Don't Cry Over Cold Grease

I’ve lived in Memphis my entire life. It is a wonderful city with lots to offer in the way of entertainment. We are the home to an NBA team, a AAA Baseball team, wonderful museums, Beale Street, Graceland, fabulous dining, a great Zoo and Tunica is just down the road. However, my favorite form of entertainment in Memphis is the drive thru of any fast food place. All you have to do is pull up to that little speaker and you too can experience The Dance of the Drive Thru Dimwits.

First of all, let me say that not all people that work at fast food restaurants fall into this category. There are many that are out there, taking pride in their jobs, working their way through school or retirement. They are helpful and courteous and I am in no way trying to degrade them. Then, there are the ones that always seem to be working the drive thru when my car pulls through. I can always count on the Dimwits to lift my spirits and make me feel extremely intelligent.

In my life, I have been through the drive thru of hundreds of fast food places. What I have found is that although it would seem that all of the Dimwits are trained at the same school, they aren’t all doing the same “dance”. For example, Krystal specializes in putting the one person on the speaker that is completely deaf while McDonald’s tries to make sure that the person at the window stays busy chatting with her fellow fry flippers instead of talking to the customers. Burger King says you can “have it your way” but they NEVER get my order right. Wendy’s usually puts the one person they employ that can’t make change at the window. Sonic………I have nothing bad to say about Sonic. But, my all time favorite drive thru experience occurred at Jack Pirtle’s Chicken on Jackson Ave. near Hollywood.

My mother and I had decided that it was a good idea for us to drive to the hood for fried chicken late one evening. We got to the drive thru at around 7:30 – ok so it wasn’t so late but it was dark. We get to the speaker and order 3, 3 piece meals, all white. Easy enough, right? Wrong. The guy taking our order came back on the speaker, repeated our order and then said, “Pull around, I’m gonna see if I can hook you up”. Now, being that my mother is not as hip as I, she asked me what that meant. I explained to her that the he phrased his sentence, would indicate that there is a possibility that he could NOT “hook us up” How the heck am I supposed to know what he meant!

We pull around to the window and because I am stupid, I lean across and ask, “What do you mean you are going to see if you can hook us up?” He then explains, in a language that I had to interpret for my mother, that they were out of chicken. Come again??? Jack Pirtle’s CHICKEN is out of CHICKEN? I’m sorry, but I’m a bit confused. He went on to explain that “the grease is off”. Obviously, this is an acceptable excuse for not having the only entrée that an establishment sells. It is also not an option to turn the grease ON and possibly cook some more of the only thing you friggin sell. It then occurred to me that maybe this was a business strategy, they cook a bunch of chicken in the morning, turn off the grease to avoid a fire hazard and then close when they sell out – brilliant! This kind gentleman then tells us that, “the other place (I assume he meant another Pirtle’s) might still have some”. Not, I’m very sorry for your inconvenience or we’d be happy to make some more. Nooooo – this guy’s customer service training led him to tell us to go somewhere else. Nice.

So, because we are intelligent women, not to be outdone, my mother and I took a stand. We looked that man right in the eye and said, “Where is another Pirtle’s close to here?” and then we DROVE to a different location in a part of town I had never been in before or care to return to again. All of this, for fried chicken and not even GREAT fried chicken. In fact, the chicken isn’t really that good but the gravy is awesome. I guess the chicken would be better if they weren’t frying it in cold grease.

This is only one of my favorite experiences with drive thru windows. There was a time when the woman at Krystal was so completely out of touch with reality that even my daughter was yelling at the speaker from the backseat. And there was another time when I was forced to throw pickles at the window at Burger King after they made my sandwich wrong 3 times but those are stories for another day. Just remember, chicken places don’t always have chicken. Most fast food employees are idiots and if they guy on the speaker says he will, “see if he can hook you up” just drive away because there is no way you are getting what you came for.

Idiots and Embolisms

Well folks, I really thought that I was going to have an embolism this morning. Every now and again, the sheer stupidity of other people drives me to the point where I just know blood is going to shoot out of my eye. This morning was one of those times. It began with traffic and continued when I arrived in my office. So, please excuse me but I have GOT to get this off my chest!

Fist of all – I woke up this morning to rain. Wasn’t supposed to rain but it did. Of course, my window is down because I am a bloomin’ retard! So, I drag my towel out to my car and cover my seat so that I don’t have to have wet pants all day. I pull around the corner to the front of my subdivision to go to work and both sides of the street are lined with trucks. BIG trucks dump trucks, equipment trucks, you name a truck and it was sitting in the entrance of my subdivision this morning. As I tried to maneuver my way through the parade of heavy machinery I was cut short in my efforts because there were 5 “laborers” standing in the middle of the only clear path. I realize that they are looking at the muddy pit on the side of the road where it appears they had gotten a backhoe stuck. I honked my horn and they turned to me and WAVED! I opened my door (because I still haven’t fixed my friggin windows) and yelled, “You want to get out of the friggin road?!?” They moved to the side and I proceeded to make my way to Hwy. 64.

I pull onto 64 and drive for about 8 feet before being met by a traffic jam. Apparently, there was a wreck up ahead some place. All traffic was merging into the far right hand lane to avoid the pile-up that was in the left lane. I merged right, like a thinking human, and proceeded to putt along in bumper to bumper traffic for the next two miles. All the while, there were people in the left hand land, jockeying for position and trying to cut in “closer” to the front of the line, one of which is a woman in a silver minivan. This really makes me mad but I am willing to let a few people in ahead of me. I allow 3 or 4 cars to merge in front of me and I finally make it to the end of the line. Just as I get to the spot where the left lane is blocked, the minivan lady starts honking her horn at me. I look over at her and she is YELLING at me to let her over. Now, remember, this idiot has been cruising along in the left hand lane for two miles. She KNEW she had to get over but wanted to skip to the front of the line. My first instinct was to ram the front of her stupid minivan. But, being that there were two cops sitting there, I decided against it. So, I went with my second instinct, I smiled, told her she was “#1” and hit the accelerator preventing her from merging. When I got to the next light I could see her still sitting there, waiting to merge – serves her right. I hope she ran out of gas.

I finally get to my office and am informed that one of my projectors had been stolen out of a conference room. I hate thieves! I sent an email to our facilities person to let them know that, once again, my equipment had walked away. He told me that he was going to the security company to, “find out if they saw anything”. Now I ask you, IF they saw something, wouldn’t my friggin projector still be in the conference room????

I get off that call only to get another from one of our managers who is furious because our Data Security person has gone and changed the login ids for half of her staff. We have some departments that are going away and employees from those departments are being transferred to a newly formed department. They weren’t new hires or even re-hires, these are folks that have been working day in and day out for years and all of a sudden today – our Data Security Idiot (that is his official title) decided to just up and change their credentials. Makes sense to me….NOT! I spent the next 20 minutes undoing what he had done so that these people could get back to work.

I then get an email from our Procurement system, telling me that I have orders that have denied. I go in to see why and find that they are saying I used an “out of date” form when I submitted the requests. I originally submitted these requests way back before the holidays. They have been going through our wonderful system now for over 4 months. I have been back and forth with these people, providing additional information, documentation, blood, sweat and tears to get the equipment I need. Today, the request is to use the NEW form. I open the NEW form and it looks EXACTLY like the OLD form except the NEW form doesn’t have as many boxes for people to approve it! Better yet – the NEW form was put into use AFTER the original submission date of the requests.

So, please forgive me if my post is short today, it’s been a rough morning. I’ve got 5 orders that I have to fill out NEW forms on and get them resubmitted before the form is revised. I have more user accounts that have to be fixed, I have to locate the serial number of the projector that walked away so that the police can……….not find it. I also have to fill out the requests for a new projector, which I’m sure will be denied because the procurement lady hates me. I wish I could just go home – but my friggin car seats are still wet and so is my towel!!! MAN – I need a smoke break.

The Oldest End User

When I first began managing Desktop Services at my company, we were still running a mixture of Windows 95 and 98. We were in the process of renegotiating hardware contracts and were moving from Gateway to Compaq. We decided, since most of our equipment was past end of life, to begin upgrading both the hardware and the OS at the same time. So, little by little, we would purchase new equipment and upgrade the “neediest” users first and eventually distributing new machines to all 900 users.

As you can imagine, everyone immediately became the “neediest”. If a computer crashed in Customer Service and we replaced it, we would have problems reports out of everyone in the department within an hour. Everybody wanted the new machines because they were 10X faster than the old ones and they looked really cool (at the time). Anyway, we had a machine crash in the Accounting department one day so we replaced it with a new unit. The lady sitting next to the user who got the new PC (we will call her Fanny) was about 102 years old. When Fanny started in the Accounting field, they were still carving numbers in stone tablets so let’s just say that she isn’t the most computer literate individual on the planet. However, once Fanny saw the new PC her co-worker had received; she began her calculated mission to get one of her own. Now, Fanny is old but she is far from frail. In fact, I would go so far as to say she is a feisty little heifer.

Fanny began calling me at least once a day to tell me of some other “ailment” her computer had none of which could be recreated when a tech arrived at her desk. She finally wore me down when she called for the 10th time to tell me that “the computer had deleted her spreadsheets”. I threw up my hands and conceded to issue her a new machine. It was installed later that day and all was quiet in Ms. Fanny’s cube for the remainder of the week.

The following Monday morning, I was walking past Fanny’s desk and she says, in her best angry grandmother tone, “Come here and look at this”. I went over to her desk and stood over her shoulder while she explained her problem. She opens an Excel spreadsheet that she used for weekly balancing. She says, “Every Monday I have to create a new spreadsheet for the previous weeks’ numbers.” I nod knowingly, having no idea where this is leading. She goes on, “I open this spreadsheet and I go up here in the corner and click this little box and the whole sheet turns gray” and she demonstrates. “Then I go up to File and press Copy.” I say, “Yes ma’am”. “Then, I go down here and click on this tab to open a new page.” Again, I shake my head in agreement. “Then I go up here and click on File and Copy and nothing happens.” Now, bear in mind, she is using a tone with me that only my own grandmother would get away with and she is giving me this look like I have done something wrong. I say to her, “Ms. Fanny, you have to Copy then Paste to get your data to appear on the new spreadsheet.” “NO I DON”T! I’ve been doing this a long time and I think I know how to do my job.”

How am I supposed to respond? This woman is 102 and it’s obvious that she is convinced she is performing the correct functions. I can’t just say, “Well, you’re an idiot.” I have to be tactful and kind in this situation. I took a step back and pretended to be looking under her desk. I said, “Ohhhh, we upgraded your PC last week.” She said, “Yes you did and this one doesn’t work any better than the old one. What are you going to do to fix it?” I said, “I am so sorry. On the new computers you have to Copy and Paste. I apologize for the misunderstanding”. She huffed at me and said, “You know, you technical people should really let us know when you are going to make changes like this. SOME of us have very important jobs to do and don’t have time for this kind of error.”

For a split second I contemplated the repercussions of smacking this woman in the back of the head but decided against it. I hear that they don’t take kindly to people who abuse the elderly in prison. Instead I just smiled and apologized again for my oversight and returned to my office. Ms. Fanny was with our company for 5 more years after this happened and up until the day she left she swore that I personally had changed the way that MS Excel functioned. Bless her heart…………..old hateful heifer.

Who Done Passed?

My mother and I have this odd hobby. We like to read the obituaries in the local paper and keep track of the odd nicknames that appear. Everyday we call each other to keep the other informed of “who died today”. Now, for those of you who haven’t met me, I grew up in Frayser and am fluent in Ebonics. In order for this list to have nearly the impact on you as it does on us, you have to “hear” it in your head in a tone that is not of the Caucasian Persuasion. If you find this offensive or think this to be a racial – you don’t know me at all.

This is a list of our favorite dead people’s nicknames thus far:

Moonrunner,
Main Main,
Pop,
Turtle,
Pluke,
Bamama,
Cry Baby,
Big Baby,
Stick,
Dude,
Slick,
Weed,
Lil Mo,
Mr. Popcorn,
Rock City,
Baby Sister Blue (also Blu),
Boy Blue,
Bing Bong,
Sparky Brylcreem,
Square,
Hacksaw,
Pookie V,
Moon Pie,
Lil Man,
Chief,
Son (mother's name was Mae Thelma),
Foot,
Bobo,
Bootsie,
Spool Head,
Black,
Red,
Boo,
Prescious Tootsie Pie,
Baby Bro,
Hornie,
Aunt Bill,
The River Rat,
Rooster,
June Bug,
Swindock,
Squirrel,
Tater Bug,
Pistol Pete,
Daddy Jack (daughter's name was Acquanette),
D-Man,
Cool Papa,
Doo Lit,
PeeWee,
Whiskey,
Poone,
Jelly Roll,
Junebug Hardtimes,
Loveangel,
Santa Claus (wife's name was Sweetie),
Good Rockin' Daddy,
Tipping Willy,
Popeye,
Mother Tootie,
Kitty Bill,
Fruitjar,
MaGoo,
Nig,
Boy Man,
Po-Boy,
Hambone,
Nuddie,
Tenn,
Autolene,
Toddie,
Frog,
Ma-Dear,
Big Momma,
Dankey,
Beauty Black,
Pluto,
Boo,
Shakem-up,
Fat Fish,
Snow,
PoorBoy,
Pig,
Boss Ugly Bob,
Wimpy,
Moochie,
Nunu,
Pie,
C-May,
Big Daddy,
Duck

Now, I know that people are “known” by other names. For example, if your name is Robert but you are known as Bob, it’s only fitting to have that published in the paper when you die. I find it hard to believe that they had to publish “Junebug Hardtimes” in a man’s obituary in order for the world to figure out who he was. I’m sure he fought his whole life to get away from a name like that and there goes his wife, putting it out there for one last humiliation. However, I would like to thank these people for providing what has been an on-going source of entertainment for my family. Even my Baby Girl is in on it now. She always asked me “who done passed” when she sees me reading the paper. Poor kid, she better hope her uncle doesn’t write her obit – he calls her “Pooter Head”.

I Swear It Was Water

When I was 16 years old, you could say that I was far from the model child. My mother would say that I was a B!@*% - but nobody really cares about her opinion. Most of the conversations that I had with my mother while I was growing up occurred in the bathroom. It was the only place that I could have a captive audience for whatever I was trying to get over on her that day.

On this particular day, my mother was in the shower and I was standing in the bathroom trying desperately to convince her that I should be allowed to spend the night with one of my girlfriends. Now, bear in mind, I’m 16, I have a steady boyfriend, I’m asking to spend the night with a friend that I probably hadn’t hung out with in 6 months or so and my mother had audacity to say NO. Uuhhhh – MO-THER – Why not? I mean, it was sooooo obvious that I was telling the truth, how dare she deny me?!? Anyway, the entire time my poor mother was in the shower I’m standing out there, in the steam, frizzing my hair going on and on about how unfair she is, how everyone else gets to spend the night, I PROMISE I’m going to be at my girlfriend’s house, blah, blah, lie, lie.

Finally she turns off the water and opens the shower curtain to grab her towel. She is drying off and I’m steady griping. “You don’t understand me, why can’t I go; you never let me do anything, why can’t you just let me, whine, gripe, beg.” The whole time I’m carrying on, my mother never said a word, she just kept drying off, trying to ignore me. Finally, I guess she’d listened to enough. All of a sudden, I heard this noise come from her – the kind people make when they are trying to clear phlegm from their throat and the next thing I knew she had SPIT in my face. That’s right folks, my very own mother, the one who carried me in her womb, cared for me and nurtured me, nursed me through sickness, fed me and clothed me, SPIT on me! I was shocked!

I stood there in silence (which is what I believe she was shooting for) and disbelief for about 10 seconds before I calmly said, “You SPIT on me!” Now, the look on my mother’s face was priceless. I could tell that she was trying desperately not to laugh but she kept her composer, looked me right in the eye and said, “No I didn’t. That was water from my hair.” Like I had all of a sudden been stricken blind and didn’t SEE her spit in my face. It wasn’t like she waited for me to turn and leave the room before she hurled saliva on me – Nooooo. She spit directly in my face – on my right cheek next to my nose to be exact. I was LIVID! I turned on my heels, marched to my room and slammed the door.

Over the course of the next 12 years, every time I would recount this story in my mother’s presence, she would stick to her “water from my hair” defense. She denied the fact that she has accosted me with a bodily fluid for over a decade. About 5 years ago, we were at a family gathering and one of my aunts was talking about trials she was experiencing with her then 14 year old. My mother was trying to comfort her by telling her stories of my wayward teenage days when I finally heard the words I’d been waiting to hear for 12 years. She said, “Just wait until she’s 16. If you can make it through 16 without spitting in her face, you’ll be lucky”. FINALLY – vindication! After all of those years of her trying to convince me that I was a complete nut job, “I’m your mother, why would I spit on you?” she had finally admitted it.

My mother loves to tell this story now and when she does she always gets the same reaction from her friends, “You spit on your child”. To which she proudly replies, “I sure did, spit right in her face. It shut her up though and she stayed out of the bathroom after that”. Over the years, the laws on child abuse have changed dramatically. You can no longer spank your children in public without someone calling the cops. You can’t yank a branch off a tree and whip them with it even if you call it a “switch”. But you better bet that it’s not against the law to spit on a bitching teenage girl – Nope – you can cover that little heifer in phlegm and there’s nothing anybody can do about it. So all you teenage girls out there who think you can get away with smarting off to your parents – make sure you wear a mask – you never know when your mother might snap.

Love you Mother.

Thank God I Didn't Kill Her

When I was growing up my Mother always knew she had two sure fire ways of keeping me in line. One was to tell my Daddy on me and the other was to guilt me with “if your Grandmother knew the stunts you pulled, it would kill her”. I’m still not sure what “pulling a stunt” is. I’ve heard of people performing stunts but the actually pulling of a stunt isn’t completely clear to me – perhaps we will discuss this term later. Needless to say, if you tell a child often enough that it’s behavior could possibly cause the death of a family member; eventually they will internalize that information.

In my life, I’ve done A LOT of stuff that I’m not very proud of but none of which I ever thought would actually KILL my grandmother. That is, none but one. When I was 19 years old, I became pregnant - out of wedlock. In the South in a Baptist family, this is like THE biggest no, no ever. Not because it can ruin your life, or because it’s immoral, noooo. The reason it’s the #1 worst thing is because the ladies at church will whisper about you. Yes Lord, a good ole knocking up will cause way more buzz than Ms. Ethel singing off key or Brother Larry’s drinking problem. If your child/grandchild becomes impregnated by some heathen boy, you can be removed from the congregation and forced to give up your spot on the Heaven Express if so voted by the Deacons.

Imagine my horror when that little stick turned blue! I just knew that I had finally done it. I had finally pulled the one stunt that would cause my grandmother to drop dead. I was pregnant and not married. Now, being from the Bible Belt, I immediately knew that not only was my grandmother going to die but that I was going to burn in Hell. There was no way out of it. I could beg for forgiveness but once the church ladies start that whispering, I believe they can actually drown out the prayers of the “sinners” if they want to. So there I was, 19, pregnant, unwed, about to commit homicide and going to Hell – there was only one thing to do – pretend it wasn’t happening. For 4 months I did just that, pretended it wasn’t happening. I finally told my mother in February and my Father in March (the baby was due in July). Finally on my Birthday (April 21st) I knew I was going to have to tell her because I was going to her house after work that day. I was 6 months along and had definitely been practicing the “eating for two” philosophy in my diet. I’d gained about 40 lbs and there was no way she wasn’t going to notice. I sat at work all day, trying to get up the nerve to call her. At around 3:30 in the afternoon, I realized that I had to do it – I was going to have to kill my grandmother on my Birthday. Man, when God punishes you – he really lets you have it.

Anyway, I picked up the phone and called……Pizza Hut. I was going to need strength for this. My pizza arrived; I stuffed my face and made the call. I cried and cried as I told her how sorry I was and how much I was going to miss her. From the other end of the phone I heard, “bring that boy to my house tonight” and she hung up. I was overjoyed – she wasn’t dead! Thank God, I didn’t kill her! Thank you Lord, thank you Lord! I was dancing around my desk when it dawned on me………she isn’t dead………that means I have to face her and “bring the boy”. Crap – maybe I’ll get hit by a bus – come on Lord, just a little bus. I don’t want to die but I do want to avoid the wrath of my grandmother. I left my office and walked across the parking lot without looking for cars……nothing.

That evening, as I sat in my grandmother’s living room, I had never been so uncomfortable in my life. For one, I was carrying a lot of water weight but most of all; it was because “he” was there. That boy – “he” – that’s what she called him. The first thing out of her mouth was, “when are you getting married?” I explained that I didn’t want to get married. That although I loved my boyfriend (who later turned out to be my husband), I wasn’t ready to get married and didn’t think that getting pregnant was a reason to wed. She looked me right in the eye and said, “the least you can do it get married so that the child can have a name”. AHHHHH – now I get it. Obviously, in the state of Tennessee, in order to name your child you must first be married. I had no idea!

However, the more I thought about it, it started to make sense. I knew a girl named Female (pronounced Fe-ma –ly) and I went to school with a kid we called Lil Boy. It never dawned on me that maybe their parents weren’t married. How sad. I really don’t think it’s fair that children be penalized for the sins of their parents but obviously in the South it’s common. However, I resigned that I would not allow that kind of stigma be put on my child. I continued with my pregnancy, making list after list of baby names. I had narrowed it down to several and finally decided on the perfect one before I went into labor. On July 31st I gave birth to a beautiful little boy. He was perfect in every way. They wheeled his bassinet into my room and placed him close to my bed so that I could see him for the very first time. I checked is hands and feet to make sure he had 10 fingers and toes. I was overjoyed. But my joy was short lived when I looked at the end of the bassinet and saw that my secret was out. There, on a little blue card, printed in permanent black marker on the “name” line it said “BABY BOY ZUENDEL”.

To this day we joke about me having to tell my grandmother about my first pregnancy. One of the things that I learned in all of it was that my grandmother wasn’t nearly as frail as my mother wanted me to believe. I learned that I was not capable of killing a family member with the “stunts I pulled” unless the stunt involved shooting one of them. I learned that “eating for two” is just an excuse to become a COW. But the most valuable lesson I learned was, if you live in Tennessee and get pregnant out of wedlock, you’d better buy a bus ticket to Illinois if you want to name your own kid.

Hidden Treasures

Several years ago, I made a conscious decision to become a parent. I dreamed of having a beautiful little person that I could love and adore. Someone who needed me that I could nurture and care for and one day, send off into the world to be a contributing member of society. What I got was a beautiful, sensitive, intelligent, loving, con artist.

We had a satellite installed at our home several months ago. The package came with 3 receivers – one in our bedroom, one in the den and one in the garage (that’s a whole other story). The point is we didn’t feel that a 7 year old needed a satellite connection in her room so she only has, GASP, local TV stations. This is a bone of contention with her as she is somehow of the assumption that her body requires at least 5 hours of Cartoon Network a day. When she is good and has earned the privilege, I allow her to pile up in my bed and watch her cartoons on the weekends. The rule is, she can lie in my bed, build her nest with the 37 pillows I require for sleep and watch her shows but under no circumstances is she to go through my stuff. This means, stay out of my bathroom, my closet, my nightstand and my dresser drawers. She has a tendency to “misplace” things like my hairbrush, tweezers, the plunger and birth control pills so it’s just better if she be restricted to the bed. She is very aware of these rules and knows that her violation of said rules will prohibit her being able to hang out in my room and melt her brain with television.

Yesterday afternoon she had been very good and asked if she could watch TV in my room. I was doing laundry and watching something on E! which she was completely bored with so I agreed. After about an hour, I went to check on her and put some clothes away. She was standing on the far side of my bed kind of crouched down. I said, “What are you doing”? She replied, without ever taking her eyes off of the screen, “watching TV”. I told her to stand up and she did but kept her hands conspicuously hidden behind the bed. I asked, “What is in your hand”? She held out her hand that was full of little wadded up candy wrappers. I recognized these as a few Hershey Miniatures I’d put in my nightstand drawer. I asked her where she got the candy to which she replied, in her most innocent voice, “I found them”. She found them………ahhhh. Obviously my child wanted me to believe that she had been on some sort of archeological dig in my bedroom and unearthed the secret tomb of Willie Wonka. I told her to go to her room. On her way there, she remembered where she had found them, “they were in your nightstand drawer”, she says, as if sharing the location of the hidden treasure with me would get her out of hot water. I explained that in order to FIND something it has to be LOST and I suggested she FIND her way into her room before I FOUND my hand on her backside.

I went outside to smoke a cigarette and try and remember why it was that I had agreed to let her watch TV in my room in the first place. The reason I had allowed the privilege that day was because she had followed all of the rules, she had asked permission before riding her bike all over the neighborhood looking for stray kids to play with, she had come home when she was supposed to, she wore shoes and socks without having to be told (this is a BIG deal at my house) so that’s why I had agreed to let her invade my bedroom. Baby Girl had set me up. She knew that because she’d been so good all day and followed all of the guidelines, that I would let my guard down at some point and I did. On a normal day, I would never have allowed her to be in my room for an hour without looking in on her 50 times to see what she was doing. She played me! I couldn’t believe that I had been outsmarted by a 7 year old.

I finished my smoke, wiped up the puddle of drool on the table and preceded back in the house. Baby Girl met me in the kitchen with her head hanging low. She apologized for breaking the rules and swore she would never do it again, all while looking at the floor. I was about to explain again the need to be able to trust her not to break the rules, when I realized she was smiling. I tilted her head up and asked what was so funny. My beautiful, intelligent, loving Baby Girl smiled sweetly and said, “You’re always saying that you’re fat so I knew you shouldn’t eat that candy. I was just trying to help”. What the heck am I supposed to say to that?!? I can’t beat her – she’s my child, I love her and I would never do anything to her……….that could be proven in court. So, I decided to be the adult. I said, “Baby Girl, you always tell me that I’m not fat when I say those things”. To which she replied, “And you always tell me not to argue with you.”

I went back out to the patio to smoke and count. I try to count before I react when I am angry or upset. It’s supposed to let you calm down and not say or do something rash in the heat of the moment. So, I’m out there counting……..46, 47, 48……….and she opens the door………..49, 50, 51. “Mama, I’m getting hungry”…52, 53, 54…., “What are we having for dinner” …55, 56, 57…….. I look at this beautiful, precious little angel standing in my doorway. She is everything I could’ve ever wanted in a child. She is my entire world and my heart sometimes aches with the abundance of love I have for her. I look at her and say, “Look around in there and see what you can FIND”. I’m sorry, I’ve said that I am grown; I never claimed to be mature. However, because she is my child and bears half of my DNA she quickly responded, “Does that mean you LOST our dinner?” then smiled and shut the door…………. 436, 437, 438………