Attack of the Drone

If you've ever been a teacher or parent (or a dude in front of a football game) you have surrendered to the dreaded automaton voice aka Drone Speech.

I've noticed it creeping up the last two weeks since the Hot Tamale is really pushing the behavior envelope. When I used to work in prison, er public school, ten seconds into Drone Speech would completely unravel classroom discipline. In the family arena, the voice materializes around 4:30 when tempers, dinner, and thinning patience converge. Drone speech invades everyone at one point or another, sometimes in the form of nagging, but not all nagging is automated. I nag vigorously with flare most of the time.

Some people don't even know they have this capability for Drone Speech! Others use it EXCLUSIVELY!!! (And annoy the watchuzis out of the rest of us!!)

How do you know when you're infected with it??

1. Your voice sounds about a half octave higher.

2. You use the words "ok" and "ready" way too much.

3. The children or folks being addressed are completely oblivious to the words coming out of your mouth.

4. You move very quickly and find it hard to focus your eyes.

5. M-o-n-o-t-o-n-e.

We're (God and I) working on identifying when I start to talk like one of those pull-string toys and zipping it shut before it annoys people, namely Hubs and the HT. SkippyDon would heart me even if talked through a creepy voice modulator--he's no yardstick for my parenting success.

Maybe it's as close to an out-of-body experience as we can get, this Drone Speech, because when it turns on I feel about a second behind the present. Deliberate, intentionally chosen, seasoned speech is 80% of discipline. Shoot, it's 80% of relationships! I must slow down, stop to think, and forget pushing my agenda when the Hot Tamale starts to freak out or it gets as nasty as day-old fries.

SLOW DOWN. Breathe. Pray. And focus. The other stuff can wait.

FREEEEEEEEDOM!!!

Thank you, thank you, thank you, service men for making it possible for us!

We take it for granted every day.

Happy 4th everybody!

My Apologies to the Elderly

Wheelchair users, blue hair lovers, and nursing home gangs beware! The Hot Tamale WILL freak out fifty yards away from you!

Naughty Grandma is doing a bang up job when she watches the kiddies every Wednesday and Thursday morning. She straps them in a stroller and wheels them a couple blocks down to a retirement community to expand their horizons. Visions of sweet little ones crafting God's Eyes and lovingly gifting them to the infirm and lonely brings a lump of choked-up-ness to my throat.

Hooray for soul beauty!

Our spicy munchkin has other plans for these hearing impaired folks. Mom pushes them up to a man who's fishing in the community catch-and-release. "Say hi, sweetie." Terror! Sheer horror! Gnashing, clawing, get-me-outta-here-or-he'll-kill-me-with-his-freeze-ray looks (or so the Naughty Gma says).

The Fish Man makes it worse, poor thing. "Well hi there little fella!" (Talking to her but clearly not noticing the long hair and pink shirt.) Claps three times right in her face. Oh no. Not good. More terror-filled agony. So the elderly gentleman leans closer in. "Whatsa matter?" Even more yelling! "Can I showya howda fish?" By this time any aquatic dweller within five miles has found a hiding spot well beyond diving range.

This charade continues on for a few minutes until the Naughty gives some lame excuse about lunch.

Fast forward to this weekend--our visit with the Great Grandfolks. My Hot Tamale did her best to make her Great Grandfather feel like a two-headed, tarred and feathered leper. At least he didn't realize it was him she was fearing. She sprinted away from him at every sighting shouting, "No? no? no?!?" By the end of two days she barely mustered a bye-bye wave.

What is it with kids and older people? Why do they freak out?!? Maybe it's the way they tend to invade space, or their smell, or the slow way they talk. Maybe kids act the way some of us feel when WE visit with the elderly. My dear HT, we both need some work here. We'll get comfortable around older folks, I promise! After all, we'll be walking in their shoes before we know it!

Unca Monkey

My sweet, sweet pea! My dancing queen! Sunup to sundown you thrill me with new words, new looks, and new naughties!

Match the Hot Tamalified word to their less creative meanings:

A. Paco 1. downstairs

B. Unca Monkey 2. spoon

C. Chuch 3. Church

D. Ah wub vew 4. Red Mango

E. dow tairs 5. I love you.

F. poons 6. Uncle Marty

G. Gang goo 7. Thank you

That LOOK on your face! You have a deliciously devilish ME look. Congrats--the teacher stare is genetic, like webbed fingers or long noses. Just know that I will always have had more practice making it and will win EVERY time in our little showdowns.

Dunking in the pool--listen to me! On THREE your hold your mouth closed because we're going under, got it?? Not four, not seven, not twenty-two, THREE. When we go tomorrow we'll practice more. You're very close to getting it.

Favorite song: Chug-a-lug by Roger Miller

You dance like the roof is coming down! Tippy toes, spins, crazy head movements, all very Cunningham-ish, which is, well, not the Latin side of you I'm afraid. The best part is the beginning when they yell "Whoop whoop whoop whoop".

Hot Tamale, you know EXACTLY where Red Mango is and start having a fit a block out. Dad's Toxic Skittle doesn't hold a candle to my Key Lime Delight.

SkippyDon and you have a good thing going. You are so patient with him on too-long car rides when he loses it. You pat his arm and say "goo goo ga ga" and then both of you laugh. It makes me want to pull over and video tape it, but we both know you won't do it for the camera.

We are entering a new phase in our lives, honey bun. The reign of SELF! You will soon see that the world doesn't spin on your pinky, that other people not only have needs, but that you need to put them before your own, and that no means no. This will be very painful and involve a good number of tears, but just know that God will pull you out of that pit if you ask him to. You'll even enjoy it more that looking out for number 1! Even though I will mess up many, many times, I have your soul in mind, which is way bigger than soda pop-flavored jelly beans.

I think my next note to you will document these times of "sharpening" or "growing". It should be good.

Love you, love you, love you! Get some sleep.

Barista Blessing

I earned a nice, steamy lump of coal on my head yesterday.

[Since stupid Starbucks doesn't offer free wifi (not yet, but word has it they're caving--ha HA!) I headed to Hastings, a really cool college town video/book/music megastore. Needless to say, it's not Starbucks quality. I knew my 16 oz. decaf soy no foam latte would be substandard, but still. Anything over $3 that doesn't have adult-only juice better be at least decent.]

I stare at the menu board (fully knowing my order but unable to prevent the obligatory gawking) then ask if they have soy. The Barista or Coffee Creator or whatever burns through my face with Queen Victoria's best and smirks. "No."

So what that soy is clearly listed as an option? This chick stole my stare! That's my look!

I reluctantly impart the espresso orders, adding a few extra adjectives for good measure, and then...that look...again! Sheesh. This is the worst customer service ever. Starbucks baristas give footrubs with one hand and delight you with quips about the cooling rate of milk while they whip up a beverage. What got into her? Exchange change without a single word and slink to a booth, avoiding all eye contact. I wouldn't put it past her to spit in my drink. Better keep an eye on her.

So I pick up said beverage and, no surprise, it's terrible. At least I'll get some internet for my $4.25 cup 'o bitter.

As soon as I sit back down another customer approaches the counter. He has a limp and a speech impediment. His speech is slow. And it's clear that this isn't the first time he's been here. Oh great. This chick's gonna rip a whole in him.

But as I spy on their conversation, this hardened, lousy latte maker transforms. She asks him how his day is going and knows him by name. They chat about her upcoming wedding, his favorite movie, and the ridiculous heat. And just at the point that gets uncomfortable for most people, she parks it on a stool outside the counter and lets the barrage of questions continue. She talks to him in a respectful, yet simple manner so he understands. She beautifully preserves his dignity. This continues for 40 minutes. He follows her as she wipes the tables and restocks drip coffee, all without a hint of unease. He leaves reassuring her that he'll be back tomorrow.

Should any of my children enter the world a bit slower, a bit more talkative, a bit socially unaware, I pray that they meet this wonderful woman who makes dreadful non-soy lattes. I pray that people like me (who forget that baristas have souls and exist for purposes greater than making my hot beverage) would not judge, as I did in such an ugly and superficial way.

God bless you, barista babe.

To Boob or to Bottle

Is it really that big a deal to wean SkippyDon Juan from the boob?

Yes!!!!

La leche leaguers--don't judge me on this.

It's like choosing menopause, I think. Far more than pregnancy, this is the one area that I feel Hubs has zero connection with. The thing is we're headed to sunny Me-hee-co in a month and it will be a total drag if I have to milk myself in between pina coladas. Plus the extra room in the bag that Sucky Airline will charge $30 for. Let's see...I can work on weight loss more aggressively without being the sole life force for SkippyDon. Don't have to worry about the is-he-isn't-he-getting-enough ever-present question. The bottle doesn't lie or dry up on a bad day. No more suspicious nipple-area wetness in public.

But it's so hard to give up! I like burning 250 calories for nothing and relying on those dangling melons for something other than ogling. I like seeing my son enjoy eating in such a nurturing environment and not having to whip up a bottle in the wee morning hours. Plus it actually feels good! I totally see why the hippie moms breastfeed until their darlings are 48 months.

I'm leaning toward exclusive bottle, as much as it pains me. I feel like we're ready, even though we could probably make it a bit more. The Hot Tamale and I made it 3 months, we're up to 6 with SkippyDon, so Numero 3 will be a 9-monther, no? Maybe I'll feel better about my mothering if I can make that happen.

For now, my tiny chunky hunk, we'll keep going for at least a little while longer...

Chug-a-lug

The current musical fav in the house is...drumroll please...Roger Miller's Chug-a-Lug. Let's take a guess as to who introduced the Hot Tamale to this American gem...anybody? Yes, the Naughty Grandma has pimped out a song about underage drinking to my 20-month old and she loves it.

"Chug! Chug"

Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug

Makes you wanna holler hidey ho!

Burns your tummy don't cha know.

Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug

And we are referring to moonshine here.

Hot Tamale's little brownish body contorts into a whitey, non-rhythm moving toddler rockin' out to redneck country. She gets low, she claps, she sways, but never on any beat. That little thing is Steve Martin in The Jerk. I never thought I'd pine for Miley Cyrus, but I'd give anything for a Hoedown Throwdown right about now. Oh no, here she goes again.

"Chug! Chug!"