And if you talk to some parents, they will tell you to pick your battles, meaning to pick another one and just shut the damned bedroom door.

Yeah, okay.

The child of the person who said that doesn't have a room like Ev's. I call Evan's Tornado Chic. But really, it was worse than that. I imagine it may have looked comparable if a tornado, earthquake, and meteor strike all occurred simultaneously with Armageddon. It was seriously that bad.

Broken crayons, naked of their paper wrappings, which were also all over the floor. Teensy tiny Legos. Hot Wheels sans wheels. All. Over. The Floor. Books with pages ripped out mingling with empty fruit snack wrappers in cahoots with the Diet Dew cans he apparently sneaks to his room once we go to bed at night ( I'm having flashbacks of the "NO SOFT DRINKS, EVAN!" rule).... About half of my plastic drinking tumblers and cereal bowls. And his dresser drawers and closet were completely empty because the clean clothes were...All. Over. The floor. Sheets stripped off of bed.

But the clincher? The nasty dysfunction had incubated and managed to creep and crawl out of his room and all over the basement floor. And boxes of stuff from the basement--old papers, old books, old clothes that have been packed in boxes with the word "DONATE" on the side--torn open and scattered all over the basement floor. Because the kid couldn't possibly have enough stuff. Heaven forbid I donate some of his outgrown clothes to charity so they can go to a kid who has nothing.

And so he thought I was playin'.

I wasn't.

I put on my Mean Mom face and armed with a fat roll of black heavy-duty garbage bags, I headed down the stairs to his room. I put Zach in his Pack'n'Play down there and spent the entire day sitting on my butt, using a broom to pull piles of crap to me, sorting through piles of crap, and throwing crap away. Of course John was with me in all of this. And Evan casually wandered from the living room and the Disney Channel to the basement where we were doing all of this, and back again. He never protested. He never said a word about what we were doing, as a matter of fact.

All in all, we filled 20 garbage bags with junk. Enough that we have to call the trash people in the morning and arrange for a special pick up. And some of the stuff was our stuff. CD's that had been dug up and left on the concrete floor, grating against it until they were useless. Books torn up. You get the picture.

We worked until our bodies ached. Then until it was too dark out to see into every nook and cranny of the basement, and then we stopped. We headed upstairs. We all bathed and ate dinner. Watched a little tv. And then? Then it was quiet time-the time when you don't necessarily have to be in bed, but you do have to be in your room and doing something quiet because we are trying to get Zach to sleep and unwind from our day. It's the time Evan usually plays with his Legos or train tracks or Hot Wheels.

And that is when it sank in. He came upstairs with his beautiful face streaked with tears and thrust his hands at me. His hands that held 5 Hot Wheels.

"This is all I have left!" he cried.

And we had to say, "We told you so, Evan." And I stayed firm, though this is normally when I would crumple and admit that I didn't really throw his toys away and that he can get them all back if he just keeps his room reasonably clean for a week or so. I couldn't say that this time. This time was no bluff. (Mind you, that is not all he has left in total, but all of the Hot Wheels where there used to be a huge storage bin full of them. He has other toys still, though. If it was put away, it stayed.)

And he went downstairs to play quietly with the remaining five.

And then I cried.

Because it gets to me, too.

It gets to me that he is hurt. I wish he would have taken us seriously. I hate to see him cry. I wish it wouldn't have come to this.

The waste gets to me. If I would have had ample amounts of time to do this, I could have at least given those toys to charity. If you don't have boys Evan's age, then you probably have no idea, but those Lego sets alone that he plays with are about $100 a piece. We probably threw out about $2-3K in toys today. Somewhere there is a little boy who doesn't even have 5 Hot Wheels and would have given anything to have what Evan treated as garbage. But alas, I didn't have the time. And so they are in the trash.

The sentimentality gets to me. Among the things he destroyed? A children's Bible my mother had given me and I subsequently passed down to Evan. Books. Oh, the books. For each gift-giving occasion--birthdays, Easter, Christmas...--I have given Evan a hardback keepsake version of a story that has special meaning, and have written pertinent inscriptions in the covers under the dust jackets. Guess How Much I Love You for his first birthday. The Polar Express when he really started to believe in Santa. On and on for 9 years of his life.The plan was that he would have them for years. That he would have them if there ever came a day when he no longer had me.Nope. But the one that rips my guts out? I tried to start the same tradition with Ben. And for Ben's first birthday, and incidentally the only birthday of his where he was with me, there was The Giving Tree. And some simple words inside: "Happy First Birthday, Benjamin. May you always find shade under my branches. Love Mommy." I trusted Evan with it, and now it is garbage. And then the bear. The stuffed bear we made when Evan was 2 at Build-A-Bear Workshop. I had jut graduated and made my first paychck with a number in the "net pay" column that required a comma. For the first time in my life. And we went out to celebrate. And we made that bear together. It's 7 years old. And he tore it to smithereens.

So there is that, and then there is the horrid, ugly hurt. I've told the stories on here, so I don't need to go into a lot of detail, but I didn't always make the money I make now. And even now, the money I make, though decent, isn't so much when you count it is the only income for a family of 4. But the thing is that even when we were dirt poor, when we didn't have money for medicines one of us needed or new glasses when mine broke, Evan never knew it because I have always made sure he gets not only what he needs, but the majority of what he wants as well. I don't keep a running tab of all of the times I have really, truly needed something and have done without in order to get Evan the latest toy he wanted. Even in the leanest of times where an extra trip in the car would mean not enough gas to get to class, or a trip through the drive-thru would mean not enough grocery money for the week. Evan never ever ever knew it. He never felt it. Because I thought it was my job as his mother to ensure that he never did. And then, as he got older and his toys more expensive and our way of life more expensive, I would work so many hours of overtime that I would run myslef into the ground. Just so Evan got what he wanted. Those toys I threw away were not just toys. They were my sacrifices. My good intentions. My overtime hours and lack of sleep. And he didn't appreciate any of it enough.

I hope, now that we've stuck to our guns, that he will know from now on that we are serious. I hope we never have to do this again.

Of course, before you think I am completely cruel, I should explain that this is all coming on the heels of a pretty rough patch for Evan: misbehavior at home and at school, rude to John and I, throwing tantrums. I have devised a plan for Evan to get more toys. For each day he brings home no behavior notices from school, does his homework without a fuss, and keeps the remaining toys he has picked up and his room clean, I have agreed to give him $10 toward his "new toy fund". We plan on doing this for one month, giving him the opportumity to earn up to $300 to use on nothing but toys. It isn't a lot, but he needs to be appreciative and earn the replacements for what I have just handed him before. I am not including in this gifts I would normally buy him or things I deem a requirement. Example: a bike is not a luxury in this house. It is a means to get him outside and more active and is thus good for him. Books are not luxuries, but rather the more time he spends reading, the sharper his reading skills. Art supplies spark creativity. Those things don't come from the $300, but rather from me.

Let's all hope this works...

Mom Extraordinairre

It seems like my days off are few and far between, but I've noticed I spend 100% of my time off being Mom Extraordinaire. Bathing Zach and splashing with him in the tub. Down on the floor, helping him reach his milestones. Interacting with Evan and helping him do whatever Evan does.



I can offer this up as evidence: I am currently baking cupcakes. Fricken cupcakes. I don't even recognize myself anymore.



I'm so far from perfect the Perfect exists on an entirely different planet from the one on which I live. And I have been giving this a lot of thought lately. We don't do soccer games and PTA meetings bcause John has no interest and I just don't have the time. I'm a member of the school's HSO, but don't do a lot of participating because of scheduling conflicts. We don't go to church. It just seems that my precious time off shoud be spent here at home, not making myself insane with shuttling Evan everywhere under the sun. And it works out perfectly because Evan has no interest in anything. Until now.



Evan's school is starting up baseball for the elementary kids and Evan wants to sign up. On one hand I want to encourage him to not be a fat couch potato and get out there and go for it. He spends large amounts of time reading books, playing on the computer, and he watches more tv than I can tolerate. The activity will be good for him. But I also have several misgivings about it. Will I have time? Which makes me feel like the worst parent of all time because I should somehow find time. Will he be good at it? Which makes me feel even worse because the point is to have fun, not foster the talents of the next baseball great. And most of all, will Evan do it? Because Evan, when not interested, has no attention span. I can see him in the dugout waiting for his turn at bat. I can picture him picking grass or watching for planes in the outfield. And with this in mind, I wish football was an option for the young kids here. Baseball just requires too much attention.



And then there's the other aspect of it. I have to go and be social with other moms. Gasp! Because in my eyes, I am Mom Extaordinairre. I do the best I can for my offspring, and they are both happy and healthy. This has to have something to do with me, right? But then I go to a function with stay-at-home moms and I realize that while I am patting myself on the back that my kids are clean, fed, and smiling, I really am inferior because the other moms manage all of that while managing 4000 sporting events and recitals a month while simultaneously baking 100 dozen cupcakes without the box and managing to have perfect hair, nails, and makeup. All with a baby on their hip and a toddler tugging at their pants leg, no doubt. And so I start to think to myself, "Self, you really do suck."



I hate feeling like I suck.



Of course I am thinking all of these things when my little free issue of Baby Talk magazine comes in the mail today, complete with an article on how moms lie. Seriously? They lie about perfect marriages and genius children. The article says they mostly do it to avoid criticism and unsolicited advice. I think they do it to keep up appearances. I'd like to find the one who started it all. The perfect Suzie Homemaker with her perfect appearance who lied about how perfect her life is and how she rocks at being a mom, which made her circle of mom friends feel inferior and precipitated their lies, which led to their friends feeling like they had to lie, and so on. I want to find her and wring her neck. Parenthood is tough business, and instead of being a competition, it should be a sisterhood. Your kiddo doesn't sleep through the night yet? Well, even though mine does, I think he is an anomaly, and instead of me gloating to you, let me instead offer words of encouragement and offer up any service I have to offer that can make your sleep-deprived life a little easier. Your kid hasn't reached a certain milestone yet? Well, instead of bragging to you how my 6-month-old is on the verge of curing cancer, let me focus on the adorable and amazing things your baby is doing.

And while I'm on the topic, I think the socially acceptable thing to do when interacting with other busy moms is to wear the appropriate Mom uniform: sweatshirt (with or without the stains), jeans, and gym shoes. If you have time to be flawless, I don't want to know about it, after all. It's not that motherhood means you have to let yourself go. It just means you should not try to out-do the rest of us. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe the rest of the motherhood world goes around in 4-inch Manolos and head-to-toe Prada, and I am infact the abnormal one who doesn't have the time for such crap. I doubt it, though. I think I'm on to something with this competition thing, because I know some pretty extraordinary moms out there who do extraordinary things. They shape young minds as teachers. They keep us safe as police officers. They serve our country in the military. And on their off time, they rock the Mom uniform along with me.

I guess I'll let Evan do the baseball thing. And in my own mind, I'll continue to be Mom Extraordinairre. And I'll try to not feel inferior. And if the competition gets too stiff for me, I can trump the perfect coifs and delicious from-scratch cupcakes and stories of childhood ingenuity with some stories of my own: last night, while they got their beauty sleep, I kept about 10 people breathing who wouldn't otherwise be doing so and was actively involved in the resuscitation of about a half a dozen more. So excuse my stained sweatshirt and faded jeans and lack of baked goods. I was just a little too tired to give a shit. Now let's watch my kid score a winning run.

Girls Can Be Easier...

Shoes. Holy shiznit, the kid needs shoes. Again. This is enough to send me into a complete and utter meltdown, running to my ER like some of the drug-seeking patients we get, begging for Xanex. (Incidentally, you know they are "seeking" when they call them "Zannies". Just sayin'.)

Lemme tell you about the last time I physically took Ev to a shoe store. He was in what I called a phase where he liked Hannah Montana. No joke. Even though Miley's voice made me want to scratch at my ears until they bled, I still know all of the words to "The Best of Both Worlds". And I was right: it was just a phase. But he wanted these pink, sparkly Hannah shoes. I guess this is what happens when you raise your kid in an environment where there really are no gender roles. He will not be bashful at all when it comes to telling you what he wants and likes, even if that is a glittery pink tutu. Or sparkly pink shoes. And I have even gone so far as to buy the kid pink slippers because they were branded with Miley's face.

But you wear slippers in the house.

Where you live with people who are legally obligated to love you and not make fun of you, lest they spend the rest of their lives paying for your therapy.

Where there are no mean children who will make fun of you for wearing sparkly pink shoes when you have a penis on your person.

So while the quasi-feminist side of me wanted to give in and buy the damned shoes, because, hey, there really is no such thing as "boy" or "girl" anything in my eyes, I do have to present this child to the rest of the world. And so I said no. And then tried to make up for it by telling Evan he could pick out any shoe from the boys' section. But this is Evan. And Evan gets what Evan wants. And so he drew even more attention to us by throwing a fit and wailing, forcing his father to literally drag him out of the store. And I got all upset that he turned down a section full of designer shoes and decided that was just fine, that the kid would get El Cheapos. Just to prove my point. And so I took him to Payless.

Holy Crap. Bad, bad idea, Andrea! Because there is not a piece of children's apparel I hate any more than a pleather pair of shoes with a big, fugly, plastic character applique on the side. Gah! And there they all were: Batman, Pokemon, Bakugan, Lightening McQueen...Horrible. (Incidentally,if you choose to buy these for your kids, I mean to say that they are fabulous, really. Just not my taste!) He couldn't get the white leather gym shoes. He wanted a big plastic face. Noooooooo! And so we left there and went to the mall. Where there are all sorts of sporting goods stores. No Hannah Montana. No plastic heads. Just gym shoes.

And Evan, because he is my kid, picks out the most expensive pair he can find. And I was not about to pay $200 for shoes he would have looking like garbage within one month. And so when I tell him "$100 or less", which I think is pretty fricken generous for shoes for a then-8-year-old, he has another meltdown, and we go to the car with the intention of leaving.

And then I remember why we came in the first place. That his shoes have a hole in the sole and he needs new ones or a social worker will take him away.

And so I bribe him with $10 if he will just get sensible shoes. Please. For me.

And so we head into Stride Rite, where he discovers these shoes that have "super balls" in the soles. Okay. By this point, they could have steel spikes in the soles and I would buy them. We had been at it for 4 hours. So I bought the shoes. I didn't even look at the price. I didn't care. I knew they were good quality because they were Stride Rite, but they looked like cheapies. He insisted, though.

They were $90. And the first day he wore them to school, he came home crying because one of his classmates incessantly teased him that his shoes looked like they came from the dollar store. And he begged me to go back to the first shoe store and please just buy a regular pair of Nikes like I had originally wanted. And because if I could stand him getting picked on, I would have just bought the friggin' sparkly pink ones in the first place. There should have been some major lesson in it for him. I know, I know. I ran in and saved his day once again. I reinforced that he can throw tantrums and I will still eventually give in.

But childhood can be rough. Especially for the highly intelligent kid with the mind of a wise adult, trapped in the body and classroom of a 9-year-old. The love I have for the kid means that I will make anything that I can just a bit easier for him. We'll learn the lessons later.

And so here we are. 5 months from that experience. And he has worn through another pair of shoes. I could put my foot down and insist he wear the super ball shoes, but they are a tad too small. He actually asked for a pair of Nikes. Air Max. In his current size, they're $65. Score! I can do that. But wait! They only go up to size 3???? Where are the 3 1/2's???? Oh! 3's are "preschool sized" and 3 1/2's are "grade school sized". And so Nike has doubled the price. For about 1 inch more of shoe. Fabulous.

And so this is a tale for all of you crazies out there who insist girls are easier to raise than boys. (Well, this and the time I paid a fortune for a "real" NFL jersey for him, only to have the little girl behind him in class peel off all of the letters---Josie, your mom still owes me 80 bucks!)

And why I am seriously needing anxiety meds to buy shoes that are about 6 inches long. And why I am jealous that in third-world countries, they don't have to wear shoes...

How Evan was Maimed

So a couple of days ago, Evan was being Evan. He was throwing a tantrum over homework. Silly homework that would've taken him all of 5 minutes to complete. And he threw a stack of dvd's in the midst of it. I threw them back, telling him to put them away. And one hit the edge of the entertainment center and bounced and hit his left cheek. I felt horrible and cried more than he did, I think.
As if that wasn't bad enough...
John had gone out to warm up the car for our trip out to run some errands, and Evan followed him. I heard John tell him not to run, since there are still patches of snow and ice in random spots on our driveway. The next thing I know, John is bringing Ev's DS in, saying it's over. What's over? The DS, apparently. I'm thinking Evan did or said somethig horrible and John meant he was confiscating it for good. In hindsight, I should've known better: Evan was still supposed to be grounded from it anyway, so how he had it in the first place is beyond me. But nope, John meant it's gone. Broken. He had it all of 6 weeks. But that isn't the worst.
Evan was running when he dropped the DS on the concrete. And he slid on ice. And went down. Hard. Bringing the casualty count up to one DS, one coat, one complete school uniform. I was pretty upset. If he would've been listening in the first place, none of it would have happened.
So I go to work and come home. And then I see it: Ev's little elbow and knee are banged up so badly from his fall that I don't know how it is that he managed to not cry to alert us that he was hurt. I mean, he's not a toddler and is fully able to verbalize this to us! And me! How could I fail to check him out thoroughly after the fall???
Plus, where the dvd hit his face, he had a fricken shiner. Seriously. Poor kid.
So the black eye, the road rash on his knee and elbow, the bruise under the road rash where his bone hit the ground, the broken DS...Poor Evan. I won't say "I told you so".
In the meantime, he's going to school in the morning and other people are going to see this. I swear, people, we don't beat our kid. Though it is quite possible that we should. Just Kidding. I think.

Bribery Backfires

So I mentioned in the last post that everybody got flu shots today. This included Zach, John, and of course, Evan. Zach cried, John didn't. And Evan? Well.....

I had to bribe Evan. First with candy. I know, I know--that is so unlike a Parent-of-the-Year contender. But a mom's gotta do what a mom's gotta do. And I encounter some pretty serious crap at work, so if there is any way to protect my family from even a teensy bit of it, I'll do it. So Evan is getting this vaccine, come Hell or high water! Of course he proclaimed to the receptionst right away that he would like the nasal mist vax. At which point I had to explain what it is that I do for a living. And she cracked up in amusement at my 9-year-old who even knew there was such a thing. Me, on the other hand? I don't like it. It is live influenza and that gives me the heebie-jeebies when it is being inhaled by my child. Seriously.

So John goes first and tries to amaze Evan with the fact that he didn't cry. Okay, Ev's way smarter than that and so it didn't work. So Ev tells me he will get it if I let him eat the meant-for-afterwards candy bar right then and there. Before we are finished, before we have eaten dinner.....I took the bait and he smiled like the Cheshire Cat until the nurse brought in the tray. As in the tray full of syringes---Zach's 4 immunizations and Evan's 1 little flu shot. This called for more bargaining, and somehow I agreed to let him choose the place for dinner. So the nurse gets ready to give the injection.This is when he chickened out and all bets were off as my oldest miracle squealed and screamed and kicked and cried until we gave in and let him have the nasal mist. If he gets sick from it, I will have the biggest Mom's I-Told-You-So moment in history. After I get him treated, of course.

So later we are loaded in the car, headed to the pharmacy in the hospital to fill a prescription at the pharmacy employees are firmly encouraged to use, when Ev points out that I told him he could pick our dinner spot. Apparently I said "if you get this vaccine" and not "if you get the injection". (Seriously, do not have a smart kid--it just does not pay off in the long run!) So I can't go back on my promise and I let him choose. And he wants to eat at---dunh, dunh dunhhhhh- the hospital cafeteria.

Wait. The what?????? Huh? Mind you, our cafeteria is pretty decent. There's a grill that serves burgers/ fires/chicken fingers and more, a deli for sandwiches, a huge salad bar, a bakery section with cookies/cakes/pies, a pizza station with pizza/calzones/ stromboli, and more. And Evan thinks it is a five-star restaurant. It's okay compared to other hospitals, but not my pick for my nights off. And keep in mind that I will no doubt run into a gazillion people I know who all know I am not at work. What loser eats at work on their day off??? Me, that's who!

So we go, and do so under the guise that I am waiting for a prescription to be filled in the pharmacy next door. While this is true, that is not why I am there. And I run into coworkers-galore, all who ask, "Andrea, WTF are you doing here???" And I roll my eyes and explain. And run into another one--roll eyes and explain. And another one...okay, you get the drift. What I want to say is, "Because my kid is a weirdo, that's why!" But I can't do that because it would be even less Parent-of-the-Year than the candy bar in the doc's office and would likely crush Evan's spirit, as he is standing right there. So I try to make myself as inconspicuous as possible, but Zach has found something amusing on the ceiling and is staring upward while alternating squeals of delight with gut-splitting belly laughs. (Wanna get attention? Have a chubby baby do this in a crowded hospital cafeteria while strapped to Mommy's chest a-la Carlos from The Hangover!) Of course this is occurring at the exact moment Evan decides he wants popcorn for dinner and I cannot find John and Evan gets the damned popcorn and tries to carry a tray with it balanced on there and it teeters and falls to the floor.....So I am standing there, on my day off, with laughing Zach and about-to-cry Evan, a sea of popcorn around/under my feet, and I cannot find my husband. Somehow I doubt that I blended in very well. I am disgusted. I am flabberghasted. I am appalled. And then Evan says something and I want to cry.

"See, Mom! I'm eating dinner at the hospital just like you! Is it better since I'm here with you?"

Oh. Oh my God. At once I wanted to cry and laugh and hug him and kiss him. And I realized that my son loves me. That he's proud enough of me to want to be like me. That he hears everything I say and our trip was less about an adventure in humiliation and more about him making my place of work more tolerable somehow. He had listened all of those times I griped about having to eat dinner alone at work when I would rather be with them. And I felt lower than the popcorn that had crunched under the soles of my shoes, knowing what his choice was about.

I love ths kid more than words.