And I'd like to politely request that it leave me the hell alone.
It is no secret to anyone that I was, shall we say, a "spirited" child. It is truly a testament to the power of sheer self-control on my parent's part (and my sister's) that I survived my childhood and teen years. People say that a lot, but seriously. If I was my parents, I probably would have found a good place to hide my body.
So, when the possibility of having my own children entered my life, I have to admit that there was a legitimate part of me that was hesitant. I knew what was coming for me. I'd like to also add that Jason was a bit of "spirited" child himself. We were convinced our child would be the culmination of our childhood selves, come to torment us in revenge for our parent's suffering.
But when Nicholas was born, we were baffled. He was immediately an amazingly easy child. From one week old, he slept in his room with no trouble. He was sleeping through the night at 5 months old, and still sleeps roughly 10-11 hours straight every night. He's not a picky eater. He says please and thank you at the appropriate times. He's out-going and friendly. He behaves himself when we go out to eat (mostly). We couldn't understand it. We were so amazed by the presence of the complete opposite of our expectations. Our running joke is that Nicholas is the buffer, the prep child so to speak, for our next child that will surely be the "payback" we've been awaiting.
Well, the joke is over. Our "amazingly easy child" now presents with daily challenges we feel unfit to battle. None of our parenting experience has prepared us for a child who tells us "no" at every request. For a child who replies, "I will NOT put my cup in the sink.", or "Yes you will turn on Thomas!!". Or my personal favorite - a child who laughs at me while continuing to do the very thing I've specifically just forbade him from even thinking of ever doing again.
Karma, you sneaky devil. You had us convinced we would have some notice, a whole new child to prepare for before having to enter the battlefield of troublesome children. You pulled the wool over my eyes, and allowed me to believe - if even for a second - that I had maybe, just maybe, been given a brief reprieve from the retribution that is surely coming for me.
Silly mommy...
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Saturday, January 7, 2012
... I just want to potty in peace
Everybody pees. Everybody poops. Let's just go ahead and clear that up right now so there is no shock later when you discover that I, too in fact, potty.
Now that that's cleared up, I confess I just want to potty in peace. Any parent knows exactly what I mean. Once your children are old enough to be mobile on their own, you lose the guarantee of private potty breaks. Once your children become mobile, you resort to tactics like locking the door (which isn't always effective), sneaking out of the room while they are otherwise occupied (which is rarely effective), and finally just letting it all hang out and leaving the door wide open (which is always disappointing). Once, when Nick was just learning to walk I snuck out of the room to for a quick pee break. Predictably, as soon as his "Mommy's GONE!" radar went off, he came searching for me. In this particular case, I had left the door open so as to hear any stumbles and tumbles from the new walker. Nick came toddling into the bathroom, walking his hands down the wall for support, on his way to come climb in my lap. Yep, in my lap while I pee. We've all done it. Sometimes it's just easier than hearing the tantrum. Parenthood rocks. Anyway, walking his hands down the wall.....He reaches the shower curtain, and of course doesn't realize that it's NOT a wall. So, when he braced against the curtain, he tumbled forward. Keep in mind, during all of this, I'm on the pot. I had to jump up, mid-stream(!), to catch my toddler and keep him from plunging headfirst into the bottom of a porcelain tub.
And once you start potty-training, bathroom time becomes a group effort. Constant encouragement is required (Good job Nick, you went POTTY!!) , and it always requires a mini-party in the bathroom since there needs to be parental supervision for each trip. The mental connection of bathroom = private time isn't made for toddlers because Mom and/or Dad is always in the bathroom with them. So when I try to go to the bathroom, Nick thinks he needs to be there as well. I get his logic, but I don't much care. I just want to potty in peace. I want to handle my business on my own.
During a recent bathroom break, Nick decided he needed to participate. Thankfully, I locked the door this time. Well, technically I forgot to lock the door until he busted in on me. But once he reminded me, then I locked the door. He did not take kindly to this. For the majority of the time I was in the bathroom, he alternated between banging on the door, driving a truck on the door (Huge no-no in our house...Cars and trucks belong on the floor, thank you), trying to jimmy open the door, and saying my name over and over. Finally, he got quiet and I assumed he had given up and walked away. Silly Mommy. Upon finishing my business, I washed up and opened the door. Only to almost trip over my son, who promptly looked up at me and announced, "Mommy, I pooped."
Fantastic. Not only is bathroom time a group effort, now it's a team sport.
Now that that's cleared up, I confess I just want to potty in peace. Any parent knows exactly what I mean. Once your children are old enough to be mobile on their own, you lose the guarantee of private potty breaks. Once your children become mobile, you resort to tactics like locking the door (which isn't always effective), sneaking out of the room while they are otherwise occupied (which is rarely effective), and finally just letting it all hang out and leaving the door wide open (which is always disappointing). Once, when Nick was just learning to walk I snuck out of the room to for a quick pee break. Predictably, as soon as his "Mommy's GONE!" radar went off, he came searching for me. In this particular case, I had left the door open so as to hear any stumbles and tumbles from the new walker. Nick came toddling into the bathroom, walking his hands down the wall for support, on his way to come climb in my lap. Yep, in my lap while I pee. We've all done it. Sometimes it's just easier than hearing the tantrum. Parenthood rocks. Anyway, walking his hands down the wall.....He reaches the shower curtain, and of course doesn't realize that it's NOT a wall. So, when he braced against the curtain, he tumbled forward. Keep in mind, during all of this, I'm on the pot. I had to jump up, mid-stream(!), to catch my toddler and keep him from plunging headfirst into the bottom of a porcelain tub.
And once you start potty-training, bathroom time becomes a group effort. Constant encouragement is required (Good job Nick, you went POTTY!!) , and it always requires a mini-party in the bathroom since there needs to be parental supervision for each trip. The mental connection of bathroom = private time isn't made for toddlers because Mom and/or Dad is always in the bathroom with them. So when I try to go to the bathroom, Nick thinks he needs to be there as well. I get his logic, but I don't much care. I just want to potty in peace. I want to handle my business on my own.
During a recent bathroom break, Nick decided he needed to participate. Thankfully, I locked the door this time. Well, technically I forgot to lock the door until he busted in on me. But once he reminded me, then I locked the door. He did not take kindly to this. For the majority of the time I was in the bathroom, he alternated between banging on the door, driving a truck on the door (Huge no-no in our house...Cars and trucks belong on the floor, thank you), trying to jimmy open the door, and saying my name over and over. Finally, he got quiet and I assumed he had given up and walked away. Silly Mommy. Upon finishing my business, I washed up and opened the door. Only to almost trip over my son, who promptly looked up at me and announced, "Mommy, I pooped."
Fantastic. Not only is bathroom time a group effort, now it's a team sport.
Monday, January 2, 2012
... I am an early bird
It is 7:05 on Monday morning. I do not have to work today, but I've been up for 2 hours. I have cleaned my kitchen, gotten caught up on Gossip Girl while having my coffee (OMG is Chuck dead?!?!?), fired off a few emails, and started a few new blog entries. While I'm not this productive every morning, I confess I love getting up before everyone else. I love having time to myself to do whatever it is I want to do. That may mean going for a run, doing laundry, cleaning up, or just reading a good book while enjoying a cup of coffee.
Jason is the exact opposite of this. He is definitely a night owl. In fact, if work hours didn't dictate our sleep schedules, I'm not sure we'd ever see each other. I'm convinced we'd pass like ships in the night, his bed-time of choice being my chosen time to rise.
Of course this means that I, by default, am usually the one up with Nicholas each morning. And if I'm already up, and have had a chance to ease into my morning by whatever means I chose that day, I don't mind. If I've already had some "me" time, I love getting him up and spending some one-on-one time with him. But if I am woken up by him, and I have to immediately tend to him first, then I feel like I was robbed of my morning. I feel cheated. (Yes, yes I know. This is parenthood. That's the way it is, your kids get all your time. You have no time for yourself. Whatever. This is confession, right? I'm confessing here, no judgement allowed, so hush. And for the record, I'm in the middle of an epiphany as I write this, so SSHH!) After many days/weeks in a row of getting up with him by myself, I end up feeling like it's not fair that it always falls to me to do so, but I suppose in reality what I truly feel is unfair is that I didn't get my "me" time.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I hear my little monkey jumping around in his bed. Good thing I've already been up for awhile.
Jason is the exact opposite of this. He is definitely a night owl. In fact, if work hours didn't dictate our sleep schedules, I'm not sure we'd ever see each other. I'm convinced we'd pass like ships in the night, his bed-time of choice being my chosen time to rise.
Of course this means that I, by default, am usually the one up with Nicholas each morning. And if I'm already up, and have had a chance to ease into my morning by whatever means I chose that day, I don't mind. If I've already had some "me" time, I love getting him up and spending some one-on-one time with him. But if I am woken up by him, and I have to immediately tend to him first, then I feel like I was robbed of my morning. I feel cheated. (Yes, yes I know. This is parenthood. That's the way it is, your kids get all your time. You have no time for yourself. Whatever. This is confession, right? I'm confessing here, no judgement allowed, so hush. And for the record, I'm in the middle of an epiphany as I write this, so SSHH!) After many days/weeks in a row of getting up with him by myself, I end up feeling like it's not fair that it always falls to me to do so, but I suppose in reality what I truly feel is unfair is that I didn't get my "me" time.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I hear my little monkey jumping around in his bed. Good thing I've already been up for awhile.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
... we are all selfish.
Yes, I know. That's a bold statement. But it's the truth. Think about it. When someone cuts us off in line at the store, why do we get mad? Because we were there first and we have to get in and out of the store in under 10 minutes so we can get onto Main St by 2:37 so we can be in the car-line by 2:50 so our car can be seen from the school door and little Timmy/Billy/Suzy/Ashley doesn't have to wait for us to move all the way up the line before getting in the car. Because clearly nuclear bombs would fall from the sky if we ended up at the back of car line, all thanks to the jerk who cut in front of us in line at the store.
When we can't find the specific item we are looking to buy for a gift, we get upset. Why? Because so-and-so really wanted that gift. Right. And also wrong. We also get upset because we wanted to be the one who gave so-and-so that gift, so that so-and-so could say "Don't you just love my blah-blitty-blah?? What's-her-name gave it me!!" We want the credit. Why? BECAUSE WE'RE SELFISH!! Oh sure, we want to see the look on our children's faces when they open up that perfect thing you know they'll love. But in truth, we also secretly relish knowing that we were the ones gave them that perfect thing we know they'll love. We love knowing that THEY know Mommy and Daddy delivered the goods.
And ladies, why do we get upset when our husbands/boyfriends/girlfriends/person we pass on the street doesn't notice our new jeans/sweater/shoes/haircut? BECAUSE WE'RE SELFISH! We want someone to gush and ooh and ahh over whatever shiny new thing and tell us how wonderful we...I mean, it is. Ahem.... We get upset because we have a basic, primal need for attention and we need someone besides ourselves (because that could be awkward) to say "Oh! Look at you!"
What most of us fail to realize is that this basic need extends to every aspect of our lives, and if not properly managed, can be dangerous. Wives get upset and nit-picky because husbands don't stand up and applaud us when we manage to successfully balance laundry, dinner, bath-time, bed-time and sex all in one night. They don't realize all the skillful maneuverings and mental plannings that took place during the workday, trying to plot out how best to accomplish all the things on our to-do list that evening. (And yes, husbands, sex is on our to-do lists). So when we manage to check off all the boxes on our list, we feel victorious and a bit like Superwoman, and all we really want is someone else to say "you kicked some serious to-do list butt tonight!". Instead, we usually get....nothing. So then we get mad, and stew over the fact that we slaved over a hot stove and washed his nasty socks, and bathed his child, and blah blah blah, and he didn't even notice!!! Not because we're crazy. BECAUSE WE'RE SELFISH! We get so wrapped up in needing someone to pat us on the back, that we forget that dinner needed to be cooked, laundry needed to washed, the kid needed to be bathed and put to bed, and we were probably going to have sex anyway. We get mad and create problems and pick fights because we can't just come right out and say "I just need you to notice." It's okay for us to be mad at little things, like leaving laundry on the floor all the time (...ugh, the basket is RIGHT THERE!), but it's too much for us to admit that we are mad because we feel like we aren't given enough attention. Why does it feel selfish to admit that we are selfish? Admitting we need more focus on us, as moms/wives, is - for some reason - really hard to do. And right or wrong, sometimes I just need a gold star for making it through the day. I confess that my husband does not always get the credit he deserves because I don't always see how much he does to help out, because I'm too focused on the credit I'm not getting. I confess that while yes, I may in fact be crazy, mostly I'm probably just selfish.
When we can't find the specific item we are looking to buy for a gift, we get upset. Why? Because so-and-so really wanted that gift. Right. And also wrong. We also get upset because we wanted to be the one who gave so-and-so that gift, so that so-and-so could say "Don't you just love my blah-blitty-blah?? What's-her-name gave it me!!" We want the credit. Why? BECAUSE WE'RE SELFISH!! Oh sure, we want to see the look on our children's faces when they open up that perfect thing you know they'll love. But in truth, we also secretly relish knowing that we were the ones gave them that perfect thing we know they'll love. We love knowing that THEY know Mommy and Daddy delivered the goods.
And ladies, why do we get upset when our husbands/boyfriends/girlfriends/person we pass on the street doesn't notice our new jeans/sweater/shoes/haircut? BECAUSE WE'RE SELFISH! We want someone to gush and ooh and ahh over whatever shiny new thing and tell us how wonderful we...I mean, it is. Ahem.... We get upset because we have a basic, primal need for attention and we need someone besides ourselves (because that could be awkward) to say "Oh! Look at you!"
What most of us fail to realize is that this basic need extends to every aspect of our lives, and if not properly managed, can be dangerous. Wives get upset and nit-picky because husbands don't stand up and applaud us when we manage to successfully balance laundry, dinner, bath-time, bed-time and sex all in one night. They don't realize all the skillful maneuverings and mental plannings that took place during the workday, trying to plot out how best to accomplish all the things on our to-do list that evening. (And yes, husbands, sex is on our to-do lists). So when we manage to check off all the boxes on our list, we feel victorious and a bit like Superwoman, and all we really want is someone else to say "you kicked some serious to-do list butt tonight!". Instead, we usually get....nothing. So then we get mad, and stew over the fact that we slaved over a hot stove and washed his nasty socks, and bathed his child, and blah blah blah, and he didn't even notice!!! Not because we're crazy. BECAUSE WE'RE SELFISH! We get so wrapped up in needing someone to pat us on the back, that we forget that dinner needed to be cooked, laundry needed to washed, the kid needed to be bathed and put to bed, and we were probably going to have sex anyway. We get mad and create problems and pick fights because we can't just come right out and say "I just need you to notice." It's okay for us to be mad at little things, like leaving laundry on the floor all the time (...ugh, the basket is RIGHT THERE!), but it's too much for us to admit that we are mad because we feel like we aren't given enough attention. Why does it feel selfish to admit that we are selfish? Admitting we need more focus on us, as moms/wives, is - for some reason - really hard to do. And right or wrong, sometimes I just need a gold star for making it through the day. I confess that my husband does not always get the credit he deserves because I don't always see how much he does to help out, because I'm too focused on the credit I'm not getting. I confess that while yes, I may in fact be crazy, mostly I'm probably just selfish.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
...rocks are better than Karts.
I am not one of those people who dreads the arrival of their birthday. I freaking LOVE my birthday. I love having a reason to celebrate, I love having a day just for me. And of course, like any one else, I love presents! (Whatever. Don't judge me. I'm not materialistic. You love stuff too.)
So this year, I gave my husband very specific suggestions for gift ideas. I was very specific. I even told him where in which store what item was located. This was a no-brainer birthday for him. Go to said store, pick up said item, bring it home, give it to said birthday girl. Because my husband is usually spot-on with gifts and cards, I got pretty excited as my birthday drew near in hopes of the new shiny things I was sure to get.
However, a few days before my big day, Jason dropped a few hints that he was out buying birthday gifts that day. After putting Nick to bed, I was summoned to the living room to see what Jason got that day. In my hand he placed an item I was completely baffled by. I had no idea what this thing was. He helped me along by putting some of the pieces of the puzzle together. As it turned out, this item was a Wii adapter of sorts. Upon further investigation, I soon discovered our Wii menu now included the old school version of Mario Kart. Jason hands me Wii-mote and says with a large grin, "Happy Early Birthday!"
Um.
What?
Seriously? Did you just buy "me" a birthday gift for you to play with? After all my instructions (forget hints, these were all dead giveaways) for gift suggestions, you bought me Mario Kart??
As it turned out, that was NOT my birthday present, but a gimmick to throw me off the birthday gift trail. Later that evening, my wonderful, lawless husband risked incarceration to steal me a piece of Wilmington history. Last week, local TV crews begin demolishing what was known as "the Rivercourt" on one of my favorite shows, One Tree Hill. It's just a concrete pad used as a river-side basketball court. Jason snuck over to the site and stole 3 large chunks of the court for me. It may sound REALLY lame that my husband got me chunks of rock for my birthday, but those chunks of rock were the perfect gift I didn't even know I wanted.
Overall, my 1st 29th birthday was pretty amazing. In addition to my treasured bits of concrete (and of course, Mario Kart), Jason also gave me some gorgeous jewelry, a tear-jerker of a card, and time to myself. Which, as all mommies know, is really the perfect gift after all. I suppose I'll keep him around another year ;)
So this year, I gave my husband very specific suggestions for gift ideas. I was very specific. I even told him where in which store what item was located. This was a no-brainer birthday for him. Go to said store, pick up said item, bring it home, give it to said birthday girl. Because my husband is usually spot-on with gifts and cards, I got pretty excited as my birthday drew near in hopes of the new shiny things I was sure to get.
However, a few days before my big day, Jason dropped a few hints that he was out buying birthday gifts that day. After putting Nick to bed, I was summoned to the living room to see what Jason got that day. In my hand he placed an item I was completely baffled by. I had no idea what this thing was. He helped me along by putting some of the pieces of the puzzle together. As it turned out, this item was a Wii adapter of sorts. Upon further investigation, I soon discovered our Wii menu now included the old school version of Mario Kart. Jason hands me Wii-mote and says with a large grin, "Happy Early Birthday!"
Um.
What?
Seriously? Did you just buy "me" a birthday gift for you to play with? After all my instructions (forget hints, these were all dead giveaways) for gift suggestions, you bought me Mario Kart??
As it turned out, that was NOT my birthday present, but a gimmick to throw me off the birthday gift trail. Later that evening, my wonderful, lawless husband risked incarceration to steal me a piece of Wilmington history. Last week, local TV crews begin demolishing what was known as "the Rivercourt" on one of my favorite shows, One Tree Hill. It's just a concrete pad used as a river-side basketball court. Jason snuck over to the site and stole 3 large chunks of the court for me. It may sound REALLY lame that my husband got me chunks of rock for my birthday, but those chunks of rock were the perfect gift I didn't even know I wanted.
Overall, my 1st 29th birthday was pretty amazing. In addition to my treasured bits of concrete (and of course, Mario Kart), Jason also gave me some gorgeous jewelry, a tear-jerker of a card, and time to myself. Which, as all mommies know, is really the perfect gift after all. I suppose I'll keep him around another year ;)
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
... I hate the number 179
179 is a maddening number. It is the number of customer statements that had to be prepared and mailed this week....two days before Thanksgiving. Happy Holidays.
179 is a numeric denial code from Medicare, indicating that the time I spend working said denial will be especially infuriating.
But most maddening, it is the number that continues to elude me on the scale. In a previous post, I mentioned I have lost and gained the same 5 pounds over the last 6 (now 7) months. It is the 5 pounds between 180 and 185. I have teetered all the way up to 185.6, and as recently as this morning, all the way down to 180.8. Over the last few days, I have worked hard to break that barrier before Thanksgiving. I have watched my carb, as well as my calorie intake. I have downed water like a drought victim. I have run to burn extra calories. But alas, 179 continues to elude me. It taunts from the other side of 180. It waves at me and points and laughs like a devilish little elf, knowing I can't reach it. Just wait, 179, your time is coming. When I finally get to you, you and I may do a little dance (... make a little love...). I confess hate the number 179....but I can focus on nothing else until I reach it.
This is what that devilish little elf looks like....
179 is a numeric denial code from Medicare, indicating that the time I spend working said denial will be especially infuriating.
But most maddening, it is the number that continues to elude me on the scale. In a previous post, I mentioned I have lost and gained the same 5 pounds over the last 6 (now 7) months. It is the 5 pounds between 180 and 185. I have teetered all the way up to 185.6, and as recently as this morning, all the way down to 180.8. Over the last few days, I have worked hard to break that barrier before Thanksgiving. I have watched my carb, as well as my calorie intake. I have downed water like a drought victim. I have run to burn extra calories. But alas, 179 continues to elude me. It taunts from the other side of 180. It waves at me and points and laughs like a devilish little elf, knowing I can't reach it. Just wait, 179, your time is coming. When I finally get to you, you and I may do a little dance (... make a little love...). I confess hate the number 179....but I can focus on nothing else until I reach it.
This is what that devilish little elf looks like....
... I am thankful to be a "Kook"
Today is Thanksgiving. It is also our first Thanksgiving in Wilmington, away from our families. Jason is on call this week, so we will be sticking around town and creating our own Thanksgiving magic. We have another couple coming over to join us and it sounds like it will be a fun, relaxing day. But as with most holidays, today has me reminiscing over past Thanksgivings and what I am particularly thankful for.
As I think about past holidays, one in particular always sticks out as especially humorous. It also reminds me why I am thankful to be a Cook, also frequently referred by ourselves as the "Kooks" (the Cooks are my mothers family). A few years ago, the Cooks were gathering for our annual holiday meal. I don't recall if it was for Thanksgiving or Christmas, but I clearly remember there was a turkey involved. Here is why...
This particular year, my mother had volunteered to cook the turkey. Well, my grandmother being who she is kept calling my mom wanting to know if she had started the turkey yet. To quote my aunt on this particular detail, "she wants everything done hours ahead of time and cooked until it's black". Now, my mother being who she is, does not like to be pestered about anything, so with each phone call, the tension grew. Until finally, my mother showed up at my grandparent's house, turkey in tow. When I say turkey in tow, I mean in the roasting pan, already in a brown-in bag, ready to go in the oven, raw as it can be. She drops the roasting pan on the table, exclaims "I'm not cooking this f***ing turkey" (yes, we Kooks swear, even more so during the holidays), and walks back out leaving my aunt, my grandparents, and a raw turkey staring at the closed door.
Of course, my aunt, being who she is, tried to remedy the situation by taking the turkey back to my mothers (if memory serves, she walked to my mother's house - which is next door - in her slippers and robe, roasting pan in hand), trying to convince her to just go ahead with the plans for the day and in fact, "cook the f***ing turkey". Predictably, this did not work. My aunt returned to my grandparents house, mad as a hornet, and proceeded to cook the bird.
In the end, a good time - and a good laugh - was had by all (including my grandmother and my mother) at the sheer ridiculousness of the whole thing. It has joined a very long list of family anecdotes that make up the Kook family, and in truth, one of many reasons I am so thankful I am a part of this crazy, wacky, ridiculous family. We have had our share, and in some cases, more than our share of hard times and struggles. But I would never trade them in. They put the fun in dysfunctional and the "Kook" in kooky.
As I think about past holidays, one in particular always sticks out as especially humorous. It also reminds me why I am thankful to be a Cook, also frequently referred by ourselves as the "Kooks" (the Cooks are my mothers family). A few years ago, the Cooks were gathering for our annual holiday meal. I don't recall if it was for Thanksgiving or Christmas, but I clearly remember there was a turkey involved. Here is why...
This particular year, my mother had volunteered to cook the turkey. Well, my grandmother being who she is kept calling my mom wanting to know if she had started the turkey yet. To quote my aunt on this particular detail, "she wants everything done hours ahead of time and cooked until it's black". Now, my mother being who she is, does not like to be pestered about anything, so with each phone call, the tension grew. Until finally, my mother showed up at my grandparent's house, turkey in tow. When I say turkey in tow, I mean in the roasting pan, already in a brown-in bag, ready to go in the oven, raw as it can be. She drops the roasting pan on the table, exclaims "I'm not cooking this f***ing turkey" (yes, we Kooks swear, even more so during the holidays), and walks back out leaving my aunt, my grandparents, and a raw turkey staring at the closed door.
Of course, my aunt, being who she is, tried to remedy the situation by taking the turkey back to my mothers (if memory serves, she walked to my mother's house - which is next door - in her slippers and robe, roasting pan in hand), trying to convince her to just go ahead with the plans for the day and in fact, "cook the f***ing turkey". Predictably, this did not work. My aunt returned to my grandparents house, mad as a hornet, and proceeded to cook the bird.
In the end, a good time - and a good laugh - was had by all (including my grandmother and my mother) at the sheer ridiculousness of the whole thing. It has joined a very long list of family anecdotes that make up the Kook family, and in truth, one of many reasons I am so thankful I am a part of this crazy, wacky, ridiculous family. We have had our share, and in some cases, more than our share of hard times and struggles. But I would never trade them in. They put the fun in dysfunctional and the "Kook" in kooky.
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