A friend of mine sent me an e-mail tonight called “Kids – The 15 Step Program”. It was a humorous look at all the things you should do BEFORE you have kids to see if you’re ready for them.

What got me was Lesson #2, which said that before you have children, you should go find a couple who does, and then BERATE them about discipline, sleep habits, breastfeeding, toilet training, and for allowing their children to run wild. That way, once you have children, you’ll know how to take such unsolicited advice from non-parents.

Unfortunately, I have to own up to something. I used to be that person doing the berating. Only, I had a child at the time.

Our daughter was, and for the most part still is, a model child. She never acted up, cried in the check-out line, threw her food, talked too loud, or had random fits. When I told her “don’t do that again”, she didn’t do it again…ever. After two years with a pacifier, we took it away cold-turkey, and she never even cried for it. She was completely potty trained in three days and didn’t have a single accident after that. Everything came easy. So, I hope it’s understandable that I completely believed this whole parenting thing? Well, it was a breeze really! Why didn’t all these other parents know how to raise their children?!

Ah, but things have a way of working out. I was firmly, and absolutely, put in my place when my son was born. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, has been easy with this child. Aside from his health problems, there were major challenges in feedings, crawling, walking, talking, potty training, and dressing himself. He doesn’t mind having purposeless breakdowns, and he has the ability to make just about anyone uncomfortable with his glaring honesty. If I tell him, “don’t do that again”, that means I’ve given him a green light to do it more. In church, he mocks the choir and throws his head back while he dramatically lip syncs. And, he will walk up to strange women and ask me, “What’s HIS name?” His latest act, for which we can’t seem to find a solution, is that he becomes visibly upset if he sees, or even hears, another child crying.

But, it’s that sweet, wonderful sensitivity that gets to me. That, and when he’s not actually making fun of someone, he’s really very funny. Quite the comedian, in fact. And, all those challenging milestones? Well, that was all the proof we needed to see that no matter how hard something may be, he’s going to work at it until he can do it. Even if it takes YEARS.

So there. My son is not a model child, but to me he’s pretty perfect the way he is. And, to all those parents I criticized when my daughter was young. I’m sorry. I really had no idea.

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On occasion I participate in research studies for a local marketing company. They call me, ask me a bunch of questions, and if I answer the way they want me to, I’m asked to come in and give my opinion. In return, I get a couple of hours out of the house, some adult conversation, and a paycheck.

The only part of this process which I dislike are the phone interviews. They call A LOT. And, the opportunities to participate in a study for money are far and few between. Of course, if I have a pleasant person on the other end of the phone doing the interview, it’s not so bad. That was not the case the other night.

A gentleman (and I use that term loosely, only out of respect to his Mother) by the name of Mack, called. The beginning of the conversation always consists of general questions about yourself….age, occupation, income, etc. He then went on to ask me ten minutes worth of questions about my buying habits, before telling me that I qualified for the study, and was invited to participate in person. He gave me the location, date and time and then asked if I would be able to attend. After I confirmed that I could, he said, “Well, I thought so, since you’re just sitting around over there.”

Uh, what did you say? Mack? Is it Mack? I would be happy to let you fill my shoes for a day. I’ll take my turn over at your desk, at your stressful job surveying people, and you can come over here for awhile. You can take care of my five year old who likes to pee mostly around the toilet, and my eight year old who will inform you that she’s bored within five minutes of your arrival. You can spend an hour making dinner that, mysteriously, no one will want to eat when it’s hot, and in the meantime, answer phone calls from stupid market research companies. You can change my son’s shirt three times in a day, wipe his butt, give him all his meds, and deal with the insurance company who always seems to be jerking us around. You can also teach my son to read, help my daughter at softball practice, and you can clean the house. Oh, and that last one…well, it’s pretty funny, but as soon as you clean it, it will be a mess again. It’s like magic, or something.

Those were all the things I wanted to say. But instead, all I could spit out was, “Mack, I’m guessing you don’t have kids”. Of course he doesn’t. Because interviewing people over the phone doesn’t pay for the endless amounts of food they eat, the clothes they tear through, and especially not school tuition. In the end, I will be satisfied with the knowledge that “I’m just sitting around over here”, with my crazy kids, crazier dog, stressed-out husband and messy house. And, that Mack’s just sitting around over there, and he can only hope to someday have a life as good as mine.

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Our neighbors are on vacation and I’m taking care of their house this week. I’ve been watering the flowers, collecting the mail, and feeding their cat. For those of you who really know me, that last task is my version of torture. I have Ailurophobia. That’s a fancy word for “cats scare the poo out of me”.

My fear of cats started when I was in elementary school. It seems my house-sitting abilities were evident early on, because I used to open and shut my neighbor’s curtains, and take care of their cat when they went away. They had a big, white, long-haired cat who was the meanest animal I’ve ever known. And, just to add insult to injury, his name was Fluffy.

That cat taught me the first lesson in feline behavior, which is that they can never be trusted. He was always nice to me when his owners were home, but once they left town and I’d show up to feed him, things would turn ugly. Fluffy used to greet me at the door standing on his HIND LEGS, while baring his teeth and hissing. As I entered the house, he would swat at me, then chase me from room to room, hissing at me the whole time. I hated that cat, but I loved the money, so I’d go back every summer to be battered and scratched up some more.

My fear of cats only got worse as I aged. I once locked myself in my sister’s bathroom because her two cats were meowing right outside the door. It’s like they knew. I stayed in there until someone came looking for me and they had to physically move the cats before I would come out. And, last year when a stray cat showed up at our campsite and jumped into my husband’s lap, it made me jump out of my chair. Because, if that thing had climbed into my lap…well, let’s just say I would’ve either passed out, or made a mess in my pants, or possibly both. I ended up letting our dog off her leash to chase that stray away, then kept her at my side for the rest of the night, chanting, “Good dog. GOOD DOOOOOG!!”

This fear has even invaded my sleep. I have a recurring nightmare that a cat has jumped up and dug it’s teeth into my outstretched arm. I swing my arm violently, but it won’t let go. This is evidence that what happens in your childhood can scar you for life.

But, these neighbors we have now…they’re good neighbors, and they’ve helped us out when we’ve needed them. So, I will suppress my fear, tentatively enter their house, and muster the mental strength it takes to put some kibble in their cat’s bowl.

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Last night, my Mom and I took the kids to a local festival. It was America at it’s finest. We saw nicely dressed folks, and we saw others in Skynyrd shirts with their sleeves cut off. We saw tall, short, thin and robust. We saw mullets.

Food booths went as far as the eye could see, serving nothing but pure, artery-clogging cuisine. And, there were ridiculously overpriced, no-chance-to-win games, where the basketball is obviously bigger than the rim, yet we donate $5.00 anyway. My son did manage to win himself a stuffed dog by pulling a duck out of barrel. Though, that stuffed dog is so hard you could skip it on a lake, which is exactly what I might do with it.

After forking out $40.00 for tickets, we hit the Midway. Yikes. Most of the workers running the rides were smoking cigarettes, while sitting back in chairs with their feet propped up. They were nothing like the dapper, young, teenagers I usually see in charge of amusement park rides. These were seasoned professionals. Though, it appeared that more than a few of them had been working the Break-A-Plate game, and some fair-goers misread the sign and thought it was the Break-A-Carnies-Tooth game instead.

The kids and I took a white-knuckle ride on the Scrambler, which was being run by two men who “no speak good English”. I don’t remember the Scrambler actually scrambling, but this thing was as rickety as they come. I had to wonder if you needed to be able to read instructions to set it up, because I’m pretty sure they “no read good English” either.

The music was way too loud (Eddie Money was playing…what happened to him?), and it was hot, humid and sticky. When it was time to leave, I looked down at my kids, whose faces had been stuffed with hot dogs earlier, and were now covered with a mixture of bug spray, powdered sugar and funnel cake crumbs. And, after all the noise, sweat, smoke and chaos…they couldn’t have been happier.

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