Funny Chicks - Part 2

A Concert is NOT A Playdate

September 19, 2013 by Robin

I’m taking Aubrey and Emma, my nine-year-old and seven-year-old, to see Taylor Swift in concert later this month. I bought the tickets almost ten months ago but I waited until this summer to tell them to avoid to question, “How many more days, Momma!?” for as long as possible.

They were excited when I told them, but thankfully their little brains became cosumed with swimming and sleepovers and they never once asked for a countdown.

Here’s where things get embarrassing for me— I joined the Taylor Swift fan club. (Go ahead and laugh. It could be worse, I could be taking them to see Justin Beiber or One Direction.) But I joined the fan club to get early access to purchase tickets to the concert.

Last week, the UPS man showed up at my house with three identical boxes, all addressed to me. I was surprised to open it and find a huge pile of Taylor Swift swag: posters, bracelets, glow necklaces, lanyards, pens, magnets, guitar picks, a phone case, and the pièce de résistance— a woven Taylor Swift throw blanket that is roughly large enough to cover a twin sized bed. And let me be clear, Taylor Swift is gorgeous, but her face woven into a tapestry style throw blanket? Not something I wanted to look at everyday.

I struggled with whether or not to even show the girls. I knew that opening these boxes would mean that I wouldn’t be able to go anywhere in my house without having Taylor Swift staring at me. But I caved and gave them the boxes when they got home from school.

Emma squealed, “I can’t believe that Taylor Sthift sent us all this stuff! Did you tell her I was learning to play the guitar, Momma?” She held up the picks. (And Sthift is not a typo. It’s how Emma says her name, she cannot be convinced she is wrong.)

“What? Oh! Baby, Taylor Swift didn’t actually send you all of this herself! We just got this because we bought tickets and joined the fan club.” I explained.

Emma was undeterred, she flipped through the concert photographs in the box, “I can’t wait until we get there and I get my picture made with her! Do you think she’ll let me sing with her?”

I felt a little sick as I started explaining the concept of a concert to Emma. “Honey, there are going to be thousands of people there. It will be fun and we’ll sing along but we aren’t going to meet her…”

Emma’s eye widened, “MOMMA! Do you think she’s read your book?! Because you are famous and she is famous! She probably follows you on Twitter!”

“Baby— I am NOT famous. I wrote a book. Lots of people write books. Taylor Swift IS famous and she does not follow me on Twitter. I promise.”

I spent a few more minutes trying to explain to both of the girls why going to a concert is fun even if you don’t meet the musician. I hadn’t realized they were expecting their own personal playdate with Taylor Swift.

It was heartwarming and hilarious to know, that at least in Emma’s eyes, I have Taylor Swift rockstar status. I guess once you get your face woven into a tapestry throw, you know you’ve really arrived. But until I can casually drape a Robin O’Bryant blanket across the back of the couch, Emma is redecorating my house in Taylor Swift circa 2013.

Jealous?

A Mother’s Back to School Prayer

August 8, 2013 by Robin

Sweet Baby Jesus.

It never fails. Two days before school starts back, my kids start busting out random profanities and vulgar sounding words that aren’t technically bad, but sound like something Ralphie’s dad might yell at a rusty old furnace.

Take for example, Aubrey’s question before her last day of preschool, “Momma,” she said innocently, five minutes before we walked out the door to say good-bye to pre-K, “I hope Spongebob doesn’t have a penis.”

I had a moment of panic, which is now very familiar, wondering if this would come up in conversation during her last day of school.

Last week, Sadie sat on the floor playing with Zeb’s iPad while he read a magazine nearby.

“Dammit!” His four-year-old yelled.

Zeb: What did you say?

Sadie looked him straight in the eye, “Dammit.”

Zeb: WHY did you say that?

Sadie gestured to the iPad game she was playing, “I missed dat fing.” (What the what y’all!?)

Her other favorite word these days is “Hootananny.” She likes to run around the house, preferably pantsless, yelling, “Hootananny, hootananny! Hoot, hoot, hoot!” I don’t know what she thinks it means, but I feel sure she thinks it’s profane– she enjoys it a little too much.

Last week we were driving around in our *Patty Peck Honda Odyssey, we had just left the grocery store and I was going somewhere in the same parking lot so I hadn’t buckled my seatbelt. Judy (that’s my van’s name, obviously) said, “Please fasten driver’s seat belt.”

*Click the link to like Patty Peck’s FB page. I’m going to be hosting a chat on 8.8.13 at 8pm cst about everything road trips!

Aubrey, my nine-year-old, groaned, “UGH! Judy. CALM DOWN! She’s gonna get out in a second.”

I fastened my seat belt to stop the dinging.

Aubrey: It’s like you have to FEED her to get her to be quiet. Like you have to put gas in her and put the seat belt in the seat belt thing so she will shut her… her… GASHOLE.

I choked a little, “Her WHAAA?”

“Her gashole.” Aubrey said with a straight face.

Aubrey: Ding-ding-ding. Shut your gashole Judy. ‘Fasten your seatbelt.’ Shut your gashole… you know?

The more times Aubrey said, “gashole,” I could see the wheels turning in her brain. She loves words like I do– loves to turn them over in her head and test them out loud to see how they feel on her tongue. She comes up with puns all the time that make us both laugh out loud and I could tell she had stumbled across a word that intrigued her, she just wasn’t sure why, yet.

“Gashole. Do we need to put some gas in Judy’s gashole, Momma??” She asked, looking for a reason to use the word.

I sighed. (I do that a lot.)

Me: Aubrey, you need to stop saying that. It sounds like a really bad word.

She looked at me, puzzled, “It does?”

Her almost white eyebrows scrunched together in thought. I could see her mentally ticking off every obscenity she knows– then it clicked. Her eyes widened and she gasped, “OH! I’m sorry, Momma!”

“No worries,” I said.

Then after the first full day of school, my kids had a water balloon party at church to celebrate the end of summer. They wore their swimsuits and I packed a bag of dry clothes for each of them to wear when they finished. I dropped them off for the water party and went back afterwards as they ate dinner. They were then supposed to report to their classrooms for Wednesday night Bible study. All of the classes are divided by grade and since school had just started back, everyone had moved up a class.

Sadie, now at “Big School” (4K), had finally moved out of the nursery and into a real classroom with her sisters. But she was so tired from her first day of school and playing outside for two hours afterwards that she was roaming aimlessly around the fellowship hall trying to figure out where she should go.

Me: Sadie, go in the classroom with your sisters.

Sadie: I don’t bewong in dere.

Her face was red from the heat and her eyes looked sleepy.

Me: Yes you do! Go in there with your sisters.

Sadie: I DID GO IN DERE AND DEY SAID I DON’T BEWONG AND I’M NOT WEARING ANY PANTIES!

She burst into tears as I picked her up and confirmed the latter part of her statement. Apparently she had found her dress but her underwear had been more elusive.

I helped her calm down, step into her underpants and took her to the big classroom with her friends. She cheered up quickly, sang along with her teacher and listened attentively for over 30 minutes. As the class dismissed to the playground to wait for everyone’s parents to pick them up, my seven-year-old, Emma, made her way to me in the back of the room.

She leaned forward, cupped her hands around my ear and whispered, “I’m not wearing any panties.”

Sweet. Baby. Jesus.

Which leads me back to the fear, paranoia and general sense of doom I experience this time of year as my children are unleashed upon people who are not related to them. So this morning, as I dropped my kids off at school, I said a little prayer:

Dear God,

Please let my kids behave, I don’t want their teachers to have a hootananny on their hands. Please help my kids to remain fully clothed at school or to at least not tell everyone if they’re going commando– otherwise I’m gonna look like a total gashole.

Amen

Teaching Your Kids How to Pass Gas with Class

July 14, 2013 by Robin

Last week I dropped Sadie and Emma, my four-year-old and seven-year-old ,off at for a “Princess Camp” at the Delta School of Etiquette. My friend Michelle was kind enough to invite them to attend and since they are technically girls and adore all things pink and princess, they were excited to attend. Michelle was excited to have them and I was excited to think that somebody else is finally going to be backing me up on this whole manners thing.

Over the last few months I’ve realized that maybe, just possibly, our “around the house” manners aren’t quite up to par with our “being out in public” manners. I suppose this is true of most kids. I have friends who swear their children are the devil incarnate at home, but mind their p’s and q’s just fine at my house. Likewise, while my children often act like heathens at home, their teachers and Sunday School teachers scold me for exaggerating their behavior in my columns. (Trust me— that is SO not necessary.)

Looks like a princess.
Burps like a truck driver.

The problem has many layers:

1) I am vastly outnumbered, with a husband who travels and three kids, I can’t correct every slip up that occurs. There is not enough time in the day.

2) I am tired. (See above.)

3) It’s funny to me when one of my girls hops off a barstool and burps like a grown man. I realize I should scold and not laugh, but I’m obviously not mature enough for such things.

4) Everybody has gas.

I mean, what are they gonna do?

Hold it in?

Implode?

Sounds dangerous.

I can’t keep a straight face while talking to my children regarding burping, specifically, because I can hear the words coming out of my mouth and I sound ridiculous.

“Don’t be so happy about it when you burp.”

“At least pretend to be embarrassed.”

“Don’t open your mouth as wide as it will go to make it louder. Close your mouth and let it blow out your nose. I KNOW it burns, but being polite is hard!”

“Don’t yell to everyone in the room that you tooted. We heard it. We smell it. We KNOW. Say, ‘Excuse me.’ Quit laughing.”

“Say, ‘Excuse me,’ like you mean it. That means quit laughing before you say it.”

I’ve tried to get serious and angry (-ish) at my kids when they gleefully pass gas. As I tucked Sadie and her sweet little friend into bed, during one of her first sleepovers, Sadie ripped a toot so loud the windows in the room vibrated. Instead of saying ‘Excuse me,’ she shreiked with laughter.

I gave her the Momma Evil Eye and told her to apologize to her friend and to please, for the love of all that is holy, to PLEASE, say, ‘Excuse me.’

I walked to the kitchen and picked up my iPhone, scanning Facebook while I waited to make sure the two four-year-old’s were settled. That’s when I saw the update for the Delta School of Etiquette “Princess Camp” and contacted Michelle.

I’m pretty sure her idea of etiquette is more of the “When to use your salad fork versus your dinner fork,” instead of “Don’t dutch oven your best friend on her first sleepover,” but at this point… I’ll take all the help I can get.

*Dutch oven— passing gas under the sheets.

Talk to me people. How did you teach your kids to keep in classy in public when passing gas??

I Left My Kid With Strangers Near a Large Body of Water

July 8, 2013 by Robin

A few weeks ago I did something that went against every parenting instinct I’ve had for almost nine years— I took my oldest daughter to a group of strangers in the woods and left her there. No electricity in her bedroom, running water several feet away, a large body of water close by and I left her there. It’s called “camp.”

It’s supposed to be a lot of fun, and she was excited to go, but as we got checked in, lugged her trunk to her cabin, met her counselors and scored a top bunk, I couldn’t believe that I was about to leave my baby in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of people I had never met. I could see the lake out of the corner of my eye and was bewildered at the number of years I’ve spent teaching her to swim, never letting her get in a body of water alone, and I was leaving her. With strangers— qualified, certified and kind strangers for sure— but people I do not know. It simply boggled my mind that Aubrey was old enough to be allowed to go to sleepaway camp for a week.

We walked around getting everything done for her registration and ate a popsicle as we walked. She was ready to get back to her cabin and meet her new friends and was ready for me to leave. (I picked up on her subtle cues when she said, “Are y’all gonna go now?”) I suggested a quick trip to the bathroom to remove her Popsicle mustache and walked with her. I wet a paper towel and started to wipe. She giggled, “MOMMA! I can do this by myself!”

“I know you can, I’m sorry! I’m so excited for you, Aubs. You are going to have the time of your life!” I said.

“Will you fix this braid?” She asked as she scrubbed her chin.

I rebraided her hair and noticed for the hundreth time in a week that the top of her head reaches my shoulder now.

“Thanks, Mom!”

We left the bathhouse on the way back to her cabin. She gave her Daddy a hug and a highfive, kissed both of her sisters, and quickly gave me a one armed squeeze around my waist.

“Do you want me to walk you to your cabin?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes and smiled a little, “If YOU need to…”

“I do.” I said as we turned for her cabin. On the short walk there, she leaned her head against my arm, curls damp from the humidity of the day and brushed a cheek against my arm, reassuring me that she would be fine. I teared up a little, thinking about her first day of preschool, first day of kindergarten, last day of kindergarten and all the other milestones that have whizzed past us at the speed of light and mentally checked another one off the list.

I took a deep breath and had a terrifying vision of the future:

Tomorrow she’ll go to college.

Next week she’ll get married.

Next month I’ll be a grandmother.

I need to go lie down.

Cousin Camp

June 3, 2013 by Robin

Last week all three of my girls spent the entire week on my in-laws farm in Alabama for “Cousin Camp.” My in-laws had requested the presence of all ten of their granddaughters and no parents, for a week of country fun. I was glad to comply but a little worried that my two youngest might get homesick.

All week I fought the urge to call the farm to check on my kids. I missed them, but I realized that calling would only remind them that I wasn’t there and I didn’t want them to waste one second missing me. I followed along with their adventures on Facebook as my in-laws documented their fun: they went to visit a beekeeper and after listening to him explain how honey was made, tasted some straight from the hive. They went fishing with homemade cane poles, went on countless mule drawn wagon rides, camped out in their grandparents front yard surrounded by their cousins and learned about constellations. They went swimming in Smith Lake and squealed with excitement when their Pop Pete traded his overalls for a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, then climbed to the top of the water slide and went swimming in the lake with them.

At the end of the week Zeb’s mom and two of his sisters helped the girls to make scrapbooks of their week. Aunt Tina sat down to help Sadie, my four-year-old, to narrarate her book and on every single picture, Tina asked, “What do you want to say about the beekeeper?”

“It was FUN!” Sadie said.

“Alright, what do you want to say about fishing?” Tina asked as they flipped to the next page.

“It was fun!” Sadie screamed.

Every page of Sadie’s scrapbook says the same thing… “It was fun.”

The following weekend I’ve had the great opportunity of having one on one time with my nieces and nephews on my side of the family— a whole different set of ten kids under eight-years-old. What I’ve relished the most is the time I’ve gotten to spend with my siblings kids, without their parents around. I’m laughing as I type because that sounds sort of mean, but it’s simply true. When kids are young they cling to their parents, especially if they are unfamiliar with the other people around. My siblings and I live all over the Southeast so while we talk to each other often, we aren’t all together as often as any of us would like.

The stolen moments I’ve had with my nieces and nephews have been priceless. I made up a bedtime story for my older brother’s two daughters and halfway through the story, his seven-year-old, Ella Grace interrupted me and said, “Hey you’re purdy good at this story tell business! Tell me another one!”

I tricked his three-year-old into my lap by continually telling her how much I hate snuggling with little girls and that she stunk so badly that I didn’t think I could be that close to her. She cackled with laughter as she climbed in my lap, wrapped her chubby little arms around my neck and planted kisses all over my face.

During bath time one evening I bathed two nieces, Sadie and my youngest nephew, Bo. Someone tooted in the tub (classic O’Bryant move) and I blamed Sadie.

“It wasn’t me!!” She yelled.

Bo, only eighteen months old, stood up and screamed at the top of his lungs about five times in a row whilst holding his manhood with both hands, “I POO POO!!!!!”

His cousins in the tub shrieked with laughter and I laughed until I had tears streaming down my cheeks. We used ever towel in my mothers house to bathe all the kids but after everyone was asleep I sat in the floor, looking at the row of cousins all snuggled together and sighed.

I am so incredibly thankful for inlaws (and outlaws) who love sneaking time with my kids as much as I love sneaking time with theirs. I love that we are all so interested in knowing each other’s children, seeing their sweet and unique personalities. If I was going to make a scrapbook of the last two weeks, I’d have to agree with Sadie— it was fun.

What are you up to this summer? Talk to me peeps!

Sadie Gets Mail

May 22, 2013 by Robin

There are a lot of perks to raising kids in a small Southern town like Greenwood, MS. But if you asked my kids what the best part of living here is, they’d all list in their top three things they love— the mailman. In an age of e-mail, text messages, and instant messages, here in Greenwood, real mail gets delivered right to our front door.

I was surprised when we first moved to town, at the lack of mailboxes. But the squeak of the mail slot on our front door and the familiar thunk of the mail on the old wooden floors is a comforting ritual. As the screen door slams shut behind him, I’ll often look up to see him crossing through our yard on foot, to make his way, house by house down our street.

If my daughters are home they scramble for the mail like a loose football during the fourth quarter of the SEC Championship game— elbows are thrown, hair is pulled and who ever comes up from the pile with an actual piece of mail with their name on it is the winner. It doesn’t matter if that mail is a reminder card from the dentist to get their teeth cleaned, if it has their name on it, they are thrilled.

My mother-in-law, their Grammie Plum, is fantabulous about sending them things in the mail. Little cards on their birthdays and packages on every special occasion: Easter, Valentine’s Day… Flag Day— any excuse to let them know she is thinking of them and misses them. It doesn’t even matter what’s in the box, it’s the novelty of holding something in their little hands that came straight from their Grammie.

Recently, Sadie, my four-year-old, was sick and home from school. I heard the creak of the screen door opening, the thwack of the mail on the floor, the smack of the screen closing and waved to the mailman through the window as he crossed the front porch. Sadie met me at the stack and handed bills and catalogs up to me.

“Oh look! This one is for you!” I told her, plucking a small white envelope with her name on it off the ground. “It looks like an invitation to a party!”

She squealed and ran to the mail slot at the front door, prised it open with her fat little fingers and yelled through the crack, “FANK YOU MR MAILMAN!!” She opened her card and inside was a birthday invitation for a little boy who was in her preschool class last year. I read the card to her; a sweet little poem about astronauts, space and turning four with a note at the end that the “mission” required socks.

Sadie was so excited as we talked about the party and carried the invitation with her for the rest of the day, pretending to read it. “Dis mission rekwwwwirrres socks,” she’d say carefully.

Aubrey and Emma, her older sisters, got out of school early that Friday after having their school’s field day. They came home with treats and prizes and plenty of stories about their day. The longer her sisters talked, the more visibly Sadie puffed up. Not wanting to be outdone, she put her hands on her hips and announced, “Well, I’m going to da mailman’s birfday party on Saturday and socks are rekwwwirrred for dis mission.” Her sisters looked at each other in confusion and suddenly her yelled, “Thank you!” out the open mailslot made a little more sense.

Aubrey Said: Sniffing Glue

May 9, 2013 by Robin

While I was drying Aubrey’s hair last night she randomly said, “Did you know that sniffing gas is bad for you? Hmmmm? Did you know that Momma?”

Me: I did. How did you learn that? (Concerned face. What are the kids talking about these days??)

Aubrey: Shuggie told me. Sniffing gas and glue is bad for your brain…. that’s what she said.

(Thanks Mom. I’m not sure how this came up.)

Aubrey: Abby (her cousin) had told me that part about the gas before but I wasn’t sure if it was true or not.

Me: It is true but why did Abby tell you that?

(Fingers crossed that they weren’t sniffing something.)

Aubrey: I don’t know she just said that it was maybe bad for your brain?

Me: Ok. Why were you and Shuggie talking about it?

Aubrey: I don’t know… but I worry about Grammie… (Zeb’s mom, also the head queen of The Farm People.)

Me: Why?

Aubrey: ‘Cause she’s always driving the four-wheeler and the lawn mower outside! Do you think she smells gas all the time? Do you think she has cells left?

I was laughing so hard I had to put the hair dryer down, tears were streaming down my cheeks and I said, “Yes! Grammie has plenty of brain cells left I promise!!”

Aubrey: I hope it’s not just one.

Bless it. Grammie– I know you have more than one brain cell!