Diet Ham

Tonight at the dining hall as I re-filled a plate of ham for my hollow-legged toddler, I was stopped by a student.

“Are you ona dite?”

“Um, no.” Do I look like I should be on a diet? Or was just it the second plate of ham?

“Well, that’s the vegtaryun.”

“The ham?”

At this point, somewhat rudely, I walked away and sat down. I suppose I could have explained that the vegetarian option is next to the regular meat option on the staff buffet and that I, being part of the staff (sort of), was getting a plate of ham for my child and that I had already filled my plate with the vegetarian option, although I am not on a “dite”. Though, I can’t see how this was any of his concern.

Instead, I decided to walk away, somewhat disturbed and amused. I don’t know what bothered me more: a) that it was considered acceptable of a child to ask an adult stranger if she is dieting, b) that vegetarian cuisine is considered diet food (especially considering tonight’s offering was fried potato cakes with sour cream), or c) that a child of perhaps 10 years even has a concept of dieting.

Yes, I realize that he was only about 10 and I know my children do and will say embarrassing and impolite things. This is why I did my best not to make some snide retort, as I would have done to an adult in that situation—you know, that lightening wit of mine.

Just for the record, I’m not a full-fledged vegetarian. I’m what you might call a meat-eating vegetarian or an ovo-lacto-pollo-bovo-pesce-porchetta-vegan. To put it simply, I love a good veggie burger with cheese and bacon.

Baby Hoover

This morning I was babysitting one of the most adorable infants out there. Her name is Hannah. Hannah is nine months old. Hannah likes to put things in her mouth and swallow them—lightning fast. I know there are those of you out there (you know who you are) who cannot hold a baby without wanting one (or another one) for yourself. I have never suffered from this particular affliction.

Don’t get me wrong. I like babies. I have an endless font of love (most days) for my own children. It’s just that I look at an infant and can’t help but think, “doesn’t that look like a lot of work on very little sleep.”

Even before I had first hand experience in the baby-rearing department, I couldn’t help but have the “that there looks like long term commitment and responsibility that I am not prepared to accept” reaction. Needless to say, it took some convincing, a lot of faith in God’s plan and some great examples in my life before I was able to get over that gut reaction. And believe me, it didn’t dissipate prior to number two; it was only reinforced by experience.

And so, here I am, two children later, babysitting in my home. Hannah is lovely. Hannah is fun. Hannah is lots of work. Hannah has been yet another reinforcement of my decision to (as a good friend put it) “hang up the ovaries” after two kids. To paraphrase another friend, I’m not the greatest parent of young children, but I think I’ll be a great parent of the 8 and up set. Ask me again in about 5 years.

Dr. Ding

You may recall that last month my husband was backed into by an elderly gentleman in a parking lot. I correctly guesstimated that this minor ordeal would eat up a month of my life. I have struggled while dealing with this gentleman with the image of my 80+ year-old grandfather. I want to be nice and understanding and willing to work with him, but at the same time, he didn’t bother to glance in his rearview, let alone look over his shoulder and barreled into our only family vehicle. I finally decided that I can be polite, yet firm in my resolve to get this handled correctly and fairly. Fair being that he take responsibility for his mistake by fixing the durn thing—correctly.

The things we have learned:

1)Always get the other guy’s insurance information—policy number, and phone number. Even if you choose to see if it can be handled outside of insurance, you will want that information as leverage.

2) Be very leery about going outside of insurance. Even if you decide to be kind and get an estimate off the record, make sure he understands that you are willing to get one estimate at the establishment of your choice. Inform him that if he is unwilling to pay for those charges at that establishment, then you will go ahead and contact his insurance agent.

3) If he refuses to provide his insurance information, call the police.

4) You have a right to have your vehicle repaired wherever you see fit. The insurance company may tell you what they will and won’t cover, but you can go to whomever you want.

5) Regardless of the insurance company’s desire to cut costs, the guy who hit you is probably a bigger cheapskate—go with insurance.

6) Beware of guys with monikers like Dr. Ding.

For the record, Dr. Ding was a very nice guy and I understand that paint less dent repair is sometimes a great idea—like times where you have hail damage or a door ding. Not in times where some guy has backed into you and destroyed three panels of your car.

Let me sum up the ordeal.

1) Mr. Cheapskate backs into my minivan.

2) In an attempt to be fair and nice, I get two estimates—both in the neighborhood of 2 grand, not including one week of car rental.

3) Mr. Cheapskate is unhappy with the estimates and asks me to meet him on a streetcorner with Dr. Ding.

4) We call Dr. Ding who suggests he can repair one panel and we could find a mobile paint service to touch up the other two panels. Yeah, right.

5) I call Mr. Cheapskate and explain that we will not be meeting Dr. Ding and that if he would like to handle this outside of insurance, we’ll go with the higher estimate and one week of car rental.

6) Mr. Cheapskate is not happy, insists I will have my car fixed wherever it is cheapest.

7) I politely explain that we will either have our car fixed at the higher estimate, or we will contact his insurance company and have their underwriter take a look at it.

8) Mr. Cheapskate insists on calling the body shop (I’m not quite sure why—I suppose he figures they were trying to cheat him in the estimate, or that I’m just stupid and/or am trying to cheat him in some way).

9) I feel a little bit bad about being so firm with Grandpa. Then I feel really proud of myself for standing up for myself (and not crying).

10) Mr. Cheapskate has his insurance company contact me.

11) Mr. Cheapskate’s insurance pays over $2K in repairs and one week of car rental to have my vehicle repaired properly—go figure.

12) I spend a week with a Dodge Caravan and am reminded why I am a Toyota snob.

That’s it in a nutshell. Tomorrow I get to claim my minivan. By the way, you know when you’ve truly settled into minivan territory when you tell the rental company you really don’t want to upgrade to an SUV, you’ll come back to swap out for the van when they have it ready. In my defense, every time my 4-year-old opened his big SUV door in a parking lot, I had visions of Dr. Ding dance in my head. There is a reason they put sliding doors on minivans.

Curious

I was reminded of another check-out line experience. Shortly after Elliot was born, I had a little pregnancy scare. I went to Target to buy a little test. I often wonder when buying such items, what the check-out person thinks, or if they'll say anything. They never do--except that day. As I waited for the lady to ring up my items, I tended to my children in the shopping cart. She glanced at my 8-week old baby and my almost-three-year-old in the cart. She picked up the test and said:

"You don't think you might be?"

"I don't know. That's what I hope to find out." I responded.

"How old is the baby?" She inquired.

"8 weeks--they'd be a bit close." I said.

At least she then replied something along the lines of each child being a blessing that we take as they come. I felt a little better at the prospect of two children born in the same calendar year. I felt much better later that day at the denial of that prospect.

As promised . . . though I hope I didn't overstate the humor.

One night I was shopping late without my kids back in the Colorado era of our lives. As I strolled down the diaper / feminine protection aisle, I came to the prophylactics. I’ve often wondered why these seem to appear with the diapers from time to time—fair warning perhaps? I like that they tend to place them near the feminine hygiene. I like to wander down that aisle when some young man is standing there uncomfortable eyeing the condoms. I stand a few feet away and carefully contemplate the tampons. He’ll usually feel so uncomfortable he’ll grab and go, or do an aisle loop, waiting to be alone again. I’d like to make some helpful suggestion to him about the various options he’s considering, but though I have that kind of sense of humor, I just don’t have the courage to carry it out.

Anyway, this particular evening I was alone and thought—gee, this is the perfect time to make such a purchase myself as I would not have to answer any questions like “Mommy, what’s in that box?” or “Will you share with me?” So, I went up to the section and suddenly noticed that there were little locks on the ends of the product display hooks. A bit dramatic I thought. But, I had encountered stores where the pregnancy tests were kept under lock and key, being a frequently pilfered item, so it wasn’t terribly surprising that they might lock up the condoms as well. What did seem odd was that they weren’t actually behind glass and there was but a thin piece of cardboard suspending each package from it’s hanger. I imagined that any determined thief could just yank a package off and stuff it in their pants with little trouble. In fact, I considered doing just that (except the stuffing it in my pants part). Then I wondered if I’d get chastised at check-out. I considered just skipping the purchase, but then thought, no, I am a grown up. I am allowed to buy a box of condoms and no get all giggly or embarrassed about it. So, in the next aisle, I flagged down the stocker who couldn’t have been more than 16. I wondered if just asking him about the locked up condoms might make him a bit giggly—I was very wrong. He stepped out to the end of the aisle and yelled up to the cashier up front. “HEY! WHERE’S THE CONDOM KEY?!” To which the cashier responded “SAM HAS IT!” then proceeded to page Sam overhead. “SAM, PLEASE BRING THE CONDOM KEY TO AISLE 6!”

So my new teenage friend and I waited patiently next to the prophylactics for the magic key to arrive. I made small talk about them being locked up and considered whether I’d need to show ID. He patiently explained that they are frequently stolen. After a couple of minutes Sam came out and explained that the key was missing. So, the teenager and I discussed whether I’d like the ribbed or lubricated and then ripped the box off the prong—just as I had almost done myself. I then proceeded to the check out where the cashier asked me if they had helped me get what I needed. I said yes and asked if he needed to see my identification. He said “Yes, and a note from your mother please.” We had a nice laugh as he explained that they are frequently stolen. Then I carried my groceries out to my car.

Why is it that the subject of condoms makes me a bit giggly? I think it started back in college (It’s not what you think, I went to BYU). I had a roommate who attended some education student convention outside of BYU where they distributed condoms (perhaps as an example of the current method of sex education in the country—maybe that’s where they get the idea that they shouldn’t have to pay for prophylactics or pregnancy tests). The one she received was blue. We affectionately named it Big Blue and tacked the package to the wall in our bedroom. I think we mostly did it because it was sure to annoy our Italian roommate (who refused to say “Sheets” or “Beach” but was known to have spoken of the lovely little row of condoms (condominiums) down the street). We spoke often and reverently of our friend Big Blue.

Then again, maybe it was the quarter I spent studying abroad in England. I lived in a dirty little basement flat with three other girls. We weren’t all that familiar with “old world” plumbing and none of us was quite sure why there was this little thing in the back of the toilet that jiggled every time we flushed, but we just assumed it was all part of the set up. It wasn’t until just before we left for home that someone realized it was actually a condom wedged up in the back of the toilet. Gross. Weren’t we naïve BYU co-eds.

The giggling continued at my wedding reception. Friends decorated Matt’s car with great distaste. As we drove away it started raining and realized our wipers were useless when covered with a condom each. There were matching prophylactics scattered throughout the vehicle (when we sold it, we wondered if we’d ever found them all) including a nice one stretched over the gearshift.

Then there was the time shortly after I was married that I was traveling with my husband. As an afterthought, I stuck a couple in my pocket on the way out the door. Silly me, I forgot about the foil packaging and after being wanded repeatedly at security, I pulled them out of my pocket and waggled them in front of the TSA agent--Very giggly embarrassing experience.

Now that I think of it, it just may date all the way back to my senior prom. (It’s not what you think either—my date came out of the closet shortly after graduation—ah, the effect I have on men). On our way to the dance we and the other two couples with us, some how decided it would be very funny to stop at the grocery store, all dressed for prom, and buy a large box of condoms. In any other location, this may not have been terribly funny or out of the ordinary, but we were in Bountiful Utah which is more Mormon than BYU. We then proceeded to prom. We left a few of them under the windshield wipers of cars we recognized in the parking lot. Things got more entertaining inside however as my date would walk up to slow-dancing couples and slip one in between them. The highlight of the evening perhaps was on the way home when we went “brighting” at make-out point. This involves driving up behind parked cars and flipping on your brights, then giggling. Surprisingly, there were no cars there that evening. We were just about to turn around and leave when another vehicle approached. We cut our lights and all six of us ducked out of sight in my date’s parents’ station wagon. The vehicle pulled up behind us and as one, we all began to rock the station wagon. Their brights hit us and my date opened a condom, rolled down the window and threw it out at the other car. We giggled a lot and the car drove away.

On an interesting side note, did you know that in most professional theatres you can find an industrial sized box of condoms somewhere in the costume shop (no, it’s not for what you’re thinking either). They’re actually perfect for protecting body microphone packs from shorting out next to sweaty actors’ bodies. Go figure.

Missing

Sometimes I feel very alone. This occurs especially upon entering the bathroom and getting a great waft of au d’urine. Being the only member of my household that sits down to pee (and that regularly cleans the bathroom for that matter) I am also the only person who has little to no chance of missing the toilet when I do so.

My eldest son will be five next month. He is very grown up. He can stand up to pee though he misses frequently, and is now missing a tooth. A couple of weeks ago he noticed a loose tooth in his mouth. He and his father have been regularly working on that loose tooth since. Two days ago it popped out. As a child, I wondered what the tooth fairy did with all those disgusting little teeth and where she got her cash. (The conversation at lunch today did revolve around whether the tooth fairy is indeed male or female. It was proposed that since she wears tights, her gender is clear. I countered that perhaps by wearing tights, his gender may be all too clear).

The price of a tooth has apparently increased since I was a child. My husband and I recall receiving in the neighborhood of $.25 to $.50 per tooth. A friend of Ethan’s now regularly receives $5. The tooth fairy in our household is not quite so generous. Is it the same as with Santa, do you receive more if you’ve been good? The tooth fairy left Ethan a whole dollar. Which, as my husband points out is a hefty inflation rate of 400% in 25 years. By the way, I now know what the tooth fairy does with the disgusting little teeth—(all you baby-book and scrap booking fanatics out there cover your eyes) he chucks them out in the forest where there will be no chance of discovering them in the garbage.

I was in the grocery store late in the evening last week. It’s the perfect time to shop-no kids, few shoppers. Problem was, I had to pee. So, for perhaps the first time in months, I got to go to the bathroom alone. Very alone. As I sat in the stall, my mind was free to notice things other than what disgusting thing my child was touching and whether or not he was trying to crawl under the stall door to say howdy to the neighbors. It was then that I noticed a large pregnancy test box in the garbage (I think they make them 10 times the size of the product to discourage, though apparently fruitlessly, shoplifters). I leaned over, curious if I could see the actual test results. It was then that I noticed the empty package of condoms underneath the test box. I can only assume the results were negative and that perhaps the shoplifter learned something (though not very much apparently) from the whole ordeal. I imagine there will be something missing from the store’s inventory this week. I could tell them where to find it, but I don’t suppose they want it back. Perhaps they should take a lesson from the stores in the greater Denver area. But that is another post entirely—I promise to share that one soon. It’s a doozy.

Confessions of a Two-Year-Old

In my defense let me first say that I was not given a proper nap on the day in question. Being two years old, I cannot be reasonably expected to behave myself (even within two-year-old standards of decorum) in a public place under such circumstances. Secondly, I did not ask to be taken inside. Granted, I wanted out of my car seat, but this did not necessarily mean that I had to be taken inside. It was my mother’s idea to take me in and change my diaper—in a public restroom of all places, on a cold, hard counter. Needless to say, I had not been set up for success.

So, we left the bathroom (the ladies bathroom mind you—I think I have been more than patient with being constantly hauled into the women’s restroom and undressed in the wide open for all passersby to see me in all my glory thank you.) Mom said she just needed to pick up some books being held at the library counter. But then she stops at the first bookshelf she comes to and looks over the books. I think it’s a library conspiracy. You see, rather than file all the books nicely away in the back of the boring grown-up section, they take the most enticing, shiny new ones and put them on a shelf right up front where mothers can’t help but walk past them on their way in and out of the library. What, like I can just leave mom at home and drive myself to the library—they know I have to bring her with me, like they know that she’s going to have to stop at that shelf and have a look-see. What is a kid supposed to do?

I did what any self-respecting tired, toddler would do; I took off running down the stacks of books. Mom of course took off after me, grabbed me like a sack of potatoes and hauled me back up front—like I had been the one who misbehaved. What did she expect? How else could a kid as small as me get her to tear herself away from the shiny new books shelf?

We go up to the desk—right next to the book return might I add. The lady goes to the back to find her books, but not before giving me one of those “I know your kind” looks. What? I’m two—what do you expect? I’m going to destroy something sooner or later—it’s not my fault I’m here in the first place.

While mom is waiting, I have absolutely nothing to do. I want to help so I go over to the book return to see if I can. Mom says we don’t have any books to return today—can’t we plan ahead? I figured, if she doesn’t have any books for me, hey, no problem. I’m resourceful. I trot right on over to the new books shelf and grab one from there. Before I can even put it in the slot, Mom gets all excited again and runs over and grabs the thing out of my hands. I was just trying to help! She is so embarrassing sometimes! It made me so mad that I took off down the stacks again—I’ll show her!

Sometimes it just isn’t fair that I’m so much smaller. I’d be much faster than her if my legs were just a little bit longer. I mean really, have you seen her run? She says she has grandpa’s bad knees, but I think she still has some baby belly if you know what I mean . . .

Nonetheless, she catches me again, hauls me back up to the front and now expects me to stand there while the lady checks out the books. I tried, I really did. But then she starts asking a question about this book and the other CD and really, what did you expect? Was I supposed to just stand there bored out of my mind?

Of course not, I did what any self-respecting, tired, angry toddler would do. I ran right back over to the shiny new books whereupon I promptly noticed the little statue they have sitting there and absolutely could not help myself. It’s a statue of another little boy, and everyone knows I’m egocentric—did I mention I’m two? I thought, hey! He looks a little like me! On a normal day I might have settled with just touching the statue, but after all I had gone through, I was justifiably angry. And well, I grabbed a hold of the statue and pulled it right over. I figured I’d just make a little scene, they’d stand it back up and my point would be made. How was I supposed to know it’d break into pieces? They don’t teach you that kind of thing at home. Everything breakable has been removed entirely from my reach in my home environment. It’s almost like they’ve done it on purpose, like they don’t want me to be able to touch anything breakable.

Well, I guess I showed my mom and the snooty library lady too. They acted like the little statue was something really important or something. Well, if it was so special, maybe they shouldn’t have left it out where an angry toddler can reach it. Mom didn’t say much on the way home. Maybe she learned a lesson today.

I can't wait to go back to the library!

Signed: Elliot