Necessity is the Mother of Invention - and I am the Mother of Stupidity

Let me ask you something....on what setting do you wash your Capri Sun drink pouches? Delicate? Ultra-Handwash? Perhaps a simple rinse and drain will do the trick. I digress....

My son, Deuce, will be confirmed this year in the Catholic church. His catechesis requires several service projects along the way. Last year, ZuZu went through the same thing, and along with several projects done with her various sports team and extra-curricular clubs, she sponsored a "Zumba for Haiti" day and collected over $600 to be sent for relief efforts after last year's devastating earthquake. She was very proud and loved being part of such a great effort. Her project was even mentioned in the local diocesan newsletter. Not to be outdone, it was time for little brother to come up with an impressive project (translation: can mommy outdo her own previous service project?).

As with every other elementary/middle school in America, my children's' school is very environmentally conscious. We have paper and cardboard recycling bins in the parking lot, we have gone to electronic correspondence, and our school cafeteria recycles EVERYTHING - water bottles, milk jugs, even the trays (no longer plastic sent through dishwashers - ours are a recycled material sent back to a recycling plant). I did a little research and thought, "we should start a POUCH BRIGADE!"

TerraCycle is a wonderful company that accepts those colorful little drink pouches (i.e. capri sun, minute maid, etc), gives $.02 per pouch to your charity of choice, and then UPcycles them into cute little products. Here's the lunch box we bought to promote the program.


Cute, right? Anyhooooo....it seems simple enough. We signed up online, named our school as the charity, bought a big tub for cafeteria collection, and every Friday, Deuce drags the big bagful home on the bus.


TerraCycle says no need to wash the pouches, but the pouches must be empty and no straws. Simple enough.


The first couple of weeks of school, we were on it. We'd outfit ourselves with surgical gloves, dive in, and throw out the various granola wrappers, milk boxes and potato chip bags that happened to find their way into our "pouches only" bag. We threw out enough straws to stretch from the Liberty Bell to Key West, Florida. And we were ALMOST at the required 500 pouches necessary to mail in our first shipment (postage printed out online and paid by TerraCycle).

Week three and four and five....things got busy. Bags were thrown in the garage to be dealt with later....

Yesterday was later....

Too late.


WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH THESE KIDS?!?

Yesterday we found not only random wrappers and milk boxes, but soggy bread and half chewed granola bars.

Deuce: "AWWW, somebody puked on this one!"

Me: "Nope, that's just two week old, soggy granola smears. Rinse it off and throw it in the sun to dry up.

Deuce: "That's disgusting."

Me: "Suck it up. One day it will be puke. Your child's puke. All over you. And the next thing you know, you'll be washing capri sun pouches in your front yard with a garden hose and nose plugs. Now stomp on that bee I just disoriented with the jet stream. Freakin' bees."

So as not to lose sight of WHY we were doing this mother/son bonding project, I forced him to say the "Our Father," ten "Hail Mary's" and a "Glory Be" during the festivities. My meditations were a little less holy.

As the Indian Summer comes to a close, I begin to ponder how we are going to clean those devil pouches through the chillier months. Let's face it, upcycling 500 pouches every three weeks is not going to close the gaping hole in the ozone, now is it? What's a mom to do?

WASHING MACHINE!! I dumped the next bagful of pouches straight into my front-loading washer, threw a little detergent in and pressed "Ultra-Handwash" hoping for the best. Thirteen minutes in, I couldn't wait. "Drain and Spin." Eleven minutes later, I open the door. Still reeks of stale, fake juice. Found a couple of "one of these things is not like the other...one of these things just isn't the same...."



Seriously?!?












Hand to God, this one was still half-full (note the positivity...me, the perpetual optimist).










It gets worse....I was hoping that a quick dryer cycle on low heat would finish the deed and prepare the pouches for packing. Sweet Mother of Mercy, now my dryer smells of stale, fake juice. There was a hazy, tacky film coating the drum. Clorox wipe, Windex wipe, hot rag wipe......I think the tacky is gone, but the smell remains. Doing my first load of laundry this morning since the debacle. We should be able to access the damage in another 44 minutes.

You may have won the battle, Pouch Brigade, but the war is not yet over. My next plan of attack - the dishwasher! Yes, I realize if those metallic little pouches fall through the racks and rest up against the heating coil, it could spell H-O-U-S-E-F-I-R-E. But I refuse to let these pouches get the best of me! And isn't a small, contained house fire a small price to pay for saving Mother Earth?



He thinks so.

FLASHBACK FRIDAY: The Story of the Twelve Cents

What a g-o-r-jus day today! All sunshiney and spring-like. The kind of day that you drive around with the windows down and the music blaring. The kind of day where after a Zumba class, one might decide on a refreshing iced coffee. Don't mind if I do!

I pull into the McDonald's drive-thru because:

A) The Starbuck's doesn't have a drive-thru

and

2) I'd rather pay $2 for a 4-gallon iced coffee than $20 for a 4-ounce iced cafe


So, I order my "large, don't give me that sugar-free french vanilla crap I'll take hazelnut," and the talking box says:

"That'll be $2.12, please pull around to the first window."

Ha! twelve cents.....that brings back a funny memory. The kind of funny memory that is only funny long after the event actually took place. So here it is....my first "Flashback Friday."

One late summer morning in 2001, I suddenly woke to the sounds of a child gasping, coughing, crying....choking??? I sprung out of bed (I could spring back then) and ran to Deuce's room - the source of the frightening sounds.

Me: Deuce?!? You okay? What's a matter? You okay?

Deuce: (wheezy cough, tired crying) Oooowww.


At this point, he's doing a Tom Hanks in "Big" impression. You know the one. Where he's just eaten some grown-up hors d'oeuvres and has to spit it out .

Me: Did you swallow something? *

Deuce: (gasping) Yeah. (cough, hack, cough)

Me: What? What did you swallow?!?

Deuce: Money.

Me: Money?? What money?

Deuce: (whine, cry) Big money.

Me: Big money? Where did you get big money? And why are you holding out on Big Mama?

More crying

Me: Okay, okay. You're okay. Can you breathe?

(I do a quick survey and realize he's still just pinkish red, not suffocating blue, so I'm losing my panic. Now I'm more puzzled).

Me: What kind of big money, sweetie? You mean like a quarter? A 50-cent piece? Or big like value and less like size? Like a Susan B. Anthony, perhaps? Was it a gold-foiled chocolate coin?!? Cause that makes more sense. The smell of chocolate induces sleep-eating for me, too. It could totally run in the family.

This is where I lose the 2 1/2 year old. I show him all sorts of coins, but nothing jogs his memory. Nor can he tell me where he found "big money" at 6:30 in the morning.

Inner dialogue: Hmmmmm....I suppose I better call the doctor about this, seeing how this is just my third year being a parent and I still really have no idea what the hell I'm doing.


Ring! Ring!

Lady: Hello, Dr. Stupidparents' office.
Me: Hi, I think my son swallowed big money at 6:30 this morning.....

10:30am: I'm at Dr. Stupidparents' office telling him how things went down. Of course, to be on the safe side, he suggests a chest x-ray. Can't have big money rattling around in a 2-year olds lungs. How would we ever get him through a metal detector at the airport. Oh! And there's that whole, "he could eventually die, thing."

11:30am: We're in the ER, waiting for an x-ray. Our "take a number" ticket falls somewhere between the guy bleeding through a kitchen towel and a young kid on crutches. Finally, we're in...x-rays are done...and shortly thereafter, a super-fine ER doctor comes in to break the news to me.

George Clooney: There's nothing there.

Me: There's nothing there, like, his lungs are clear, but the coins are in his stomach?

George: No, there's nothing metal anywhere. Nothing foreign anywhere. He didn't swallow anything.

Me: So he's not going to die.

George: Not today.

Me: I'm gonna kill him.

You might think that that's the end of the story. But I haven't gotten to the twelve cents yet. Keep reading....

A couple of months after this first incident, Deuce did, indeed, swallow money. It was confirmed by someone around him at the time. Luckily, it was more of a tattletale moment than a medical emergency.

Me: Why did you swallow money?
Deuce: I didn't mean to. I had it in my mouth.
Me: Get a wallet! What kind of money?
Deuce: A quarter.
Me: A QUARTER?!?

Ring! Ring!

Lady: Hello, Dr. Stupidparents' office.
Me: I think my son swallowed a quarter.

Later that day.....

Me: Do we need to do an x-ray again? Is it safe? What if he starts glowing in the dark?

Dr. Stupidparents: If you feel it's necessary, he can safely have another x-ray. I've listened to his lungs, and everything seems okay. I suspect the quarter will be coming out the other end within a day or two and he will be fine.

Me: Do I need to look for it? To make sure?

Dr. Stupidparents: If you want confirmation, that's up to you. I would consider that cruel and unusual punishment. Although, a quarter in the diaper might be pretty obvious.

Two days later, Big Daddy is changing Deuce's diaper.

Big Daddy: Mommy! Come look.
Me: What? Did you find the prize in the Cracker Jack box? Seriously, did you find the quarter?

I hold my breath and survey the specimen.

What the - ?!?

A DIME AND TWO PENNIES!

Me: Either he has no idea what a quarter is, or this miser is making change.

Big Daddy: Do they still have circus sideshows?

And that, my friends, is the story of the twelve cents.


____________________________________________

* the power of suggestive thinking

Meet the Cast

Perhaps now would be a good time to introduce you to the residents of Aleighopolis. The cast of characters (and I do mean characters) are listed in the order they first appeared in my life.


First and foremost, my husband of almost 17 years. He loves me despite all my flaws. Not that I'm admitting to any. I call him Big Daddy, and if you've ever seen him, you know why. 6'6", broad shoulders and a heart the size of a zamboni. We crack each other up and piss each other off on a daily basis. Co-dependency at it's finest. He's worked for the same company for about a year longer than we've been married (loyal like a pup), and his promotions are the reason behind our many moves. He promises me it will all be worth it one day. I think everyday has been worth it - but don't tell him that. His Catholic guilt is working for me.

ZuZu is our oldest and only daughter. For about 5 minutes, we considered naming her Zuzu Petals "Blahzlahski" (being huge fans of "It's a Wonderful Life" as we are), but who could be that cruel (other than a slew of Hollywood's finest)? Instead, she's always been ZuZu to me, "my little gingersnap" as George Bailey referred to his daughter. ZuZu is teetering on the edge of teendom. She's a little mini-me, cursed with her father's near-sightedness, but blessed with his long, thin and toned legs. Although she looks more like me, her personality is more like Big Daddy's. Reserved and almost shy in big crowds, but a leader and a clown amongst her closest peers. She wishes only good for all people. All people, except her oldest brother.....

Enter Deuce (because "Little Daddy" just ain't right). Born 15 months after ZuZu, and always clipping her heels. Hence, the resentment. I'd feel a little sorry for him if he wasn't such a pot-stirrer on the homefront. He knows how to get in ZuZu's kitchen - and mine. But the truth is, he's an amazing young man. Such a gentleman...always gives his best and excels at everything...rule-follower...good grades...the stuff that annoying Christmas letters are made of. That's my Deuce. He wants to play football for Notre Dame one day. I tell him, don't bother. Go straight into the workforce and make that million by your 21st birthday. It's your destiny! (Translation: we can't afford Notre Dame)

And now, my swan song, MT. He was the easiest baby - almost like he had heard all the commotion in utero and decided, "I'm gonna give this poor lady a break." At nine months, he could keep himself occupied for hours with McDonald's happy meal toys and binder clips. At age nine, he still can. He has a huge imagination and the quickest wit of all of them. He does have a serious temper, though. Big Daddy would say, "If MT is mad at you, sleep with one eye open." We were sure he would find that rusty old axe with the hollow handle and do us in in our sleep. He never did, though. In fact, he's the one that gives the most sincere "sorrys," and the best hugs and kisses as repentence. His cheeks still carry a little baby fat, which I'm so thankful for. I get to plant my lips on those cheeks every night at bedtime. And then I go hide the knives.

Last but not least, our freakin' dog. One late summer day in 2003, Big Daddy and Deuce went to a Notre Dame football game and came home with a puppy. They tried to convince me it was "giveaway day" at the stadium. But I'm no fool. The adorable little mutt looked exactly like the 6-month old I had met a few weeks earlier at our friends' house. The friends who earlier that spring had thought they were losing one of two pet Pomeranians, and had a gorgeous little baby. The same friends who found out, "IT'S A MIRACLE! YOUR DOG IS GOING TO LIVE," and "CONGRATULATIONS! YOU'RE PREGNANT WITH BABY NUMBER 2!" within a week of adopting said pooch. My 4 1/2-year old son was wise beyond his years. He knew he'd hit paydirt. He was skipping town with low-dog on the totem pole. Our Rox. Half toy Poodle, half Chihuahua. He's like a baby poodle on espresso. He's had some work done....but I'll save that story for another day.

So there you have it. My own little party of five plus pooch (Poo-Chi, to be exact). I thought it was fitting to formally introduce them, as I suspect they will make many appearances in Aleighopolis. My husband, my children, my freakin' dog. At any given time, they can be the meaning of my life, or the bane of my existence. But with every heartbeat, they are my world.