I’ve been tossing this idea around in my head for five years. It was born during my pregnancy with my second child. I believed in it with all my heart (and stomach) at that time and I still do to this day.

Would you please offer your creamy filling on its own? Maybe you could call it Hostess Bucket O’ Creamy Yumminess? All I know is that filling is magically delicious and it is the perfect partner for cookies, brownies and spoons.

If you could do this in a timely fashion I would be most appreciative. Finances are tight and buying a two-pack of Suzy Q’s to scrape out the creamy filling is expensive. Just throw that white bliss in a jar and get it on the grocery shelves PRONTO.

You can find me in the packaged snack cake aisle at Target if you need me.

Your creamy filling worshipper,

Lyssa

As we made our way from the carbonated beverage aisle to the pharmacy, B-Dogg explained that he had experienced his first Sunkist Orange Soda the day before at school. He went on to explain that it gave him the “jitterbugs.” He demonstrated the “jitterbugs” by performing dangerous gymnastic moves on the shopping cart (the kind of brain-damaging wrangling that I’ve witnessed other kids doing in the past, except I said, “my child will never do that!”).

I warned B-Dogg that his behavior was putting him in grave danger (I think it went “get off there before you have to wear a brain bucket for the rest of your life, TurkeyBurger” or something positive like that). The Pharmacist, who had been amusedly watching our circus, mentioned to B-Dogg that the jitterbug was a very old dance her parents did when the dinosaurs roamed the earth. Bless her heart, this delightful lady distracted B-Dogg until I could locate a KING KONG SIZE bottle of Tylenol PM.

As we left the busy aisle, B-Dogg said in his outdoor voice, “she looks just like that witch!”

Gaa! I prayed that she hadn’t heard him.

“I look like a witch? Thanks a lot!” she yelled over the shelf to us.

Crap! I contemplated ditching the scene, but knew I couldn’t leave the poor gal without an explanation. If I did, I could kiss her advice buh-bye the next time I got a debilitating head cold.

As I wheeled back to the aisle, I cautiously asked B-Dogg, “What witch are you talking about?”

“The White Witch!” he answered with excitement.

“Oh! The witch from The Chronicles of Narnia! You know she’s just beautiful!” I explained to the Pharmacist, relieved that B-Dogg wasn’t referring to the Wizard of Oz witch, who spent all her free time with flying monkeys.

“Yeah, she looks just like that witch except this lady smiles!” B-Dogg said.

As the Pharmacist laughed, I hauled butt out of there before he could match any of the other shoppers with that freaky half man/half deer character.

Recently, we had a Sweet & Sassy Girls Salon built in our neighborhood Town Center. It’s a girl’s paradise filled with hand lotions with sparkles, girly clothes and colorful hair bows. Immediately, I was attracted to the bright, big bows… until I saw the price… $15.00 each!

It took me only a moment to imagine sending my babe to school with $30.00 adhered to her head to return from a day of toddler mayhem with a bare head. Seeing that the financial world is crumbling around us, I knew I would react in an inappropriate manner that might possibly scar my child for life. Then and there I decided to learn how to make boutique bows for my baby at a fraction of the cost.

After weeks of scouring EARTH for instructions and supplies, I spent far more than $30.00 to acquire the skills to make Queen Hadlifah bows for every occasion. I’ve learned a few hard lessons during this endeavor, as follows:

• They are not kidding when they say HOT glue gun.
• A bow that contains more ribbon is worth more than one that doesn’t. But there is a point when your child’s neck CANNOT support that much ribbon.
• After learning to weave headbands, I realized I could have easily passed Basket Weaving in college.
• There is a lot of research and development that goes into bow making. This means a design that looks good upon first placement in the hair does not mean it will survive the day. There is nothing sadder than a toddler with an “exploded” hair bow hanging from her head.

The good news is I don’t fear her losing my creations. The bad news is I have to go into the bow business to recoup my costs. The worst news is the Baby Tylenol expenses are reaching epic proportions as poor Queen Hadlifah’s neck attempts to support bows.

During my childhood, we usually went to GG’s house several times a year.  She lived in a quaint Cape Cod with a second story.  There she taught me an especially helpful trick.

If you were too busy (or possibly lazy) to make a trip upstairs with something to put away, you would place the item on the stairs until you had a spare moment to make the trek up.  I took to that lesson like a bug to a zapper.  I’d stack my crap on the stairs until I would have to take six trips upstairs or my knees buckle from the weight of my stuff.  In fact, one of my earliest memories was of realizing that stairs actually led somewhere, instead of being an elaborate shelf.

I still exercise this sage lesson, except now Sarah Jessica Barker has added a twist to the practice.  The good news is she’s always willing to assist by taking my junk upstairs.  The bad news is she eats whatever she carries.

GG never addressed that scenario.

I realize that Festivus is still three months out, so my Airing of the Grievances is significantly premature, but DANG I gotta get some things off my chest!  As we all know, if Mama ain’t happy…

Therefore, I’m documenting my Early Edition for Sparky's benefit.

• When we adopted Sarah Jessica Barker, you PROMISED to brush her fur.  A visit to the PETsMART groomer yesterday and we have a sheared GoldenDoodle, who looks like she just enlisted in the Army - G.I. Jane style.  She has not one extra lock ANYWHERE on her body.  In fact, I have renamed her Lamby Leathers (because she looks like a lamb with leather ears).  She also reminds me of Sophia Petrillo with her sad curly mop on top.  Quit trying to tell me that my previously fuzzy bear feels better when she looks like Mr. Bigglesworth.
• I opened the linen closet to find that you had kindly washed, folded and put away the towels.  One problem, your folding technique is that of the criminally insane.  Is this your way of getting “grounded” from folding clothes or should I be sleeping with one eye open at night?
• GARBAGE.  Again, might I remind you that those overflowing circular receptacles contain TRASH.  It is NOT a bad idea to empty them on a daily basis.  It IS unwise to force your family to create garbage monuments until you get around to disposing of the crapola.  Also, Sarah Jessica Barker eating the garbage DOES NOT count as emptying the trash.
• If you continue to give me B-Dogg and Queen Hadlifah’s notices for class parties the NIGHT BEFORE the event, I will cut you.
• Dude, your car.  The kids have confided in me and the term “dump” came up.  I realize that car cleanliness standards have to be reduced significantly when shuttling children, but you could have a buried treasure in there without your knowledge.  You need to take a shovel and dig through the mess.  If you find Jimmy Hoffa in there, alert the authorities.

Much better.  That should hold me over until December.

With all the hurricane hoopla lately, we’ve been going to the beach a lot. Maybe it’s that we keep running back there to witness the larger-than-usual waves or B-Dogg’s intense desire to learn how to surf or possibly the hopes of finding that elusive perfect shell, but for Queen Hadlifah the reason is altogether different.

Early last summer, during a visit to Jacksonville Beach, Queen Hadlifah toddled her pampered butt down to the edge of the water.  She was feeling particularly sassy because she was wearing her brand new Dora swim shoes from GG for the very first time.

The rip tides were fairly contentious that particular afternoon.  Fearing the worst, we wouldn’t allow the kids to go farther than ankle deep and we insisted that they always hold onto the hand of an adult.  As I held Queen Hadlifah under the arms and pulled her up with each crashing wave, she would scream in delight and kick her chubby little legs. 

After about thirty minutes of enjoying the undulating water, we were hit by a large wave that attempted to pull us into the sea.  Though my feet were steady and my grasp was firm, the ocean had other ideas.  Queen Hadlifah watched in horror as the tide yanked one of her shoes from her foot.  She screamed like I’d put her favorite blankie, Stinky Pink, on the top shelf of the closet at bedtime.

For once in my life, I kept my wits about me.  I assessed the situation and realized that if I retrieved the beloved shoe Queen Hadlifah might be pulled into the swirling water.  I helplessly watched the shoe wash away, while my daughter was engulfed in tears.

Knowing that no explanation would assuage her grief, I explained our only option, “Queen Hadlifah, I think you should throw your other Dora shoe in the water so the pair will wash up in Miami for some little girl down there.  I think it would make her very happy.”

With crocodile tears glistening in her crystal blue eyes, Queen Hadlifah sadly threw her shoe in the water and watched it wash away.

Fifteen months and many beach visits later, she still checks the shoreline, in case the Miami girl has sent her Dora shoes back.

Dear Jerry of Big Brother 10,

Big Brother is my summer guilty pleasure.  It’s my three-night-a-week vacation from bickering children, work woes and daily stress.  I get to watch thirteen morally reprehensible idiots scheme, fight and whine on television’s inferior sibling of Survivor.

This season has been mildly entertaining with one exception… it’s you, Jerry.  It’s you and your armpit exposing tank tops.  In general, I am not a big fan of hairy armpits, especially not on old men or women of any age.

The law of physics prohibits the skin of a seventy-five year old man from bouncing back like a quarter on a military-made bed, which you should understand being a retiree of the USMC.  Instead, your hairy pits just sort of waggle not unlike that of a turkey’s neck.  I find this very distracting when you try to discuss strategy in the Diary Room.

Please do us all a favor and put on a t-shirt or polo.  Believe me, you arms have lost considerable muscle mass, so your pasty pythons will not be missed.  Do this and I promise if they decide to let America decide who wins, my vote will be for you, your droopy armpits and Judas-spewing mouth.

Sincerely,

Lyssa

P.S.  Please don’t be insulted by my suggestion.  I hold myself to the same level of scrutiny.  Therefore, you will never see my fleshy bat wings exposed for general viewing.

Friday

6 pm

First thing tomorrow morning, Sparky leaves for SC. I will be responsible for taking care of B-Dogg and Queen Hadlifah ALONE all weekend. I know single parents do this all the time, but this Mama subscribes to the "it takes a village and some Valium" belief.

God, please don't let my parents get hit by a beer truck this weekend. I'm gonna need back up.

9 pm

I took two Tylenol PM to help me get a good night sleep to prepare for my Weekend O' Terror. The kids are in bed with me watching The Empire Strikes Back . Even a young Harrison Ford can't get rid of the bad Yoda taste in my mouth.  Dude, how about some grammar lessons?

9:30 pm

Queen Hadlifah refuses to sit still.  She just crashed her noggin into the headboard with the force of a Weight Watcher opening the door to a Dairy Queen. She is now convinced that she can read after one week of Pre-K. Brain damage is possible.

Saturday

7 am

I woke up to the delightful sound of Sarah Jessica Barker tossing her cookies on my comforter. It appears that Sparky left the laundry door open (strictly verboten in our household because of our dumpster diving dog) before leaving for SC. The upstairs floor was littered with mutant lint balls and used dryer sheets. I'm filing for divorce on Tuesday.

6 pm

We spent the day at the beach with my parents. Late in the afternoon, the sky opened up, soaking us to the bone within seconds. People ran out of the ocean like Jaws was nipping at their hindquarters. Excuse me Bozos, did you happen to notice that you were WET while in the water? What exactly are you running from?

MIDNIGHT

B-Dogg and Queen Hadlifah will NOT go to sleep! They are hopped up on licorice, legos and a sleep-over at Grammy and PopPop's house. Even Sarah Jessica Barker has flipped her lid. In about one minute I'm going to hit all three of them on the head with a skillet to hasten lights out.

Sunday

7:30 am

For the love that all that is holy, those kids are ready to rock n' roll already. Kill me now.

4:30 pm

We have been out to lunch, surfed in the hot tub and have seen Star Wars: The Clone Wars with Grammy, whom I had to wake up on two separate occasions. I'm so exhausted that I've forgotten my address and I have no idea who these two ankle biters are that keep following me around and calling me "Mommy."

8:00 pm

I have lured the kids to bed by offering a sleep-over in my bed with cookies and Spongebob Squarepants . I passed out to the sound of laughter and crunching.

Monday

5:45 am

Sarah Jessica Barker has decided it's time to eat Mama. I drag her out of the bedroom before the sound of fierce nibbling wakes up the kids.

7:00 am

More cartoons. B-Dogg and Queen Hadlifah volunteered to make breakfast. I gladly accepted the offer. I ended up with ice water and a glass of milk. Unfortunately, it was better than anything I've served the family for a meal.

8:00 am to 1 pm

I'm watching the clock tick by until Sparky gets home. Exhaustion is leeching out of every pore.

1:20 pm

Sparky got home twenty seconds ago!  We survived the weekend with little to no emotional damage.  I suspect I might get this mothering thing down by the time the kids graduate from high school.  That's just about the time this exhaustion should ebb away...

Last week, Hurricane Fay visited Jacksonville like an undesirable family member, who shows up on your doorstep without prior notice, leaves damp towels scattered on your guest room floor, forgets to put down the toilet seat and refuses leave in a timely manner.

In the wake of her Cousin Gustav’s arrival in the Gulf Coast, I’d like to share a lesson I learned from Fay’s presence, as follows:

Somewhere around the third day of being locked in the house with your children, during the 400^th consecutive hour of Spongebob Squarepants, after the millionth whinefest concerning boredom and the kajillionth session of begging for Yogos for breakfast, YOU WILL begin to believe that Old Yeller had a happy ending.

For all those parents in Gustav’s path, my prayers are with you.

We decided that our rhinoceros-sized GoldenDoodle needed a sister. We called the breeder to find that she happened to have two five-month-old half-sisters of Sarah Jessica Barker’s available for adoption. We decided that we’d get our pooch a little sister, but would never discuss her mother’s questionable morals since the Doodles had different baby daddies.

After a forty-five minute ride with the wee ones in tow, we arrived at the Doodle Farm. We were greeted by two of the most feral dogs known to nature, who were already significantly bigger than SJB. Overwhelmed by what she thought was wild dingoes in the Outback, Sarah Jessica Barker scrambled for the protection of the car. She stared out the window with an expression that clearly said, “Can we please exit this insane asylum, pronto?”

After a lengthy consideration, we took the sister that had not attacked the kids. She was chunky, with a small head and coarse golden hair that looked suspiciously like it might shed (read: extreme allergy concern). In just about every way, she was the opposite of Sarah Jessica Barker. Ignoring the fact that my nose was already starting to itch, I named her Catherine Zeta Bones.

When we arrived home, we encouraged the dogs to acquaint themselves. We kept a watchful eye for aggression, nipping or general mayhem. Soon, Catherine Zeta Bones ran pell mell after Sarah Jessica Barker. As they ran laps around the first floor, I got excited at the thought of SJB burning off some of that excess energy that manifests itself in Ambitious Mommy Nibbling. The good feelings were short lived as Sarah Jessica Barker slid across the linoleum floor and crashed into the kitchen island. With her tail tucked between her legs, she made her way to the security of the upstairs.

Several hours later, we made another attempt to reintroduce the girls. Sparky, who had been showering Catherine Zeta Bones with love, turned his attention to Sarah Jessica Barker.

With a growl that clearly said, “Oh no you didn’t, BITCH!” (Mind you, this wasn’t the profanity b-word, but rather the “you’re a female dog” version.) Catherine Zeta Bones lunged at Sarah Jessica Barker with impunity.

Houston , we have a problem.

We do not believe in returning our children for a mere altercation (we tried it once with no success), but we were concerned about Sarah Jessica Barker’s safety and general mental health. We decided to go on high alert and see if the situation improved after a good night’s sleep. I spent a sleepless night worrying about the dogs and the kid’s reaction to our Hannibal Lechter in a Doodle costume.

The next morning, as B-Dogg enthusiastically came downstairs to greet his dogs, Catherine Zeta Bones lunged at Sarah Jessica Barker again. Too close to B-Dogg for comfort during attack mode, we decided Catherine Zeta Bones had to be returned to the farm.

After the un-adoption of Catherine Zeta Bones, Sarah Jessica Barker’s behavior improved significantly. In fact, we often threaten her with the return of her sister if she doesn’t shape up.

If only we could find an equally effective ultimatum for the kids.