Giggling Uncontrollably and Inappropriately

Daughter 1's bra broke. She has more than one bra, but this was her favorite bra. It may have been her favorite bra because it's the one she can actually find, but none the less, it was her favorite bra. And, it didn't break so much as the underwire poked out. It might as well have stabbed her in the heart and left her die.

I suggested, when she told me of this at 8:15 yesterday evening, that she just pull the wire out. Well, you know that can't be done, right? Because then she'd be lopsided. Plus? It's a stupid idea, donchaknow.

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"So, are you going to get me another bra?" she asked me as I shooed her to bed. I sighed.

I was weary. It's the first week of school, and we started on a Tuesday, which means that I have spent all week having super weird dreams about Robin Williams being my student and old boyfriends hiring me to coach track and stuff like that. I'm not rested. I'm tired. And now, I had to go back out and get a bra.

"I guess," I whined. "If you really can't find your other bras."

"I really can't, Momma." And she said Momma with a heavy sigh in her voice.

Brian passed by me as I was walking out the door.

"Want me to go get the bra?" he asked as he kissed my forehead.

"Nah," I responded, grabbed my keys and headed out.

Then, as I stood at the bra display, grabbing bra after bra that is Daughter 1's size, but becoming completely perplexed by the numerous kinds of bras that were at a young girls' disposal, I realized the error of my ways.

I should have let Brian go get the bra. Holy cow! If I were perplexed, his testosterone filled head might have actually exploded making the choice.

Or he would have come home with a white, knit over-your-head sports bra.

Either way, it would have been hysterical.

And that's how I came to be standing in the lingerie section, by myself, flipping through bras, giggling uncontrollably.

Once a Bagger ...

Last week, Brian and I went to Hellmart to gather my supplies for my Great Day Green Country TV segment. Brian didn't want to be there. He never wants to be at Hellmart, but on this particular night he was coming off a three-day sinus infection that had laid him flat. Once my list had been checked twice, we went through our new self-checkout. I'm not sure what it is about the self-check out, but dang if it's not fun, right? There's power in that scanner, y'all.

I turned to Brian before I began scanning and asked, "Do you want to bag?"

He shook his head, so I scanned and bagged. Rwar! I am woman! I can do it all!

And I got it all in one bag. 

"Heather? Geez," Brian sighed and pulled another bag out and started re-bagging my purchases.

You see, back in the day, Brian was a state-champion bagger. 

No. I'm not kidding.

"I asked you if you wanted to bag," I whined when he was redoing my chance at carrying in all of our purchases in one hand.

"I don't. But I don't want to pick up a bag full of your stuff from the driveway when the bag breaks."

"You miss it, don't you. You miss bagging the groceries, stacking heavy to light, creating sacks full of groceries that won't squish." I teased as I paid out.

"I really don't. I just don't want the bag to bust before we get home," he sighed. 

"You miss the apron, right? You wanna wear the apron when we get home?"

It was at that point that he stopped talking to me.

But he did wear the apron around the house the next day.

Wordless Wednesday: Homemade Ice Cream Aftermath

(Comment below with your favorite ice cream flavor by 9 PM Oklahoma time and I'll randomly pick someone to send a free, autographed copy of TMI Mom Oversharing My Life!)

WINNER:

Anonymous (Rexanne) email me your addy and I'll get your book to you!

A frikkin' miracle worker

I am not above bribery.  In fact, in my Mother of the Year application, my platform is "Bribery gets ya more sleep."  In my honest opinion, it doesn't hurt to persuade your kids to do things YOU want to do by offering them something THEY want in exchange.  "You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours" is a very real life application that should be taught at home.

In my dishonest opinion:  I don't bribe The Daughters - they always do what I want them to do when I want them to do it.

Bribery was the case last week as I took The Daughters out to try and capture that perfect picture for our Christmas cards.  I'm not sure why, after 10 years of mommahood, I convince myself that I can get the perfect picture - maybe I shouldn't have margaritas for breakfast anymore!

As we made our way to a gorgeous setting west of town, I made my bribery... no, my offering.  "OK, girlies, if I can get complete cooperation out of you all for about 30 minutes, I will make you a milkshake when we get home!"

Daughter 1, the future lawyer, said, "Momma, does it have to be complete cooperation?  Because if it does, you are setting us up to fail.  And that's ..." (say it with me - the international battle cry of children the world over), "NOT FAIR!"

OK, fine. I would have to qualify this, "IF, by the end of the afternoon, I am not looking up phone numbers for the closest orphanage, then I'll make you milkshakes."

And wouldn't ya know it - we had a great afternoon!  I got several shots of The Daughters looking like they'd only ever touched each other in a loving and gentle manner.  Their faces stayed clean and their hair stayed done and our wits stayed intact.  As we piled in the minivan to return home, Daughter 2 said, "Momma, can we stop by QT to get our milkshakes?"

Damn straight it was good!

"Honey," I reminded her, "I am making you a milkshake at home."

"You tricked us!" she cried.  "I never would have smiled pretty if I had known you weren't going to get us a real milkshake!"

I reminded her that I never said "buy"; I distinctly said, "make".

She recruited her future legal counsel.  "Sissy, didn't she say she'd buy us one."

Daughter 1 was thoughtfully quiet and then she asked me, "Are we for sure getting a milkshake?  Because if we are, I'm totally agreeing with her.  If it's still being decided, then you are completely right, Momma."  I hope she's not a wimpy environmental lawyer when she grows up.

"Listen to me," I said in a calm voice, "I said I'd make you a milkshake.  I don't know why this is such a big deal.  I've made you milkshakes before.  And I'm making you one today!"

Daughter 2 pouted all the way home, huffing and puffing.  Daughter 1 still wasn't convinced that I wouldn't jerk the dream of a milkshake from her, so she sat quietly humming along with the Christmas music I was blaring through the minivan.

When we got home, Daughter 2 stood at the edge of the kitchen with her little arms crossed over her heaving chest. "Well, Momma, let's see it!"

So, I got out the blender and I got out the ice cream and I got out the milk.  I asked Daughter 2 to hand me the chocolate syrup to which she replied, "OH no, ma'am.  You said you could make milkshakes and you'll get NO help from me!"  Really.

I dumped it all in the blender and blended away.  When the mixture wasn't too thick to suck through a straw but wasn't thin enough to drink without one, I poured the milkshakes into the glasses and topped them with whipped cream and colored sprinkles.  I stuck a straw in  the glass and passed it off to a squinty-eyed Daughter 2.

She took a long, slow draw of the straw and swallowed.  Then she took another swig and swallowed again, nodding her head.  She looked up at me and said, "Momma," and she took another slurp before finishing, "You are a frikkin' miracle worker!"

Mother of The Year right here, my friends!