Birth Order

I’m an only child. I think I’ve mentioned that before. It was always lonely as such, hence my need to procreate more than once.

My only experience in witnessing the dynamic of true siblingness (yes, I just made that word up) is watching Mooter and Booger.

Booger is going through a phase of I-used-to-be-the-cute-one-now-all-you-do-is-take-pictures-of-her. Mooter was first. The spotlight was on her for four-and-a-half years before that little troll of a sister came along. Of course, when we enter this crash course of despair and future therapy sessions in wait, I have to pull out my big box o’ pics where I’m almost buried in the avalanche of Mooter-related photos. Then I pull out the portable hard-drive and show Mooter the gigs and gigs of memory devoted to her mug. Is she convinced? Sometimes. But we’re working to curb years of yapping on a shrink’s couch here, so sometimes drastic measures are necessary. To restore peace and order to Siblingville, I take one pic of Mooter for every two snaps I dedicate to Booger. It’s a fair trade-off for two girls where, even at this young of an age, rationale never outweighs hormones.

Lately, Booger has been tricking me. She’s torn between wanting me in her face with a camera…

…and being so totally over me, that my lameness blows her mind.

I’m assuming this is what being the youngest, and a toddler, is all about.

The push and pull between asserting independence and needing a blankie. But I’ve found that the most important thing in her world is being the baby. And being the baby doesn’t help your older sister’s incessant thoughts of pushing you over a bridge when you are the Al Capone of babies.

Or was one just born a jerk while the other one wasn’t?


Because here’s a good example of a toddler, and (at the time) an only child. Do you see any jerk tendencies?

Oh, well. There goes my birth order theory.

Parenting siblings is hard on clueless only children.

Deer In Headlights

A few nights ago, BFam was running errands while the kids and I hung out at the house. He was gone for a few hours and, as we typically do when BFam is out, we lost track of time. The kids played, I cleaned and finished a few odds and ends. Before we knew it, the day was gone and everything was dark. I walked through the house turning on lights. Mooter is terrified of the dark, so I worked fast and quietly so she wouldn’t notice. She’s usually good about illuminating whatever room she’s in, only to forget the rest of the house is apparently a cemetery and, just like that, we’ve all just walked into the Thriller video, and she’s screaming and running into walls and the dog is confused and barking and running in circles and Booger’s trying to fight whatever it is that just scared her sister and I’m trying to calm everyone down. In a matter of seconds, it can all get very Benny Hill-ish.

Rooms aglow, we continued mulling around in our little rooms when a door-to-door salesman thought 8:00 was a good time to sell magazines. I wish I was making this up, but this is the kind of thing I’ve come to learn happens a lot in the suburbs. I’m not from the suburbs, so I’m ready to get my shotgun when I realize I don’t have a shotgun. Then I’m all panicked because what if they try to break in? What will I do with the children? I’m in the house alone, what if they know there’s no man here?! Where’s the baseball bat?! Who’s gonna batten the hatches? What does that even mean?! LAWSY MERCY, WHAT IZ WE GON’ DO, MISS SCARLETT?!

So maybe drama is something my children inherited. Maybe.

I go to the door because Mooter’s eyes have grown into the size of her head and she’s all WHO IS IT! like I know, and I’m all WELL HOW THE HECK SHOULD I KNOW, and I realize we’re screaming at each other because we’re scared and panicked, and Booger’s just taking it all in, cool as a cucumber, as if she not only knows what to do, but could properly dispose of the body after she’s killed them. I channel Barry White and dig in my belly for the bass my voice needs to sufficiently scare a would-be-robber-actual-magazine-salesman. WHO IT IS?! I peer into the door glass enough to see some scrawny teenager with a fundraising order sheet. “Magazines, ma’am.” WHAT?! Do you know I almost shot you with my imaginary finger gun? For literature?! Go home.

Needless to say, it took a moment to calm down the ladies of the plantation. We were pretty worked up with the probablys. The imagination is a powerful thing. So is adrenaline. And imagination and adrenaline are never good mixes. They certainly aren’t the best time to teach your children what to do should you ever have a break-in.

So what did I do?


Rule No. 1: Go into the “safe place”. Be quiet. Don’t make a lot of noise unless you want the bad man to find you.


Rule No. 2: The doors to the “safe place” are tricky, so I’m going to teach you the combination to opening and closing them in a fashion where the bad man won’t find you because you will have closed the doors in the sequential order I have aligned.


PAY ATTENTION! THERE’S GOING TO BE A TEST LATER!


Rule No. 3: Find a low spot in the “safe place”. Hide yourself! Hide away! Move it! FASTER! DON’T LET THE BAD MAN HEAR YOU!


Hold the flashlight. Be quiet as a mouse. BOOGER, ARE YOU LISTENING?! BOOGER?!


FRICKIN’-A, Booger. I’m gonna need you to pull it together, woman!

And we did fine! We ran through the drill a few more times just to make sure we were all on the same page. Momma’s little soldiers, they are.

When BFam finally returned home, I told him of our adventure and how I thought it was an excellent time to teach the girls the fundamentals of SCARE YOU TO DEATHNESS. They were good, I said. Champs, I exclaimed. “Don’t believe me?” I asked. Just look at the awesome photos I took documenting the moment! We didn’t scare anybody, did we?



And that’s when he divorced me, your honor.