Rain drops keep fallin' on her head...

This may come as a surprise to some of you, but I am not always the most prepared mother. More often than not, I'm the mom scrambling to find the last 2 socks, matching or otherwise, on the way out the door. I'm the one who frantically signs permission slips with a crayon, on the way out the door. The one who, on the way out the door, has to go back 3-5 times to grab forgotten keys, glasses, money, brains...

So when the downpour started this morning just in time for school drop-off, I was sitting a little straighter in the car, knowing that even though I hadn't bought Ryan a raincoat since she was 4, I was still prepared with my ever-ready car umbrella.

The one I forgot was broken and doesn't open all the way.

So you can imagine the look of death Ryan threw my way as she crouched under the half-opened, jimmy-rigged umbrella, tilting her head to the side to avoid the eyeball hazard jutting out in front of her. As a 5th grade safety patrol kid looked on.

Therein lies the problem. Not that the umbrella is a piece of crap that offers her limited protection, but that she was seen holding it by someone other than an immediate family member.

At least, that's what I'm assuming the eye-rolling,hair-flipping silent response to my "Love you!" meant. Unless it meant, "Woman, you are the worst mother ever. Get off your dead ass and spring for a raincoat, or at least an umbrella that opens all the way." Yeah. That could be it.

The Dark Side

While this title instantly gets me humming that awesome Eddie and the Cruisers tune (anyone?anyone?), I'm using it in it's more widely known context, ie: Darth Vader and all his little white robot people, or whatever they're called.

The point is, last night I woke in a sweat, fumbling for my glasses to see if, in fact, I'd woken up next to Darth Vader or possibly James Earl Jones. Surely that unmistakeable breathing belonged to one or the other.

But, no. It was Jax, stuffy-nosed and still sucking on his binky, his little ribs expanding with gusto every time he sucked in air, allowing no one within a 10 ft radius any peace.

Walking him back to his room, I tried to get him to give up the binky in favor of breathing, but he was having none of it. "I need it to sleep, Mom!" he protested.

"Yes, but you can't breathe, dude. If you aren't breathing, then you're not sleeping. You're dead."

You'd think the Dark Lord, of all people, would know that.

Fight Club

There's something to be said for testosterone. While at our "Family Practitioner" last week, seeking relief from the red, swollen, pocked and puss-filled tonsils attacking my throat, I came across James Dobson's Bringing Up Boys. Looking for anything to take my mind off the fact that my kids were clawing onto the end of their "good" rope, having already been waiting an hour nd all, I skimmed through the first few chapters with feigned interest.

Until I saw the part where he confirmed what I've always known -- boys are born brain-damaged. Yes, that valuable T-hormone they're so fond of having, that Y chromosome that brings so many new dads to tears, actually washes over the male fetus and damages their walnut-sized brain.

I think we can all agree that this explains so much.

Like how last week, as Shawn was getting out of his truck and witnessed Jax being pushed by a neighbor boy, he immediately yelled "Hit him back!!" As if on cue, Jax lifted the older boy off the ground and slammed him back down to Earth with gusto. Stifling a victorious yell, Shawn quickly went to "assess" the situation, where Jax was excitedly awaiting him with a request for "High Five, Dad!"

One brain-damaged penis being raised by another brain-damaged penis. Peace and harmony never stood a chance.