A Crappy Post

I babysit my two-year-old 2nd cousin, Conner, and have since he was about 12 weeks old. He is an adorable child, and I love him dearly. I anticipate him every morning, and he has satisified any maternal cravings my uterus might've ever entertained in the past nine years since the birth of my youngest. Mr. Nesbit and I call him our "practice grandkid" because we spoil him rotten, let him do things we never let our own kids do at that age and then we happily send him home at 4:30 every weekday.

He turned two in June which means he is ripe for the potty-training. He's an amazingly smart kid, and was showing the signs so his momma, who is a teacher and has summers off, jumped in feet first in July. He is doing great and there are good days and bad days.

Some days he goes through every change of clothes, and I have to run a load of laundry to get him through the afternoon. Other days he makes it through the day without a hitch. And he really likes peeing in my yard out here in the country where no one can see him.

But oh, the poop. He hasn't quite mastered the whole putting of the poo in the potty and not in his pants thing. Personally, I don't get why it's so hard for kids to do the poop thing because I would think it would be FAR more uncomfortable than wet pants, but that's just me. I'm 37, what do I know?

Some days he saves the poo for his momma and daddy, and other days I get the treat.

Yesterday he had one wet accident right after lunch, but no big whiz (pun intended). When he got up from nap he settled himself in the floor in front of the couch with his favorite Tonka Jeep, a puppy toy he got from Sonic and my favorite pink and white quilt. He has quite a vivid imagination and I am always amused to listen to him play. He makes up elaborate scenes and adventures which usually involve Diego, an Imagination Mover or two and the phrase "OH MY DOSH!" a time or twelve. Yesterday was no different. I was in the recliner about three feet from him, listening to Sirius radio on the TV, texting a friend and watching him play.

I got up to see if he needed to go to the bathroom and as he looked up at me to answer the thought popped in my head, "Where did he get chocolate?"

Ladies and gentlemen, it was not chocolate.

He had gone from being a mere two-year-old with a vivid imagination to a "Poopy Picasso" within a matter of about three minutes. I stepped around to the front of him and looked down to see POO EVERYWHERE.

He had painted my quilt.
He had painted his Tonka Jeep.
He had painted my carpet.
He had painted his legs, arms and .... wait for it..... HIS FACE.

You can only imagine the thoughts flying through my head in a matter of about six seconds from visual recognition to absolute, abject, horrified horror.

The only words to come out of my mouth were "OH MY GOSH!" and as I led him by the arm down the hallway to the bathroom I believe I repeated the phrase about 967 more times. I plopped him in the shower and said, "DON'T MOVE!" to which is immediate reaction was to begin wailing at the top of his lungs. I ran to the utility room to grab a Walmart sack in which to deposit his clothes, hollering behind me, "CONNER! STAY IN THE SHOWER! DO NOT MOVE!" He responded with a new round of wails.

I came in to find him with his hands over his eyes because he was so upset I had yelled, and he kind of got the hint what he did was oh so totally not cool and instead of feeling sorry for him and his obvious remorse I could only yell again, "DON'T TOUCH YOUR FACE! YOU HAVE POOP ON YOUR HANDS!"

He began bawling louder.

I choked back my own tears while I stripped him down, dropped his poopy clothes in a sack and turned the water on in the shower. He didn't like the shower not one little bit. But I don't have a bathtub, and I wouldn't have wanted him sitting in a tub full of poo water anyway.  I was trying to soothe him with calmer words instead of the OH MY GOSH that he'd heard for five minutes solid at that point. I washed him with the only soap I had - Dove Sensitive Skin body wash which is not tear-free.

Guess who got soap in the poor guy's eyes?  Oh yeah. Guess how many of us were crying at that point?

Finally I got him cleaned up, turned off the water and he immediately breathed an audible sigh of relief. Poor little fella. I wrapped him up in a towel, cradled him in my arms, dug around until I found a bottle of Baby Magic, and as I slathered him down with the sweet-smelling wonderment that is Baby Magic I apologized for yelling, but stressed that painting with our poo is NOT something we do EVER.

He put his chubby arms around my neck and said, "I wub you, Kiki. I sowwy." I patted him and said, "Thanks, buddy. I love you, too."

Then he pulled back from me with a huge grin on his face and said, "But I had wots of fun painting!"

*sigh*


~~Mrs. Nesbitt

Sister Act

I have one biological sister. She's 3 ½ years younger than me and she is my best friend.


It wasn't always that way, though.

From about the time Sis started walking until my Senior year we were borderline mortal enemies. We fought constantly, bickered incessantly and generally loathed being in the others' presence. If we were in the car she was taking up part of my seat, breathing too loud or looking at me wrong. If we were in the house she was trying to get as close as into my room as she could without actually entering it. She would stand with her toes at the line where the carpet changed color and just stand there. If I hollered at Mom that she was in my room she would matter-of-factly inform all those around that no, she was indeed still outside of my room. If it was time to get dressed for school she would wait until I left my room then sneak in, grab a shirt and manage to get it on, hide it under a jacket and not unveil it until we were at school and there was not a darn thing I could do about it other than shoot her the most evil looks and swear to her that death would be awaiting her when we got home from school. And sure enough, we'd hit the door of the house and the beating would begin. That is, until we heard the garage door opening and then we separated, smoothed our hair, tried to hide the scratch marks and slap prints and greeted Mom after a hard day's work, her two angelic daughters.
Mom said there were nights she would lie in bed and cry, wondering where she had gone wrong and what she had done to make us hate each other so. She had two brothers, she'd always wanted a sister – why couldn't her two daughters see the gift they had been given in each other?

I really can't answer that, other than just to muse that.....it's just the way things are.

I have three kids: two daughters and a son. The son wishes daily for a brother. The girls tolerate each other most of the time. Abby is the oldest, a mere month away from being 14. Kady is the youngest, two months away from being nine. There are days Abby will draw her younger sister into her room for a makeover and photo shoot – and there are days she will trip her just to watch her fall face first. There are days Abby is kind and supportive of her little sister – there are days she says words so mean I can't believe she had the nerve to say them in such close proximity to the back of my hand. There are days Kady thinks her big sister is the world's most amazing female to ever walk the planet – and there are days she thinks her sister is a big fat meanie-face poopoo head. There are days Kady respects her sister's privacy and need for space – and there are days she will put her toes right at that line in the doorway where the carpet changes color and just stand there staring at her sister, waiting for the screeching to begin.

However, I haven't spent one single night crying over my daughters not getting along. I know that someday they will both magically mature and see what they have in each other. I am so blessed that my baby sister decided to forgive me for telling her if she pulled her pants and underwear up at the same time she'd get really sick. (Yes, I know there is no sense in that whatsoever, but she was four, I was seven and she totally believed me, so I went with it.) I'm thankful she also forgave me for pulling her hair, scratching her with my teenage talons and pummeling her relentlessly. I am confident that someday my daughters, too, will realize that their sister is an amazing gift.

Sis and I now realize fully what we have in each other. We actually began realizing it around the time I was 17 and she was 14. She suddenly became less annoying – or maybe I just became more tolerant. We hung out at school. We hung out on the weekends, dragging Main, going dancing at the under-18 dance hall and watching movies.

It was shortly after we decided to like each other we went down Main one night in my awful little gold Cavalier. We were dolled up, probably smelled like prostitutes with all the Colors and Liz Claiborne perfume we had doused ourselves in and had the windows down, our bangs teased up so high they brushed the car's ceiling. We were waving at friends, boys, making hateful remarks about certain people, having a good time. I have always had a very loud laugh and when I am truly amused I will throw my head back and laugh like a total dork. I have done this for as long as I can remember. Sis knew this about me so she waited until we were stuck at a halt, smack dab in the middle of Main street, cars beside, in front and behind us – then she told me a joke. And it was a really good joke. I threw my head back and started laughing and when I finally opened my eyes again as the laughter subsided I realized that people in all the surrounding cars were staring at me. Why were they staring? Because at the precise moment I began laughing like a loon my sister hit the button that reclined the passenger's seat completely flat and made it look like I was laughing all alone. I looked over and saw her rolled over on her side in the seat, laughing silently. I tried with everything in me to make her sit up, but all that did was just make me look more insane to those around me, like I was now not only laughing at myself but talking to myself, too. I think she was exacting some kind of revenge on the whole "underwear will make you sick" thing I told her.

Mom loves that story. I think it kind of helps to erase all those tears she shed, worrying if we were going to hate each other for the rest of our lives.

And now? Now ...... I'm going to go call my baby sister.

~~Mrs. Nesbitt

MckLinky Monday: Has Your Routine Changed?

By now most everyone has sent their precious little darlings back to school.

What's that? Why yes. Yes, I do believe that is a collective sigh of relief from Mommy-dom. The children are back in school! (Pardon me while I do a happy dance)

I'm a full-time stay-at-home mom, however, nine months out of the year I babysit my cousin's toddler.
Because she's a teacher, I get a summer vacation, too. From mid-May until early August I frankly don't do a whole lot. My house is cleaner but that's simply because the kids and I magically turn into sloths when school is out and well, when you exert virtually no energy whatsoever you hardly mess up the house.We watch a lot of Phineas and Ferb and read a lot of books, utilize Netflix to its utmost capabilities trying to catch up on all the movies we miss during the school year and yes, I'll admit it: I sleep a lot. I mean, a lot a lot. I do like me some sleep.

My whole world turns upside down when we got from school to summer and back again.

*During the school year I get up at 5am every day of the week. (Yes, I'm fully aware of the crazy in that last sentence) During the summer I rarely get up before 8. Sometimes 9. And the occasional 10.

*During the school year I go to bed as soon as our oldest child goes to bed. Sometimes that's 9:30, sometimes 10. (When I have PMS I go to bed at 6pm with a chocolate bar in each hand.) During the summer it's nothing for me to stay up until 2am piddling around in my office, watching TV or reading.

*During the school year I fix a nutritious toddler breakfast, a nutritious toddler lunch and a meal for the family virtually every night of the week. During the summer the children survive on PopTarts, Cocoa Puffs and PB&J. We cool our 1900 sq. ft. house with one window air conditioner so cooking is, more often than not, out of the question. We eat an exorbitant amount of sandwiches in the summer. We usually only eat sandwiches on Sunday evenings during the school year.

*During the summer the kitchen stays so clean it's disgusting. During the school year my kitchen stays so cluttered it's disgusting. Not dirty, just used.

*During the summer I only wash one kind of socks - the kind my husband wears. The kids and I wear only flipflops because I'm pretty sure it's a law somewhere that it's illegal to wear anything but flipflops in the summer, right? During the school year I wash so many socks my head spins.

*During the summer I do very little laundry because heck, when you stay in your pajamas all day you don't dirty a lot of clothes. During the school year I swear someone sprinkles Miracle Gro on my hampers during the night.

*During the summer errands are run in the late afternoon and sometimes even after 9pm. During the school year it's nothing at all for me to leave the house by 7:30 to do my running and be back home before lunchtime. This means that during the school year I shop with the elderly. This is a quiet experience, smiling at people as we pass each other in the aisles, them commenting on how cute the toddler is, commenting on the weather. During the summer I shop with the other moms and their children. This means Walmart is noisy and tense and unenjoyable and the only words spoken are threats to our children and pleas to the other mothers to take our children with them so we can find our minds that we lost about four aisles back.

*During the summer I like to take naps occasionally. During the school year....okay, really nothing changes there.

So, I'm curious, ladies and gents -

Now that school has started, whether your kids go out to school or you homeschool, has your daily routine changed much?

Here's how it works:

1. Answer the question on your blog (or in the comments sections if you don't have a blog).

2. If you answer the question on your blog, add your name to MckLinky so that we all can discover the brilliance that is your mind.

3. Grab our button from the sidebar and post it either in your reply post or on your blog.

4. Enjoy and have some fun!




~~Mrs. Nesbitt

A Sticky Failure

I took my first HomeEc class when I was a Freshman in high school. At the tender age of 14 I enrolled in the class that was going to carefully begin honing me into the homemaker I am today. I waited patiently through the first nine weeks while we did the budgeting chapter, the "how to balance a checkbook" chapter, the interior decorating chapter and kitchen safety chapter. Finally it was time for ....

.... sewing. *insert disappointing trombone "wah wah wah wahhhhhh" here*

There were two classes of HomeEc I and while we were sewing they were cooking and vice versa. I was disappointed because I wanted to cook! My mom was and still is a fabulous cook and there is nothing that woman can't cook with perfection. (She can also sew like crazy. I, however, cannot. That's another post altogether.)

So I endured the sewing for an entire nine weeks. I made a pillow and a pair of "jams" (which were the height of fashion at the time back in 1987) because I knew that it was merely the means to and end and after Christmas break I would COOK.

Our very first task in the kitchen was "white sauce". My classmates and I all had a hard time with the white sauce because it seemed so silly to make white sauce to make macaroni and cheese (probably because we were all raised on Kraft Mac n' Cheese) or sweet and sour chicken. If she had explained that we were actually pretty much making gravy we'd have probably grasped it better because HELLO, we live in Oklahoma and everything is covered in gravy here. Had she informed us it was gravy I know I'd have paid more attention. As it was, though, I lollygagged through making the lumpy white sauce for my baked macaroni and cheese then moved on to "Madame Wu's Sweet and Sour Chicken", some weird hamburger dish and homemade biscuits. We finished the cooking labs with cake decorating and I embellished my cake with "I <3 BRAD" because I was like, sooooo in looooooove with Braaaaad. That's another post altogether, as well.

Anyway, I was in Homemaker Heaven.

Mom let me do more in the kitchen at home after that first year in HomeEc. I made cakes, biscuits, pies, cookies, hamburgers, scrambled eggs and anything else she felt I could handle. She instilled in me a love for cooking and baking that exists today. Anyone who has seen the size of my hind-end will know this to be a fact.

I make seriously awesome cake poppers, my Texas sheetcake gets rave reviews, I always have an Amish Friendship Bread starter (or seven) going. And my Snickerdoodles? They're to die for. Seriously, that's the name of the recipe: Snickerdoodles to Die For.

But folks, all culinary bragging aside, there is one thing I simply cannot make. I have tried repeatedly over my nearly 18 years of wife-dom. I tried repeatedly before I even got married. So do the math and that means that for 23 years I have been trying - and failing miserably - to make Rice Krispy Treats.

Yes, the simplistic snappy, crackly, popping cereal mixed with nothing more than margarine and marshmallows are a complete and total mystery to me. I have made some so sticky they could double as Venus Flytraps. I have made some so hard they literally required a hammer to get them out of the pan. I have made some so inedible the dog just sniffed and scampered away to roll in that dead possum over by the fence. I have harbored animosity toward marshmallows and Rice Krispies in general for years now. I tried buying the actual Rice Krispy brand treats, but to me they taste like the cereal is stale or something.

Essentially, I have done without their marshmallowy goodness for years now.

I don't get it. I can make gravy that makes Momma proud. I can make a chicken casserole you will dream about. My chili  keeps 'em comin' back for more. I already told you about my Texas sheetcake. I also make a mean chicken enchilada. But ask me to melt a marshmallow and add puffed rice and I will probably do one of three things: 1) run screaming, 2) curl up in the fetal position or 3) punch you in the neck.

But last week my mother-in-law brought the kids something that has changed my life. It has brought the sunshine back into my world.

I should've known that Little Debbie would never let me down.

~~Mrs. Nesbitt

MckLinky Monday: Back to School Time - Happy or Sad?

You see signs in every store window. Radio and TV ads are all about back-to-school shopping. The most common phrase uttered right now is, "Didn't school just let out for summer a few weeks ago?" Teachers are talking about getting their classrooms ready. Everyone's hitting the pool for their last few dunkings of the summer. School supply lists are in big displays at the entrance of Walmart. Kids everywhere are whining they didn't get to swim or camp enough. Daddies are complaining about the cost of school supplies and telling kids about how when they were kids the only school supplies they got were big chunky pencils, a Pink Pearl eraser, blunt-tip scissors, an 8-pack of crayons, a cardboard school box and a Big Chief Tablet. Mommas are dragging kids who would rather be swimming to the store to buy backpacks glue sticks, notebook paper, scissors, markers, new shoes, jeans and new underwear. And while I'm thinking about it, that whole new underwear thing always gets me. I mean, as a mom I do it, too, and I don't know why. Will my children learn more if they're wearing new underwear? Do new, non-stretched out unders contribute to higher test scores? Someone should look into this for me.

School starts in nine days for my kids. But who's counting, right? I mean, nine days roughly breaks down into 216 hours. Or 12, 960 minutes. Or 777, 600 seconds. But I'm not counting.

OKAY. I AM.

I love being a stay-at-home mom and I dearly love my children. Please do not misunderstand this. I am so unbelieveably blessed to be able to stay at home and not have to work outside the home at this point in our lives. I fully realize this. But folks, this momma is very ready for her kiddos to go back to school.

You know the statement "How can I miss you if you won't go away?" Well, that's kind of how I feel about my kids right now. School was out May 20th and they have spent the night away from home two nights this summer. That's twice. TWICE. I have spent every dadgum livelong day with them for nearly three months. I am in serious need of a break.

My husband does not understand this in the least. He says he doesn't get any time alone during the day either, but I am quick to remind him that he has a 20 minute drive to work and another 20 minute drive home. That is FORTY MINUTES of pure solitude. I haven't had solitude in....well, let's see.....my oldest is almost 14.....carry the seven.....divide by pi.......minus 4,963....... yeah, that equals a very long time.

And while I'm needing a break in the worst way right now, I can't help but look back to this picture and wonder.....

.....where did my babies go?

And maybe I'm not so ready for school to start after all.




So how do you feel about this time of year? Is back to school a happy or sad time? Or maybe a little of both?
Tell us on your blog and join in on the MckLinky madness! Here's how to do it:

1. Answer the question on your blog (or in the comments sections if you don't have a blog).

2. If you answer the question on your blog, add your name to MckLinky so that we all can discover the brilliance that is your mind.

3. Grab our button from the sidebar and post it either in your reply post or on your blog.

4. Enjoy and have some fun!


~~Mrs. Nesbitt

A Christmas Memory

A Christmas memory? What?  You're probably sitting at your desk shrieking, "Mrs. Nesbitt, has the Oklahoma heat gotten to you? Have you done gone mad?"

Well, "mad" is a relative term and today I think I'm relatively close. Factor in the following things: summer vacation, a holiday which involves 20+ guests and explosives, some business drama I'd rather not disclose (nor deal with, to be quite honest), a week of Camp Nesbitt wherein my three children and my sister's kids camp out at my house and we watch gratuitous amounts of "Phineas and Ferb", make pom-pom crafts and God's Eyes and eat a lot of hot dogs and the fact I have PMS and you now know why I am dragging out a Christmas memory for you today.

Consider it my gift to you, while you sweat and watch your hair frizz in the humidity, you can read about a simpler time, a cooler time, a time in which the scene opens to the Nesbitt kitchen, December 2009.....

--FADE IN--

...........The kids and I watched A Christmas Story the other day and ya know, that is one movie that never gets old and always amuses the heck out of me. I particularly love the dad and his penchant for swearing. I know, it shows a lack of intelligence to swear and all that, but the 12 year old in me still finds cussing absolutely hilarious. The scene at the end of the movie where neighbor Bumpus' dogs bust through the kitchen door and make short work of devouring their turkey is rip-snorting hysterical to me because the dad's cussing is so hilarious.

Tuesday morning Cousin Courtney and Conner came out to make Christmas candy. Okay, really Conner had nothing to do with it; he served to entertain my children, thus keeping them from bugging us in the kitchen. She and I work very well together and just enjoyed dipping and sugaring and melting and stirring and laughing.

We made chocolate-covered marshmallows, chocolate-covered caramel corn, chocolate suckers and some Double Chocolate Ooey Gooey Marshmallow Pillows That Will Surely Put You Into a Diabetic Coma for the Holidays. Courtney also decided to try her hand at peanut butter balls, which she thought were just peanut butter and powdered sugar mixed together. I had no idea, but it sounded good to me. They lacked some substance. We're thinking there might've been another ingredient or two. As she was trying to glop the balls of conglomeration into the molten chocolate they were disintegrating, so I suggested freezing them.

She plopped the gooey messes onto a cookie sheet and because my boy-child was the one who was breezing through the kitchen in search of Koolade at that particular moment he was the one who was nominated to run them to the freezer on the back carport. We carried on with more candy-making and about 45 minutes later she wondered if I thought the peanut butter balls were set up enough to dip and headed to the back door to find out. I visually followed her path through my utility room and caught sight of my office window which looks onto the carport. It was then noticed something - the freezer door was open.

It's a large stand-up freezer and when the door is open it blocks the window completely. I screamed "THE DOOR IS OPEN!" Courtney jumped and said, "No, the back door's shut, Mrs. N." I said, "OH MY GOSH THE FREEZER DOOR IS OPEN!" and I all but knocked my itty bitty cousin over as I plowed past her to....well, I don't know what I thought I was going to do.

We both blasted out onto the carport to find frozen Schwan's pizzas all over the ground and as soon as we hit the concrete cats started flying out of the freezer like they were being catapulted. (Get it, CATapulted? Ha! I slay me.) Out flew the gigantic tom cat, Michelle Duggar (Yes, we have a cat named Michelle Duggar. She's quite...uhm....fertile), that fuzzy black and white thing and the hateful black one with one white whisker - all of them feasting upon the icy delights beheld in my freezer. I, of course, started cussing. And hollering. And shrieking. And between my wailing I heard my oldest say to my male offspring, "OHHHHH you better get ready because you are about to get BEAT!" I also vaguely remember him saying, "BUT I SHUT IT! I SWEAR!" All that was background to the blood pounding in my ears. I do remember kicking the dog who thought us being there was some kind of permission to continue on what he had been doing, which was gnawing on a frozen package of hamburger. Seriously, dog has some crazy strong teeth to have gotten through half a pound of frozen hamburger.

Courtney was laughing and I knew I should've been, too, but at the time all I could think was why on earth do we have SO MANY CATS? When I finally calmed down enough to see straight and quit verbally threatening my son's behind and the life of every feline on our property I started taking stock of the damage. Half a package of hamburger, gone. One frozen chicken, gnawed on and scratched. I tossed both of those out into the yard. I looked up at the cookie sheet of peanut butter balls and said, "Courtney, I think your peanut butter balls are okay! They look okay!" She, however, was not convinced. She shook her head and said, "Ohhhh, I don't know....that fuzzy cat was right there when got out here....I'm not sure...." I reassured her they were fine, so she pulled the cookie sheet off the shelf. I was still checking out the three rolls of frozen Blue & Gold sausage to make sure there were no teeth marks on any of them when I heard her bust out laughing.

I looked up to find her holding the cookie sheet in my face. She said, "Uhm.....the balls are NOT fine. LOOK!" Sure enough, there were three balls gone and nothing left in their place except for frozen smears with cat-tongue prints in them. At that point, I allowed myself to laugh.

After I secured the freezer and double-checked the door, we went back in the kitchen and it occured to me that I had just been Bumpused. No, it wasn't the Christmas turkey on my dining room table that was obliterated by the neighbor's hounds, but instead my cousin's balls in my freezer by my own cats.

--FADE OUT--

--SCENE END--

See, don't you feel cooler and more refreshed already?


~~Mrs. Nesbitt

MckLinky Monday: Let's pretend mommies and daddies switched places...

Somewhere in a magic control room there are hundreds of computer monitors showing hundreds of families. Mommies doing mommy things, daddies doing daddy things. Dishes are being washed, lawns are being mowed, toilets are being scrubbed, car oil is being changed. Technicians are stationed around the room keeping watch on the goings-on, monitoring lives going on as normal......then suddenly

BLAM!

The clumsy new intern, his hands full with a flimsy cardboard carrier full of frappuccinos and mocha lattes, comes rushing into the room and trips over his own feet. Icy caffeinated beverage is mixed in mid-air with steaming hot caffeinated beverage and then everyone in the room wails a resounding NOOOOOOOOOO as they see it all splash onto the control board.

There's a sizzling, zapping noise and suddenly everything goes dark. There is a moment of stunned silence before the backup power supply kicks in and when the monitors begin to fire up again something is terribly, horribly wrong.

Mommies and daddies are doing each other's jobs!

Suddenly daddies are donning aprons and wearing fluffy pink slippers and sponge curlers in their hair as they burn the morning toast while mommies come strolling into the kitchen, freshly shaved, the morning paper under one arm, briefcase in hand, ready to head off to work at the office......

Say what?

Oh man. I think I just had a nightmare in the form on a 1960's Twilight Zone episode.

But let's stop for a minute and really think about what would happen if suddenly roles were switched and I had to head out to work in the morning while my husband stayed here with the kids......for one thing the panic attacks alone would probably get me fired on day one, but we'll go with the scenario for fun's sake....

Right now school is out and summer is in full swing, so I'm not babysitting my cousin's toddler. This means I don't have to get up at 5 like I do during the school year. My husband would take full advantage of this sleeping-in opportunity and probably not get up until 10 or so. This would mean I would spend every break at my (his) job calling his cell phone to wake him up or calling our oldest daughter's cell phone to make sure her siblings hadn't stabbed each other with buttery knives while making waffles or hadn't blown the speakers out on the TV from blaring iCarly at outrageous decibels.

I guarantee you every piece of laundry we own would be "accidentally" dyed pink from that universal culprit, the red sock in the load of whites. That is, IF any laundry got done.

Lunch for the kids would be waffles again. Or cookies. I know this would be true because just this morning the man gave our children cookies on the way to church because that's what he was having for breakfast so why couldn't they? After this occured I also loudly declared that I can never die - at least not while our children need food other than cookies in their growing little bodies.

There would also be a mandatory naptime. Probably in excess of two hours. Our kids are 8, 11 and 13. This will not go over well.

The dishwasher would be loaded all wrong. Tupperware would go on the bottom rack, inevitably.

I, however, would be sitting pretty in my atrocious green uniform shirt in the vault at the casino, counting money and visiting with all my friends about golfing that night. I would take breaks every couple hours AND I would drive to and from work ALL ALONE in my car. In the quiet. And did I mention alone? Oh and while I would take a restroom break at work during the day no one would holler at me from outside the door to tell me someone was breathing at her.

When I got home I would find a delicious dinner of waffles awaiting me while our unbathed children fought over who watched more TV that day, all while my darling stay-at-home husband massaged his temples and wished they would all just be quiet for about 20 minutes so he could just think a thought all his own.

And then....I, being the dutiful provider for our family, would head out to the lawnmower where I would spend the next two hours mowing our gigantic yard in the 100* Oklahoma heat. And did he just mention something about the van needing an oil change?

*blink blink*

You know what? Uhm.....peeing without someone yelling through the door is seriously overrated. So is golf with my boys--did I mention the Oklaheat? I think I'm pretty happy right here. In the air conditioning. Doing laundry. Making waffles. And blogging.


So now it's your turn: Let's pretend mommies and daddies switched places for a day or two. How do you think everyone would fare in their new position? Would it go well? Would it be a disaster?

Tell us what you think would happen! Here's how to do it the RHOK way:

1. Answer the question on your blog (or in the comments sections if you don't have a blog).

2. If you answer the question on your blog, add your name to MckLinky so that we

all can discover the brilliance that is your mind.

3. Grab our button from the sidebar and post it either in your reply post or on your blog.

4. Enjoy and have some fun!

~~Mrs. Nesbitt

...And Even Your GPS Can't Save You

A week or so ago we Nesbitts headed off for vacation in the great state of Texas, specifically Fort Worth. We are typically a Branson, MO, vacation family or, if we're feeling really adventurous, Eureka Springs, AR. So this trip to Texas was a HUGE step for us. We are truly the definition of country bumpkins: we don't like traffic, tall buildings, lots of cars or, as a general rule, people. We tend to drive slow and courteously and we use our turn signals because well, that's why they're there - to be used. We don't have neighbors within sight of our house except in the winter when the leaves are off the trees. In the summer, we are isolated in our little redneck haven and we like it that way. Our house even sits 1/10th of a mile off the road so we don't hear traffic and rarely see it - but then again, why would anyone drive down our potholed, dusty, rutted road anyway?

But we have two sets of friends in the Forth Worth area of Texas who we hadn't seen in what seemed like ages. We decided that instead of sitting in miles and miles of stand still traffic on "the strip" in Branson we'd instead take off on a road trip of epic (to us) proportions.

Last year we had attempted a trip to Texas, but one of the kiddos got super sick right before time to go and the trip was nixed. Before that ill-fated trip, though, we bought a Garmin GPS unit for the car. We immediately fell into a mad, deeply passionate affair with our British-accented friend and gave her the name "Eleanor Biggsby". She was nice at first. She took us to Oklahoma City, Yukon, Springfield, MO,  and several other relatively close cities with no problem. We really liked her and considered her a part of the family. That is, until she apparently decided over the course of the past year that we are unintelligent country mice who don't deserve to go hang with the city mice. However, she kept her opinion a secret until we were in the midst of Forth Worth traffic. It was at this time she decided to stage a mutiny, a coup, an outright rebellion of the utmost order.

Case in point: The friends we stayed with live in a housing edition in Forth Worth, but are fairly close to Saginaw and Lake Worth. Abby and I needed to go to Walmart one evening for Caladryl to doctor our gigantic Texas-sized mosquito bites, so we grabbed our purses and headed to the van. I searched for "Walmart" on the Garmin and it said there was one 5.9 miles from where we were. I hit "Go" and followed the directions. Abby and I chatted as I drove, not paying much attention to anything more than the crazy Texans who I guess all bought cars without turn signals. I turned where Eleanor Biggsby told us to turn and kept on driving. As we drove and drove and drove we eventually stopped our conversation long enough to realize we had gone way further than 5.9 miles. Not once had Eleanor haughtily said, "Recalculating" so I knew I hadn't taken a wrong turn. We kept on driving, the sun started getting lower in the sky and I, being somewhat of a dingbat, didn't think to turn around and head back the way we came. I mean, we really needed that Caladryl for our itchy skeeter bites.

Turns out we made a 32 mile trip to Walmart. What should have taken us 15 minutes took nearly two hours. Now, I wasn't really upset about it. I had enjoyed the conversation with Abby and not only did we get our Caladryl, but some awesome blue nail polish to boot.

Apparently the claim that there was a Walmart within 5.9 miles of us was wrong to begin with - since the closest Walmart was 3.3 miles. (Yes, Mr. Nesbitt clocked it with the van's odometer.) Eleanor Biggsby is currently grounded and has been pouting since we got home from Texas. But before you judge us, I should probably tell you that she tried to get us home from the Texas border on dirt roads via a waterway in Nebraska that is only visible when Mercury is in retrograde. Had we listened to her we might've ended up in Canada. Or worse yet, back in Texas, where no one uses turn signals, they all say "rOWte" instead of "rOOte" and where no one can hear you scream.

Man, I love Oklahoma.


~~Mrs. Nesbitt

This Kiss

I have three children, the oldest of whom is a 13 1/2 year old girl.

It was inevitable. We knew it was coming. We have been telling ourselves for years it was going to happen. We have tried to become as prepared as possible.

She has a boyfriend.

*cue dramatic, scary music, maybe a lightning flash and thunder clap*

Actually this isn't her first one. And actually actually, this boyfriend was her first boyfriend all the way back in 4th grade. They have history. Eeek.

She is not your typical 13 year old. And by not typical I mean "She is a knockout, turns heads everywhere we go, has a figure that could (and probably will someday) stop traffic and looks more like a 16 year old" Someone hold me. Fortunately, she is very modest and doesn't like to show off a lot of skin and/or shake what her momma gave her. This doesn't ever have to change. In fact, we talked seriously about trying to set her up with one of the teenage Duggar boys. Those Duggars don't kiss until their wedding day. But apparently those Duggars do like to......

Nevermind. We're not going there.

My daughter and her boyfriend are both really good kids. They go to the same school and are in the same grade. He and his family recently started going to the same church we attend. He lives about three miles from us, which is thankfully mostly highway so I really don't worry too much about either of them sneaking out right now to walk to a secret rendezvous spot between the two houses. Abby's pretty scared of cars. This is totally to our advantage. I will show her graphic images of car vs. pedestrian accidents if that's what it takes to keep her from even entertaining the thought of a mid-night tryst.

I remember being 13 and stating loudly and proudly that kissing was "gross" and if I was never kissed that'd be fine by me. A mere two years later I was singing a different tune, a tune that sounded more like two mouths in a slobbery liplock.

I don't know if they've kissed. I'm not sure I want to know. Okay, maybe just a little. Nope, changed my mind. Welllll.......okay, no. That's my final answer. For now.

My first kiss happened in October of 1987. I was perilously close to 15. I had held strong to my "gross" declarations until that fated night when I found myself alone with Jeremy Foust in the back of Mason Gurley's mom's Mercedes parked at a Sonic in Joplin. A group of us kids had gone to Joplin, MO, (driven by parents since we were all 14 and 15) to go through spook houses that night. After the final spooky excursion the Mercedes decided to give up the ghost. Apparently all my friends, including my bestie DeLisa, decided that Jeremy and I needed to have a love connection that night and managed to get the two of us in that car alone. And after the Mercedes was again up and running the two of us were the only kids in that car while the other seven crammed themselves into the other vehicle. (Oh, the days of no seatbelt laws.) Mason's mom was totally cool as Jeremy put the moves on me and if she saw what we were doing (she had to have seen what we were doing) (suddenly I feel the need to apologize to that woman) (guess I'll have to Google her) she never let on. There was a lot of slobber swapped in that car that night. It kind of makes me giggle and gag to think about it.

Later that night DeLisa and I were lying in sleeping bags on my bedroom floor, giggling at my descriptions of the countless times Jeremy and I had sucked face, I felt so grownup and mature.

And that is why I will never let my daughter leave the house again. Or ride in a Mercedes. Or go to spook houses....

I think I'll finish this post and go see if anyone is having a sale on turtlenecks in her size.


~~Mrs. Nesbitt

Monday MckLinky - Where Are You Going?

I'm the lone far northeast Okie here at the RHOK, so I might make all my RHOK sisters jealous when I say this:

SCHOOL IS OUT FOR THE SUMMER!

Yes, summer break is underway here in the Nesbitt household. No more getting up at 5am for me, 6am for the kids. No more rushing around to fight over the flat iron and hairspray. No more wardrobe issues and whining that a particular someone has no clothes in her closet *cough cough teenager cough cough*. Yes, we are free and easy around here now. I think my fellow-housewives have a few more days to go of their kids being in school....not under their feet.....not declaring they are bored......fighting with their siblings......asking to go to the creek.......asking if we can buy a pool.......asking why we can't buy a pool.....

Hold on. I suddenly just got un-jealous of myself.

It was literally 1.5 hours before I heard the first, "I'm bored" of the summer. I am totally serious and not even joking. Within the first 90 minutes of summer break my children suddenly ran out of things to do. How does that happen?

There is hope on the horizon for this housewife, though -- Family Vacation.

Here before long, the Nesbitt crew is packing up the van with approximately 742 suitcases and bags, a DVD player and mp3 player for each child, Momma's iPod, word search books for Mr. Nesbitt, enough snacks for a professional football team and plenty of Dramamine and we are heading south. To Texas. We've never been south of Oklahoma before. We're trepiditious. However, Mrs. Priss assures me that even though it's a "whole 'nother country", it's safe and we'll like it. I'm trusting her on this one and I do have her cell phone if I have a panic attack in the middle of the night. Right, Mrs. P.?

In addition to the big Texas trip we're also sending the kids off in turns to church camp a week at a time and I'm sure we'll find a Vacation Bible School for them to go (thus giving me a much-needed 2 1/2 hour break while they're there). There will also be plenty of trips to the creek so I can sit in a lawn chair in the shallows and work on a wicked tan (I'm 1/128th Cherokee so you know I can tan. HA.) and many, many trips to the library.

And that's just the month of June.

So in an effort to give me ideas of things to do in July and half of August and avoid the dreaded summer credo, "I'm borrrrrrrred" this week's MckLinky is:

What are YOU doing for summer vacation?

Where are you going? What are your plans?

Are you loading up the car and heading somewhere or does this year

bring a "stay-cation" for you and yours?

Please tell us! Save me from a July filled with fighting, fussing children and bad TV. Please.

Here's how:

1. Answer the question on your blog (or in the comments sections if you don't have a blog).

2. If you answer the question on your blog, add your name to MckLinky so that we all can

discover the brilliance that is your mind.

3. Grab our button from the sidebar and post it either in your reply post or on your blog.

4. Enjoy and have some fun!

~~Mrs. Nesbitt

The Reason

I’ve been a housewife for 13 of the past 14 years and folks, I know soap operas paint a lovely picture, but this life ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Harriet Nelson and June Cleaver were the pioneer-esses.....pionesses....uhm....pioneer women of homemakers and they did it all while wearing skirts and pearls and sensible pumps.

Folks, you probably have figured out that there isn’t a one of us here at the RHOK that lives the calm, organized life of the 1950's TV housewife. Well, maybe Mrs. Robinson, but no one’s really sure about her. She is a mystery, that woman.

Yesterday morning I woke up at 3:30 to the sound of crashing thunder, torrential rain and a beautiful lightning show - and the realization my daughter and I would not be going on the 2nd grade field trip that day. I, however, had promised to take the kids to school and not make them ride that horrible bus (Oh, the HORROR) so I got up and started the morning routine of coffee, shower, makeup, tame the mane and bark out orders to the school-age minions. And since the littlest Nesbitt wasn’t going to school anyway and our day was essentially plan-less I called the doctor to get her an appointment to see about this cough she has had for nearly two weeks. Oh and have I mentioned I babysit a not-quite-2 year old?

We got back home after the school run to eat a bite of breakfast (Froot Loops in a old butter dish for the toddler while Oswald the Octopus cavorted on the screen) and ingest more coffee and while I was trying to figure out a way to get the coffee directly into my liver I got a text from Mrs. Hart asking me where my post was for that day. ACK! Our calendar has been rearranged a few times lately and I just flat overlooked a post. And because of the weather I had no internet at home so I was helpless on this end. Several crazy texts and a calming phone call from Mrs. McGillicutty later and all was right in RHOKlahoma again. Then it was off to the doctor’s office. In the rain. While dragging a 2 year old and an 8 year old. An 8 year old who likes to talk. A lot. About nothing. All. The. Time. Really, there are times I just nod a lot.

Now....also know I didn’t do any of this in pearls. Or heels. Or a skirt. (I haven’t owned a skirt since 1997.) I did it in my comfy jeans, Adidas and a Sooners hoodie, my hair pulled back in a clip and a minimum of makeup. June Cleaver would’ve gasped I was seen in public in such a way.

Fast forward past the doctor appointment to where I went to my mom’s office to partake of her high-speed internet so I could order my husband some golf clubs. Then we got a lead on some cheaper golf clubs. So I didn’t need the internet anyway, but Mom bought us lunch so it wasn’t a total loss.

Upon arriving home Mr. Nesbitt was disappointed I hadn’t ordered his golf clubs, but I offered to accompany him to the sporting goods store to look at a set there since we’ve been on The Great Golf Club Quest for weeks now. He hesitated - probably because he thought I looked a little unstable what with the sweatshirt with snot smeared down one sleeve, my hair resembling Phyllis Diller’s and eyeliner on only one eye because I forgot I had makeup on and had rubbed my eye earlier. He was desperately looking for a way out when I got a text from a friend asking us to dinner.

GROWNUP DINNER! Anyone with children knows the value of a good grownup dinner. Heck, there are times I've been grateful for a bad grownup dinner.

I made a quick call to my mother who gladly agreed to watch the kids (she must've heard the depseration in my voice) and I skipped merrily down the hall to fix my hair and makeup, put on a bra that actually hoisted the ol’ girls into position better than the one I had worn all day under that oversized sweatshirt and I put on earrings. My ears cried a little, they’re so used to being left naked these days.

I had a manic little smile on my face all the way to Mom’s because if something had happened at that point to ruin our dinner plans I would’ve just lost it right there in the car. Fortunately we made it out of town and managed to buy him some golf clubs AND make it to dinner just exactly on time.

We sat for two hours in that restaurant with our adult friends and had conversations that not once involved telling anyone to stop touching the one sitting next to them. I didn’t one time have to give anyone the skunk-eye for rolling their eyes at me. And I didn't have to cut up anyone's meat or beg them try a vegetable.

The drive back to town was quiet and Mr. Nesbitt and I chatted quietly, held hands and soaked up the last few minutes of couple-dom. We picked up the kids who were sleepy and quiet and well, I have to admit that I think I felt a little of the euphoria that June Cleaver must’ve felt. I smiled to myself and thought, “Oh yes, this is why I do what I do. This is it. These quiet moments when everyone is harmonious and we’re all happy and no one is fighting...” I sighed a deep sigh of contentedness and took my husband’s hand as we drove home in the quiet.

We pulled in the driveway, roused the sleepy kids and turned the key in the door while Mr. Nesbitt unloaded the precious golf clubs from the trunk. As I turned on the entryway light one of the kids, no longer in a sleepy stupor, screamed, “THERE IS A FROG IN THE HOUSE!!” and the next few moments involved me screaming at my husband, the youngest jumping onto furniture, the boy looking for his BB gun and the eldest trying to find a cup so she could trap the frog. Mr. Nesbitt came in, tossed the clubs valiantly aside and immediately came to the rescue of his family.

I stood in the entryway, partially frozen by my fear and loathing of frogs and partially by the way that moment of cacophony and chaos and noise and frightened jumping aphibians.....well....

I realized something. That was the reason I do what I do. The craziness of it all. The noise. The chaos. The squealing. The boy running for a gun, the girls screaming....and me being there to enjoy it all.


Pearls or not.

Oh, and the golf clubs? They are left handed. Mr. Nesbitt? Isn't.


~~Mrs. Nesbitt

Wordless Wednesday: Blinking Problem

For MORE fun with Wordless Wednesday, visit Five Minutes for Mom and, link up with us too!

Compliments of Mrs. McGillicutty,

Chaos = Motherhood

The month of May is always a hectic one at my house. I live a very unexciting life as a general rule, but May sends my sense of security and my calm life flying out the window with my sanity. I can only imagine with May will be like when all three of my kids are in high school. Actually, I'd rather not imagine. Let's let it be a surprise.

In times like these past few weeks I tend to perform the most classic of cartoon reactions to cataclysmic events and extraordinary circumstances – I start waving my hands in the air, running around in circles and screaming at the top of my lungs. Okay, not really, but I might as well be doing just that - and in my mind I really am. I like order. I like routine. I like things to be simple and normal and … predictable.

I was the kid who never truly “played” with her Barbies; I spent an inordinate amount of time, however, dressing them, combing their hair and then standing them on stands where I could admire the fact they were perfectly neat and orderly. When I was done playing I put them back in their original clothes and put them up in my obsessively organized cases. My little sister had naked Barbies with chopped hair, magic marker tattoos and roughly 4,267 shoes and not one matched another and at the end of the day they all got stuffed in shoe boxes, ziploc bags and shoved in the bottom of the closet. Based on the comparison of our Barbies alone you can probably tell that Sis has always been a little more adept at rolling with life's little speed bumps than I have ever been.

Motherhood, however, has made me a tad more flexible and for this I am truly thankful. It has been my children who have forced me to hold it together and sometimes enjoy the chaos of life.  My oldest likes order as much as I do, but sitting with her and coloring for hours – sometimes outside the lines, but most of the time inside - or rocking her and singing silly songs that made no sense (even though in my head they really needed to rhyme) was the beginning of my realization that order wasn't all it was cracked up to be. That boy of mine only furthered this realization. He has a sense of curiosity about everything he encounters. Taking a walk with him was never about taking an actual walk. Walks with him were about squatting down to inspect an ant trail or kicking a rock or seeing how close we could get to a squirrel before it would run away. He liked to scream and make noise and his energy and love of chaos keeps me breathless. My youngest is a drama queen who can never ever be figured out. She is happy one minute, crying her heart out the next. She is the epitome of chaos, but in a totally good way.

I wouldn't want Stepford children who have perpetually clean rooms....wait, I reserve the right to take that one back at any point. I love the absolute upside-down feeling I sometimes get when I have a house full of kids, only three of which I gave birth to. It's noisy and messy and the sheer mess they make is a part of my life I wouldn't give up for all the neatly labeled containers in the world. If it weren't for these kids and their friends and their crazy little lives I'd be even less capable of dealing with life's little unexpected turns of events.

Awhile back my mom and I were in my pantry looking for something. I was taking a moment to gripe while standing in my horribly clutter-filled utility room. I was exasperated. She said I needed more room in my pantry. I said I just needed a bigger house. She chuckled and said, “Well, maybe just a little more organization.” I sighed, put my hands on my hips and retorted, “Well, if we would just cancel our trip to Disney World this winter then we could started building on to the house!”

And because she is the wisest person I know, she patted my shoulder and softly said, “But your kids will only be this little once. And really, Disney World is much more important than a bigger pantry and another bathroom.” Then she went back to the other room and left me to stop doing my virtual cartoon freakout in my head as I stared at my pantry that had bags of potato chips spilling out onto the shelf below, a box of Goldfish crackers that hadn't gotten quite closed the last time someone had a snack, a package of Oreos my oldest had claimed with a Sharpie marker warning exclaiming they were “POISON!” and “TOXIC!” and “MINE!” and I resisted the urge to immediately straighten things up. I decided at that moment I would rather tolerate this one area of disorganization in order to see my youngest enjoy the magic of Tinker Bell flying out of the castle, my son “training” as a Jedi and my oldest screaming, “THIS IS AWESOME!” as we ride the Tower of Terror for the sixth time in one day.

Were it not for those three little chaotic miracles of mine I would have orderly cabinets brimming with maybe some sensible oatmeal packets, fiber bars and not one single packet of Kool-aid. There would be no fight over the last Oreo because apparently the younger ones don't believe for a second when Abby says they're poisoned. The initials KDH wouldn't be written in the dust on every surface in my living room courtesy of one Tinker Bell-loving eight-year-old. I wouldn't know the joy of picking up a trail of dirty socks, winding up the cord on the flat iron for the three-millionth time or trying to figure out how to get Silly Putty out of a comforter. I wouldn't be as knowledgeable as I am about wookiees and dragons and flying pixies. I wouldn't know the craziness that is dance team try-outs or the absolute joy of burping contests. Okay, no, I take that back - my husband and I would still have the burping contests regardless of parental status. I'm pretty sure of that.

But were it not for those three kids life would be very organized, very serene...

And very, very boring.



~~Mrs. Nesbitt

When Life Imitates a Bad Sitcom

Our house was built in 1976. Up until last summer the windows in our house were the original windows - flimsy, aluminum windows. The pegs that you pushed to open the window were dry-rotted and broken on the majority of them and that meant if you wanted a breeze you'd have to prop the window open with wooden spoon or one of those free rulers you get at the county fair each summer. Several of them were rattly which was unsettling when the ol' wind would come sweeping down the plains.

A few years ago a guy selling siding and windows came to our house to give us his pitch and try his darndest to sell us new windows throughout our house. After calculating the number of windows (18) and telling us the merits of his fancy schmancy windows he wrote an absurdly obscene number on a sheet of paper and slid it across the table at us. After we picked our eyeballs up and put them back in their sockets we told him to get out of our house. He wanted nearly $20,000 for 18 windows. I have this sneaking suspicion that company didn't sell a lot of windows and that maybe the ones they did sell were to little old ladies who are now eating dog food because they spent all their money on windows.

After that we didn't entertain the thought of new windows anymore. Even though we knew that his bid of $20,000 was WAY more than windows actually cost, we were still gun shy. We decided to spend our money on important things like a trip to Disney World. But then the economy started taking a dive and the environment went all wonky and our electric bill started climbing higher -- it was like an algebraic equation for dog food casserole.

The year before, Mr. Nesbitt's brother and nephew had new roofs put on their houses and they used an Amish company out of Kansas. They were very impressed with the work and Paul's nephew also had them install windows. Again, the work was impressive and the price was lower than what his brother had paid for windows at Lowe's a few months prior. Paul called the number on the business card he was given and even though the card said "Leave a message" he ended up talking to a real live person - a real live AMISH person.

In our community there are quite a few Mennonite families and a church/school just a few miles up the road. They are like Amish Lite - they drive cars, have phones, electricity, etc. but they still wear the cute little Amish clothes and seem to be pretty religiously strict. I've always been under the impression that the Amish do not have electricity or phones, nor do they drive cars. I mean, you see the pictures of their little buggies sharing the highway with cars, right? My aunt, apparently an Amish expert, explained to me that they can have phones as long as they are not taken into the home. And this particular Amish fella has a driver that drives him and his crew to jobs and then sits in the truck all day while they work. (Smart guy, that driver) So he and Mr. Nesbitt chatted that night and worked out a time for him to come over and measure for windows.

I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt that day. I briefly thought about changing into a skirt before he arrived but then remembered I don't own one. So I just decided that I would stay in the house and stay out of the way because I thought the menfolk would stay outside. See, my darling husband had been asked earlier that day by me to take down the blinds in the bedroom and hose them down because folks, they were DUSTY. And by dusty I mean "so dirty they should be in a haunted house." But no, he said, because the guy would measure from the outside. Now, my intelligent mind told me that this was not true, but my man would not be swayed. I think he was in denial that his wife is a horrible housekeeper and he just hoped the guy would measure outside.

Well, right after Mr. Amish Man and his non-Amish driver showed up Mr. Nesbitt stuck his head inside the front door and said, "Hey, come out here a minute." I looked down at my jeans in panic, considered quickly wiping off some of my makeup, but then decided I didn't have time. I stepped out onto the porch, smiled at our Amish guest and then gave my opinion on what color windows we were going to get.

It was at that precise moment my black-fingernail-clad 12-year-old daughter came busting out the front door wearing a shirt postiviely COVERED in skulls, mouth full of toothpaste, declaring loudly, "DUDE. I JUST BROKE MY TOOTHBRUSH." Then she realized there was a strange bearded man in a straw hat standing on our porch holding a window in one hand and was trying to keep our dog, Gravy, from humping his leg with the other. She nodded his general direction, sucked the toothpaste in her mouth and said, "'Sup." Then went back in the house. I looked at Mr. Amish Man and shrugged.

But then, because God truly does have a sense of humor, that was the exact moment our youngest daughter came busting out the front door, screaming her head off, our son and my nephew close on her heels, waving Nerf guns over their heads shouting, "KILL THE GIRL! KILL THE GIRL!" We just grinned and shook our heads. And Gravy just kept on trying to hump that poor Amish man's leg.

After it was decided we would be getting white windows, I went back in the house, plopped down in my chair in front of my laptop and grabbed up my cell phone to send a Tweet about our amorous dog. The seven-year-old came into the living room and asked why there was a leprechaun in our front yard. I just patted her arm and said, "Sweetie, we live at the end of the rainbow. Now go play with your brother and cousin some more." A few minutes later Mr. Nesbitt and Mr. Amish Man came in to begin measuring. Didja catch that? They came IN to begin measuring. I was wishing I had a nifty pause button on my life like we have on our DVR - I just needed long enough to hose down those haunted house blinds, do a few loads of laundry, mop the kitchen floor, sew myself a skirt and maybe find a different shirt for our Emo child

I moved to the couch so they could get to the window. As Mr. Amish Man was measuring he asked the question, "So, Mr. Nesbitt, where do you work?" I stopped mid-Tweet to watch the conversation. Not thinking to lie through his teeth, my husband replied, "I'm a Supervisor at a casino. I work on slot machines."

The poor guy's beard actually twitched as he briefly paused his measuring to process that reply. I bit my lip to keep from busting out laughing and decided that Twitter would have to wait a few minutes because I needed my phone free to throw at my husband if he said anything else that might cause our window man to have a massive coronary in our living room.

Funny. He didn't ask about my profession. I can only assume he thought I was a street walker or voodoo priestess. I'm sure God got a big ol' earful from that little suspendered man that night. In fact, I'm pretty sure their entire community had prayer for us heathens.

When it was all said and done he gave us a super low bid on the windows and even though he said he wouldn't be able to install for three months, thus giving me sufficient time to sew myself a skirt, I instead decided to keep it real -- and I wore shorts.

~~Mrs. Nesbitt

Word to Your Possum

Since it's National Humor Month I thought I'd yuk it up this week, although I don't know if there's any post that can beat Mrs. Albright's last post. I'll give it a whirl, but it's not about poo. And even though I have plenty of stories about poo myself, I'll leave that particular genre to Mrs. Albright and Mrs. Priss. I hear Mrs. Priss is the Queen of Poo Posts. But maybe that's just a rumor Mrs. Robinson started.

-------------

Mr. Nesbitt, the little 'bitts and I live on 40 acres out in the rural paradise of northeast Oklahoma. We have roughly 30 acres of pasture and the rest is woods. We have two ponds on our place as well as a barn. What I'm getting at is this: There is no shortage of hidey-holes for critters and varmints out here. We have seen our share of coyotes, rats, mice, possums, raccoons, deer, bobcats and panthers. Oh and also squirrels, birds and snakes. It's like Dr. Doolittle's dream vacation spot.

Now, y'all, I love living out here and I grew up in the country, so I can legally call myself a "country girl", but can I share something with you? I don't like critters. I hate birds, and chickens scare the living daylights out of me. I am terrified of mice, a fact which makes my husband take great delight in chasing me around with a dead mouse on a trap when we have the misfortune of having a little rodent visitor. Our children have ZhuZhu pets because that is the only form of small rodent creature allowed in the house - the kind with mechanical guts. All others rodent intruders are subject to traps, poisons and if they get too close to me, death by drowning because I will pee my pants. I don't like holding baby chicks, cuddling with fuzzy kittens or feeding ducks at the pond. I'm definitely no Ellie Mae Clampett.

 A few years ago I was outside on the carport late at night. A lot of times in the warmer months Mr. Nesbitt and I will go outside after the kids are in bed and just sit in the lawnchairs or on the swing and just enjoy being where we are. That particular night he didn't join me - probably because there was a COPS marathon on TV and who can resist that? The carport is on the end of the house and opens up to the front, side and backyard, so it really is a good place to sit and just enjoy the scenery. At the time we had a gigantic Chow/Lab mix named Jake, the most gigantic and gentle dog that ever existed. He would bark when someone drove up to warn us of possible danger or robbery, would bark when critters would wander about the yard to warn us of possible attack a la Animal Farm and would bark when the wind blew to warn us of impending uhm....windy-ness. He was fiercely protective of the kids and me and once tried to bite the septic tank guy because he smelled like well, septic tank and made a sudden move toward me and I guess Jake equated the smell of poo with danger and doom.

That summer night on the carport I was in a lawn chair with Jake at my side, both of us quiet and reflective (well, as reflective as a dog can be, I guess). The windows were open, there was a little breeze blowing, the frogs were chirping out by the pond, all was right with the world.....when suddenly Jake bristled next to me and let out a low growl. I was snapped from my rural reverie and looked around to see if it was impending burglary, animal takeover or .... wind.

It was a possum.

On the carport.

WITH ME.

I immediately jumped up and hollered, "POSSUM!"

Now, I expected that with a cry as desperate as that, my brave husband would have heard my distress and come running. No such luck. Apparently the escapades of the characters evading police capture on the TV were so captivating he had blocked out everything else - including his wife and dog who were at risk of possum attack.

Again I hollered, "POSSUM! POSSUM! POSSSSUUUUMMMM!" and then I did what I had seen my Papa do back on the farm - I stomped my foot at the varmint and hissed. I guess the possums on Papa's farm were big ol' fraidy cats because they always ran when he did that. Oh, but not the ferocious furry beast on my carport that night. I can only assume that stomping and hissing is possum gangster talk for "Let's rumble, punk." He hissed back and moved TOWARD me.

The rather benign creature who had wandered onto the carport in search of dogfood went from looking like this:

to looking like this:

in mere seconds.

And that's when I took off running. I headed toward the front of the house by way of the sidewalk, barefoot as the day I was born, ratty nightshirt flappin' in the wind, hollering, "POSSUM POSSUM POSSUM POSSUM!" the whole time.

Paul said he was sitting there in his recliner watching TV when suddenly he heard THUMP THUMP THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP followed by screams of POSSUM!, then saw me fly by the front picture window. Preceded by the dog.

He could hardly shoot the dang thing because he was laughing so hard at his not-so-brave country girl wife and less courageous dog.

We've only had one other possum wander onto the carport since that night and the only reason I can figure why is that the phrase "Let's rumble, punk," by way of a stomp and a hiss, followed by the blast of a shotgun means I am one truly effective rural gangster. Word.

~~Mrs. Nesbitt

Dance the Night Away (if you can stay awake)

== I'm not sure about elsewhere in the country, but here in northeast Oklahoma it's Prom season. Last weekend and this weekend seem to be when most schools are having them. The salons are all booked up, the nail shops are doing land run business and forget about getting a slot in a tanning bed the past few weeks.

Ahhh....the Prom. There are few things in my life I have gotten gussied up for like I have the Prom. Okay, just one other – my wedding. I'm not a super duper girly-girl. I never have been. Okay, I'm moderately obsessive over my hair, but that is the extent of my girliness. The Prom, though....*sigh*.... it's a magical night. Even if you're not girly.

I started going to the Prom when I was a Sophomore and went to five total by the time I was a Senior. I went once with a good friend, three times with a boyfriend and once by myself. All of them have specific, special memories attached to them – my date's sequined tie and cummerbund, my parents chaperoning, my boyfriend mimicking various people's dance styles and cracking me up because he did them so well, especially the principal's, the class prophecy where I was the one who ended up on welfare (Oh....Mrs. Enoch, your prophecy hit too close to reality for a few lean years) and getting motion-sick because the Prom was on a boat on the lake.

Long dresses, short dresses... up-do's and down-do's....showing up in a limo, Daddy's car or a bicycle built for two..... boutonnieres and corsages.... music, speeches and memories.

I bought all my dresses on the sale rack and borrowed the necessary shoes. I never had my nails and hair professionally done before any of my Prom experiences. (Heck, I did my own hair and nails for my wedding) I never tanned weeks before the event. (Didn't for my wedding either.) I was the one who resembled talcum powder in all the group pics. I was the glaringly white chick amongst all the other girls who could have been Coppertone models. 

Oh and also? I don't dance. Okay, clarification: I don't fast dance. Didn't then, don't now, probably won't ever. I look ridiculous and it makes those around me uncomfortable. Really, Prom for me was all about eating twice-baked potatoes (which were served at all the banquets and something Mom never made at home and I thought they were so fancy), staying out until dawn and for one (or two) evenings out of the year setting aside my non-girliness and playing the part of the princess. A non-dancing princess who hated pantyhose and heels.

And who could forget all the after-Prom stuff? At our little school we always rented Olympic Fitness Center and they locked us in for the night. Two years in a row I ended up falling asleep on the couch in front of the big projection TV while everyone else played racquetball, basketball and volleyball and made out in the track underneath the building because the chaperones didn't police that area too often. I wasn't sporty and considering I usually went to bed at 9 of my own volition, the fitness center wasn't a big reason to stay awake. I crashed before Midnight both years. My boyfriend, however, went to a bigger school and they had events planned all over town – we played mini golf, went bowling, saw a movie and ended the night with pancakes and sausage at the Elk's Club. (I dozed through the movie and yawned through the pancakes). Well, the Elk's Lodge wasn't where anyone really ended the night – that was done on various dirt roads all over the county because you know when you let a bunch of teenagers stay out all night there will be parking.

I look back over my Prom pictures now, glossy 4x6 prints of my friends and their dates looking deliriously happy while they danced and posed, and I realize it's been over 20 years since some of those pictures were taken. Most of those people I am no longer in touch with, a couple have passed away, one is my Avon lady, one I go to church with, quite a few are my friends on Facebook and some I talk to daily. We were young, thin, hopeful, happy and for one night we didn't worry about grades, graduation and the future. For one magical evening we didn't think about ACT scores, our parents splitting up, college acceptance, two pink lines on a pregnancy test, transcripts and competitions - we just danced and complained about our aching toes, held our boyfriends tight while we danced to sappy Richard Marx songs and tried not to smash our Aqua Netted hair while we laid our heads on their shoulders.

If there was a Prom held for us now it would be a whole different affair. We wouldn't rely on our moms to pick up our corsages and boutonnieres the morning of – heck, the money spent on flowers to adorn our clothes would be better spent on bandaids for the blisters we are soon to have from wearing shoes that aren't Crocs or flipflops. We wouldn't worry about after-Prom activities because even if we could stay awake til sunup, why would we want to? The last time I saw the sun come up I was holding a feverish child and a sippy cup of Pedialyte. And who can afford a sitter for that many hours anyway? We would have to search and search for a dress that didn't show off fat rolls, dimples and flabby arms. And forget about mere control-top pantyhose – it would be Spanx, possibly full-body Spanx. By night's end we'd all be yawning and wondering if we could just go somewhere and sleep for a few hours before having to go home and relieve the sitter. Our husbands would complain about the food. We probably would, too (because I have since mastered the art of twice-baked potatoes and mine are so much better). We'd politely clap for the young couple out there dancing by themselves to every song, his flat six-pack abs affording him endless amounts of energy and her cute pregnant belly making them look like Newlywed Barbie and Ken, all while thinking, “Just you wait, you two. Just you wait.”

We've made the transition from exuberant teenagers who dance to Madonna and Wham! to mommas and daddies who are more in tune to the Chicken Dance and the Hokey Pokey. We will forgo a new outfit in order to buy the Easter dress our daughter literally hugs and kisses in the store. We don't get dressed up to go dancing all that often these days, but playing Princesses with a five year old can make a rainy day go by faster. A mini-van full of carseats if our most frequent form of transportation. Sleeping in is now 6am rather than noon. Daddy hasn't worn a tux in years, but had pink toenail polish on last weekend when his seven year old asked “Pleeeeeeeease, Daddy?”

See, we may have outgrown the Prom, but we seem to have grown into Parenthood just fine.



~~Mrs. Nesbitt





Note: Make sure you stop by the RHOK tomorrow to see all the housewives in their Prom dresses and see if you can match the Mrs. to her former Prom self!