Our family is a competitive bunch. Years ago, before we had started dating, my husband and I worked in the same office. But, instead of getting files off our desks, we would race each other to see who could finish the daily crossword puzzle first. Usually, I won. Okay, I admit that I cheated by calling my Mom fairly often…but hey, a win is a win.

My husband hates losing so much that I once saw him chuck his club into a creek on a putt-putt course. And, when he coached our daughter’s t-ball team a few years ago, and they lost their first game…well, it wasn’t pretty at our house afterward. Though, he at least waited until our daughter walked out of the room before he said he was so mad that he felt like throwing something. His mood actually rises and falls with the score of his fantasy football team.

The latest competitive activity in our house is Speed Stacks. If you haven’t seen it, you should watch this. Not only do you need dexterity and coordination, you need to be fast. They don’t include a timer for nothing. As of now, our daughter is the quickest, but we’re gaining on her. Well, my husband is. I can’t cheat my way to winning this.

Apparently, our five year old son is starting to take after his Dad. Because the other night, our boy stopped playing, grabbed at his pants, and as he ran to the bathroom, he yelled, “I’m going to go pee! TIME ME!”

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I wasn’t feeling well last night, so my husband offered to get some take-out for dinner. He then asked our five year old son what he wanted to eat.

Our son replied, “Pasketti.”

Then he corrected himself and said, “No, no, not pasketti. Sasketti.”

And again, “No! Not sasketti. I want Spapetti.”

We were just sitting there, waiting for him to come up with the right word, when he walked over to my husband and said, “Dad, I want chicken”.

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Last night we surprised our daughter with Hanna Montana tickets. It was an early birthday present that we thought she would love. For anyone without a pre-teen daughter, Hanna’s real name is Miley Cyrus…as in Billy Ray’s daughter. Now, if you had asked me ten years ago if I would ever go to a concert with the name Cyrus on the ticket, I would’ve told you absolutely not. As a matter of fact, when my husband and I got married back in 1997, we specifically told the DJ that Achy Breaky Heart was NOT to be played.

But, our daughter LOVES this Cyrus kid. So we were pretty surprised with she opened her present and just sat there and smiled. No yelling? No jumping? No bouncing off the walls? WHAT? Because, when I wasn’t much older than her and I got Jack Wagner tickets…well, I was a mini-maniac. And, when he touched my hand at the concert…sigh…I vowed to never wash it again.

But, our kid was calm and we just sat there looking at her, asking if she was happy. Prodding her to at least pretend to be thrilled. I gotta tell you, I was a bit disappointed.

When I took a phone call a couple of minutes later, she was still just sitting there. But, slowly it hit her, and I looked over to see her eyes welling up with tears. Then she took a pillow, put it over her face and screamed. Soon she was jumping around the room, giving me and her Dad alternating hugs, with, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” in between. She ran upstairs, tried on an outfit for the concert, then hugged her Hanna Montana poster.

What a relief that was. I can’t tell you how happy I was to see her acting like a hysterical fool.

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A few nights ago, my kids were in the bathroom and suddenly things got quiet. Now, every parent who knows anything, knows that silence is not golden unless you’re in the car, where everyone is safely strapped in their seats. Silence in the car isn’t golden, it’s platinum. But, silence in the bathroom is not usually good, so I don’t know why I didn’t yell the frequently asked, “What are you doing in there?!!”

Before I could use my motherly instincts to sense doom, my daughter yelled, “Mom! You’re not going to be happy.”

Now, what could that mean? Coming from the bathroom, I assumed it was that my son had pulled down the towel rack, or that a full trash can had been tipped over. The worst scenario in my mind was a backed-up toilet. We live in an old house, so that happens a lot.

But,no! That would just require a plunger and some elbow grease. Instead, my daughter informed me that after she had pooped and wiped, but before she had flushed, her brother threw an ink-pen in the toilet.

At first, I just stood there looking at it. Like, what am I going to do about this?!! But, I quickly went to work, looking for something with which I could easily retrieve the pen, and then dispose of.

I thought about tongs, but tongs aren’t really disposable. I thought of the box of surgical gloves we have, that I use for projects around the house, or for when my son had his tonsils removed and we had to shove acetaminophen suppositories up his patootie, but they seemed too thin and I didn’t want to think about sticking my hand in there. Not even with a glove on.

So, I did what any logical person would do. I took two bendable straws and positioned one under each end of the pen which had luckily not speared anything. With a keen sense of straw-balancing, I was able to lift the pen out of the pot. I threw it, and the straws, into the trash can I had placed right next to the toilet.

And, there you have my latest Mommy-Invention. A poopy-pen-retrieval-system. It sure won’t make me rich, but at least it kept my hands clean.

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